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I caressed my belly tenderly as the screams of my stepmother echoed through the halls of the Red Keep.
My mother’s ladies fluttered around me in concern. They worried for me. Why would they not? After all, my muña had suffered greatly under the weight of pregnancy and had died in childbirth.
No. Not died. Murdered.
My father had allowed those grey rats to cut her open for a boy who died overnight. Rage fills me every time I remember that my muña died butchered like an animal.
I will never forgive him. Nor will I ever forgive Alicent. That whore slipped under my father’s sheets while my muña’s ashes were still warm.
She goes around acting all pious and haughty, even going as far as to scold me for my unladylike behavior. But whoring herself to the King is acceptable?
Alicent is but the daughter of a second son, from a minor house at that. She was my maid, the one who dressed me and cleaned my privy. There is no way in the Fourteen Hells that I will bow to her.
Much less call her queen.
Aemma Targaryen, the Benevolent, came from two great houses. Her lineage was impeccable, and her actions as queen beyond reproach.
Following her will be hard, and I know Alicent will never measure up. The Hightower girl, as my kepus loved to say, is a sheep. Meek and weak, she will break under the responsibilities of queenship.
For all her righteous rants about how ladies should follow the holy scriptures of the Seven-Pointed Star, Alicent truly does not recognize her own hypocritical behavior. Nor does she understand that highborn ladies—especially those in charge of their own castles—have duties beyond popping out heirs.
While I was in lessons with Lyonel Strong, learning the laws I would one day uphold as a princess of the realm, Alicent spent her mornings embroidering with septas.
And during the times I worked alongside my muña and Lyman Beesbury to maintain the charity work of the Good Queen Alysanne, Alicent merely tossed her coins to the septons.
I do not know if it is naivety or blind devotion, but did she ever truly believe those coins reached the smallfolk? We all know of the Faith’s corruption.
Alicent proved herself useless in the first moon of her marriage, when highborn ladies and lords visited the Red Keep. The queen’s duty is to have chambers prepared and a feast ready to welcome them, especially since the visit was meant to congratulate the newly wedded couple.
I almost burst out laughing when I saw Alicent’s confused expression. Did she think the chambers and food were magically prepared overnight?
Yes, the servants did the work, but only under the Queen’s direction. Without orders, nothing gets done.
That night, the whole castle heard Otto Hightower screaming at his daughter for embarrassing the Hightower name. Not even the privacy of the queen’s chambers could contain his anger.
The next fortnight, the castle was abuzz with rumors.
“Hand of the King or not, to speak like that to the Queen…” Sara Blackwood tried to sound aghast, but pleased derision dripped from her tone.
“I do wonder how a young and untrained thing like her made it to Queen,” Catelyn Piper commented with a mean smirk.
“The wedding was kind of rushed, don’t you think?” Lyssa Mallister inquired, faux-innocent. But the glimmer of scorn in her eyes fooled no one. “We all thought the King would take Lady Laena as his wife, but out of nowhere he chose the daughter of a second son, who is dearly unprepared, over the only daughter of the richest house in Westeros.”
“You are right,” Sara agreed immediately. “It did come out of nowhere.”
“Princess Rhaenys would have trained her daughter to be the perfect queen,” Catelyn added. “She was trained by Prince Aemon, after all.”
“And yet, Alicent Hightower was chosen,” Lyssa pressed. “Why is that?”
The rumor mill was out of control after that. The three Riverlands ladies had been speaking in Aegon’s Garden and had made no effort to be subtle. Everyone heard them, which had been the point. Many at court were not happy with the new marriage, and they did not wait to make their displeasure known.
By the end of the day, even the guards were commenting on how they had seen the lady make her way late at night from the royal quarters to the Tower of the Hand. Her auburn hair was unmