Chapter Text
Purple eyes snap open and Rhaenyra Targaryen yells out in fright. Fire—fire—spilling from the usurper’s dragon, heat so fierce she is certain it will swallow her whole. She scrambles away from it, heart pounding so violently it hurts. Nothing makes sense. She is burning, she must be burning—
She falls. And only then does Rhaenyra realize she is not on fire. She is on the floor of her old chambers in the Red Keep. Not her chambers as queen, but the ones she occupied as heir to the Iron Throne. The realization hits her all at once and steals the breath from her lungs. Rhaenyra pants as she shakily pushes herself up, legs weak beneath her—
The door opens slams open and Rhaenyra cries out and throws her arms up to shield herself. She had thought the usurper would have killed her by fire, but perhaps he decided to keep her alive instead. For sport. Her heart twists painfully as she thinks of Aegon. Oh my sweet boy. She can only hope he was given mercy.
But the man who enters is not loyal to the usurper. No—quite the contrary. Ser Harrold drops to one knee before her. Rhaenyra blinks in shock. She had long assumed the sweet and loyal knight dead, slain by the Greens for refusing to bend the knee.
“Princess, what is it? I heard a yell. " He says with an urgent voice. Her breath shakes for several long seconds. Ser Harrold rises, glancing around the chamber.
“I shall fetch help at once, Your Highness. We must apprehend whoever was in your chambers.”
“No.” The word leaves her with what little strength she has left, sharp enough that it stops him instantly. The Lord Commander turns back to her, his face twisting in confusion.
“Ser,” Rhaenyra says, voice unsteady, “what is happening? Where is Aegon?”
“The prince Aegon, Your Grace?”
“Yes,” she snaps. “Where is my son?”
Ser Harrold shakes his head slowly. “I do not understand, Your Grace.”
Rhaenyra has always respected Ser Harrold. He was one of the few men of her father’s Kingsguard who never looked at Jace or Luke with malice. But if he does not give her answers soon, she thinks she might strike him with his own sword. And yet—
Something moves within her.
A sharp flutter rises from her womb to her ribs and Rhaenyra instinctively presses a hand to her belly, rubbing a small circle to ease the sudden pain. She nearly scoffs at herself—she is not with child. Her last pregnancy had been Visenya, and it ended with her burning her youngest daughter. But this relentless kick, aimed straight at her ribs—
Her breath catches. Joffrey.
Of all her children, he had been the most active in her womb. So much so that Harwin used to laugh and call him little Breakbones whenever she complained. Rhaenyra’s breathing finally steadies, almost as if the life within her is offering comfort she desperately needs. She looks back up at Ser Harrold.
“What year is it?” she asks.
“126, Your Highness.” Purple eyes widen. 8 years before the war.
Rhaenyra blinks up at him. Once his words fully register, she gets up so fast the world spins and black dots dance at the edges of her vision. It doesn’t stop her. She pushes through it, through the dizziness, through Ser Harrold’s startled, “Princess?”
Rhaenyra doesn’t give a fuck. She runs.
Barefoot, nightgown tangling around her legs, she bolts out of her chambers and down the corridor. Her heart is pounding so loud she is sure the whole Keep can hear it. Her sons’ chambers—their nursery—was never far from her own. She had insisted on it, always afraid something might happen and she wouldn’t reach them in time.
Alicent had accused her of exaggerating, bur her father, for once, had agreed with her. Rhaenyra thanks herself now for that foresight as she runs. She barely registers the guard at the nursery door, only a blur of armor and startled eyes before she shoves past him and throws the door open.
The moment she steps into the sleeping chamber, she can finally breathe. And when she exhales, a sob tears from her chest.
Her boys are asleep. In their beds, pushed together just as they had demanded once Luke grew out of the cradle. Rhaenyra had laughed then, far too amused to deny them. Now it breaks her all over again. She sobs quietly, biting down on the sound, terrified of waking them. She moves closer, ignoring the soft shuffle behind her that tells her the guard has followed, and sinks onto the edge of the bed.
Jace is snoring, just as he always did. Luke has one foot pressed right into his brother’s face with his mouth parted in sleep. Her sweet boys are here.
Luke is still her curly-haired boy, all limbs and softness. And Jace—oh, Jace—still untouched by the weight of being heir, by the burden of advising her, of being brave when he should not have had to be. She tries to keep the sobbing to a minimum as she runs her fingers through their hair, traces their faces, touches them just to be sure. Each small movement is answered by the baby in her womb, restless and insistent, kicking hard enough to steal her breath. Between that and her sons beneath her hands, she finally feels grounded.
It feels like hours pass before someone clears their throat behind her. Rhaenyra turns in panic, heart lurching, only to sag with relief when she sees Ser Harrold—and Ser Erryk beside him. She breathes again. They are loyal, Rhaenyra reminds herself. She can trust them.
“I’m… I’m alright, sers,” she says, voice shaking despite her effort. “It was merely a night terror.”
Because what else is she supposed to say? That the gods have thrown her nearly ten years into the past? That she remembers her sons dying? A chorus of “Yes, Your Grace,” follows, soft and respectful. She hears them leave, hears the door close gently behind them.
Rhaenyra stays where she is. She curls around her children, one hand rubbing slow circles over her swollen belly, the other tracing her sons’ faces again and again, committing every freckle, every curve, every breath to memory.
It isn’t until the sun begins peeking over the horizon that Rhaenyra allows herself to think of the implications of this whole ordeal.
Eight years. If she is eight years in the past, then the usurper is nothing more than a boy drowning himself in wine, so deep in his cups he likely cannot see the bottom of them. Helaena has yet to claim Dreamfyre. Laena and Laenor are still alive. Aemond is not yet Aemond One-Eye, not yet rider of the largest dragon in the world. Daeron is still in Oldtown.
Gods, Harwin is alive. Her father is alive.
The realization hits her with such force that she has to brace herself against bed frame. She has a chance—a real one—to prevent her sons’ deaths altogether. To stop the Greens before they ever have the chance to sink their claws into her family. She can change everything.
Rhaenyra turns her gaze to the window, to where the sun now shines bright over Blackwater Bay, painting the water gold. Once, during her reign, they had whispered her to be Maegor with teats.
Very well, then. So cruel she shall be.
It isn’t until later—when the day has fully settled—that Rhaenyra allows herself to simply be. She takes the whole day with the boys.
No maesters. No lessons. Just the three of them in the nursery, doors closed, the world kept firmly outside. The boys are delighted at the announcement, nearly vibrating with joy at being granted a day free of sums and histories, and Rhaenyra can already feel the weight of Luke’s tantrum waiting for tomorrow.
She does not care, she needs this. She allows herself this—before blood needs to be shed.
The servants bring in all of their favorite foods at her request. Honeyed chicken, sweet roasted potatoes from the Reach, soft bread, fruit from across the Narrow Sea. The boys insist on building her a “throne” from pillows, stacked far too high and far too uneven, and Rhaenyra laughs as she settles into it, thrilled to play along.
“Mother,” Jace says suddenly, thoughtful as he chews, “is it true that Vermax’s egg came from Syrax?”
Rhaenyra smiles and nods, reaching out to run her fingers gently through his hair. “Yes, my dear boy. Not long after you were born, Syrax laid her very first clutch.”
Luke, who is positively stuffing himself with sweets and has managed to smear honey all over his mouth, looks up with wide eyes. “Does that mean Syrax is a muna to Vermax,” he asks seriously, “like you are our muna?”
Rhaenyra laughs, warm and unrestrained. “I suppose so, my love.” She reaches for a napkin and gestures for him to come closer. Luke drags his little makeshift chair across the floor and presents his face solemnly. She wipes the honey from his mouth, smiling.
“My golden lady’s egg was placed in my cradle when I was only a few days old,” she tells them. “We have always been very deeply bonded.”
Luke’s hand drifts to her swollen belly, gentle without even thinking about it. “When the babe comes,” he asks, voice soft, “can we pick an egg for them too?”
“But of course, my boy,” Rhaenyra says, laughing again. Jace, busy with his sweet potatoes, looks up suddenly. “Will we get in trouble with the maester for not going to our lessons, Mother?”
“No—Luke, don’t steal food from your brother’s plate,” she says at the same time, catching Luke eyeing a potato on Jace’s plate. Luke freezes. Jace immediately angles his plate away with a scowl.
Rhaenyra sighs, almost delirious with happiness. “No, my dear. And if the maester asks, tell him to speak with me.” Jace nods satisfied and returns to eating.
Rhaenyra is just serving Luke another helping of the much-loved sweet potatoes when he says, very seriously, “The maester is so boring, muna.”
She barely manages not to laugh when the door opens and Rhaenyra once sees who is entering, and she freezes. “Ha!” Viserys exclaims cheerfully. “I distinctly remember a certain daughter of mine saying those exact words, though it feels like a lifetime ago.”
“Grandsire!” the boys shout together, scrambling up and running to him. Rhaenyra cannot move.
The last time she saw her father, he had been barely alive—wounds festering, face half-rotted, unable to walk without aid even with his cane. Seeing him now, whole and breathing and smiling, makes her eyes burn. Viserys’s face lights up at the sight of the boys, and Rhaenyra is painfully reminded of how much he loves them.
Loved them.
And yet it had not been enough to protect them from the wretched creatures he had brought into their lives through Alicent Hightower. He will never understand the danger they are in. That burden falls to her.
“Oh, hello, my boys,” Viserys says warmly. “What are you up to now? Quite the feast you have here.”
“We have sweet potatoes from the Reach,” Jace announces proudly.
“But the honeyed chicken is the best,” Luke adds quickly. “You should have some with us.”
Viserys laughs, cupping their faces fondly. “Well then, you make sure to eat well, so you may grow as tall as the Conqueror.”
“How tall was the dragon, grandsire?” Jace asks.
“Taller than me, I assure you,” Viserys says with a laugh. Then his gaze lifts to Rhaenyra.
“My dear girl,” he says gently, “I haven’t seen you all day. Must a man beg to see his daughter?” He offers her his hand. Rhaenyra takes it, smiling, fighting the swell of emotion as she slowly stands.
“I am having a day with the boys,” she says. “That is all. You should join us, Father.” Viserys smiles. “And are you well? Ser Harrold told me what happened during the night.” Rhaenyra already knows how to play this. Her father is easily led. Always has been. It is how Otto held his ear. How Alicent saved Criston Cole. And it is how Rhaenyra will survive this second chance.
“I… I dreamt of Mother,” she says softly. Viserys’s face crumples instantly. He swallows, then pulls her into his arms. Rhaenyra melts into the embrace despite the lie.
“Oh, my dear girl,” he murmurs, kissing her cheek.
From the other end of the table, Luke pipes up, “Grandsire, would you like to join us? We even have bananas!”
“Shhh, Luke,” Jace whispers urgently. “Grandsire is sad.” Both Rhaenyra and Viserys laugh.
“Yes,” Viserys says warmly, “of course. How could I ever deny such a beautiful feast?” The boys rush to fetch a chair for him, tugging it close with great importance. “Thank you, my princes,” Viserys says as he sits.
Rhaenyra takes the chair Jace offers her rather than sitting on the floor again and makes a plate for her father, which he accepts gratefully.
Rhaenyra sighs as she looks at the peaceful image of her boys asleep in her bed.
She had suggested it softly, half-expecting them to refuse, but they had been eager, claiming her bed was a thousand times better than theirs. The day had been spent in the best ways she could imagine—playing, eating, telling them stories until they were so tired they could hardly keep their eyes open. Eventually the maids had collected them for their baths, and afterward they had run back to her chambers and attacked her pillows with wild enthusiasm until she had stopped them, lest they pull every last feather loose.
Now she sits in the armchair by the window, watching them sleep. Jace sprawled on his back, mouth open, one arm flung dramatically over Luke. Luke curled closer, curls plastered to his forehead, breathing soft and even. Rhaenyra wishes she could keep them like this. Her small and inocent babes. Unaware of the dangers that circle their lives like vultures.
But she knows she can’t. The same way she herself is not safe.
She sighs again, rubbing slow circles over her ribs where Joffrey still kicks. Then a noise startles her. Her heart slams against her ribs as she looks around sharply. What was that? For one terrible moment she wonders if someone else has followed her through time. Someone who remembers what she remembers.
The sound comes again. From the wall. Rhaenyra is on her feet instantly. She grabs the fire poker from the hearth and positions herself between the bed and the panel that hides the secret passages. She is already deciding how to wake the boys, how to get them out—
The panel opens and Harwin steps through. He freezes when he sees her, poker raised, and lifts his hands slowly. “Ny—”
She doesn’t let him finish.
Rhaenyra flies into his arms. Harwin catches her without hesitation, arms locking around her as if she has always belonged there. She sobs into his chest, the sound torn from somewhere deep and wounded. She loves Daemon—she always has—but Harwin had been her closest companion at court.
The best man she could have chosen to father her children. He had never asked for more than she could give. Never resented that he could not claim Jace, Luke, and Joff as his own.She sobs harder.
Harwin hushes her softly, hands moving over her shoulders, her back, checking her as if for wounds. “Nyrah,” he murmurs urgently. “What is it? Are you hurt?” His gaze flicks to the bed, to the boys, scanning for danger.
“You’re here,” Rhaenyra whispers shakily. “Oh gods, Harwin—you’re here.”
When he sees that the boys are unharmed, and that she is at least whole, he guides her to the small loveseat and all but sits her in his lap. She clings to him desperately, fingers fisting in his shirt as if he might vanish.
And then she tells him. All of it.
She tells him of giving birth to their babe-another boy. Of his fight with Cole. Of being sent away to Harrenhal. Of him and his father burning. Harwin goes pale at the sound of his own death that was rumored to be at his brother’s hand.She tells him of Luke taking Aemond’s eye. Of Laenor’s false death. Of marrying Daemon on Dragonstone. Harwin barely reacts at that—until she tells him about Luke.
About Vhagar.
He breaks. It is only the second time Rhaenyra has ever seen Harwin Strong cry. The first had been when Jace was born. She wipes his tears with her sleeve, uncaring of the tears on her own face. He cries again when she tells him of Jace dying in battle, trying to protect his brothers. Again when she tells him of Joffrey—trampled, torn apart by a mob. Again when she tells him she lost all her children but Aegon.
And when she tells him of her own death—Sunfyre’s jaws—Harwin goes terrifyingly quiet. They dry each other’s tears. Harwin presses kisses into her hair, holding her close as her own sobs return. They cling to one another, broken and breathing, eyes drifting to the boys sleeping peacefully in her bed.
When the sobbing finally fades into silent tears, Harwin presses a firm kiss to her lips and Rhaenyra returns it instinctively. He moves her gently so he can stand. And she wraps her arms around herself without thinking. Harwin leans down to kiss Jace and Luke in their hair before turning back to the panel.
“Harwin,” Rhaenyra whispers. “What are you doing?” He looks back at her, and something in his expression sends a chill crawling up her spine.
“I'm going to kill my brother,” he says quietly. Rhaenyra freezes—but he is already gone. She looks at the boys once more, just to be sure they still sleep, before following him into the passages, nearly having to sprint to keep up with his long, furious strides.
“Harwin,” she hisses. “Harwin, stop.” He stops—but only because he has reached his destination.
She grabs his arm as he reaches for the door. “Harwin,” she whispers fiercely, “he is your brother.”
Fresh tears spill down his face as he turns to her. “Yes,” he says hoarsely. “He is my brother. And he would not hesitate to see me and our father dead. He would cheer as he breaks the oaths our house swore to you. He would cheer as the Hightowers kill our sons one by one.”
His voice drops, deadly quiet. “So no, Nyrah. He is no brother of mine.”
Rhaenyra cups his face in her hands. “No,” she says softly. “You are not going to kill your own brother. I know you. You are no kinslayer.” His jaw clenches at the word.
“You are not capable of it.”
Harwin breaks again, leaning into her touch with his eyes closed. When he finally calms, he looks at her, hollow-eyed. “Then what would you have me do?” he asks. “Are you saying Larys deserves to live after seeing to your death? How am I meant to look you in the eyes, Nyrah?”
Rhaenyra lifts his face to hers, eyes cold now, resolved. “I said you are no kinslayer,” she murmurs. “But I did not say he would live.”
Understanding dawns on Harwin’s face. He shakes his head, incredulous, as if he cannot believe what she is saying.
“You will go to the boys,” Rhaenyra says firmly, her hands cupping his face. “I will meet you there.”
Harwin swallows hard, voice low and rough. “I cannot place this burden on you, my love.”
“It is not an option, Harwin,” she says, steady and unflinching. He looks at her, torn, then down at the floor, gathering himself. After a long, tense moment, he nods. Slowly. Almost reluctantly. Then, without another word, he turns and starts walking back the way they came, not once looking back.
Rhaenyra watches him go. She does not move until the sound of his steps fades into silence. Even then, she waits. A few heartbeats. A few more. And then she lifts the latch of the panel leading to the stairs that climb to the Tower of the Hand. She reaches the top and finds the door she knows leads to Larys’s chambers. She does not hesitate. Slowly, she opens the door and closes it behind her.
A cane rests by the door. She traces the lines of his belongings with her eyes—the desk, the books stacked just so. And then she sees him.
Rhaenyra steps forward, each motion slow, careful, like a predator circling. She reaches the foot of the bed, letting her gaze travel over him, noting the rise and fall of his chest, the rhythm of his breathing. She stops, just at the foo. Her hand twitches slightly, the urge to act coursing beneath her calm exterior, but she does not move yet. She lets herself savor the moment, the weight of power resting in her hands.
She picks up a pillow from the ground and walks around the bed until she reaches his sleeping form, Rhaenyra sits comfortably on the bed and looks at him, noticing that he too snores very loudly, much like Jace.
It is the thought of her eldest son that makes her press the pillow over Larys face with all the strength she can muster. She watches as his eyes snap open in panic as he takes her in. She ignores his struggles, focusing on pouring all her grief, her anger, her losses into the simple act of killing Larys Strong.
He tries to fight her off, tries to kick her away, to shove her but his legs carry no great strength and Rhaenyra angles her body in a way that he can’t reach her upper body.
Soon she is almost sitting on top of him, putting all of her weight in that pillow and he grows more desperate, tries to roll over but Rhaenyra is a dragon rider, has been since she realized what the word meant and has a strong muscled body.
She watches as his face grows purple by the lack of oxygen and his movements weaker, and eventually he stops moving beneath her. Rhaenyra stays on top of him for several minutes after he is unresponsive, it is only when she reaches for a pulse in his neck and doesn't find it that she breathes a sigh of relief and leaves the bed,
She doesn't look back at his now dead body as she makes sure there is no trace of her presence here and goes back to her chambers, her sons, her lover the way she came in.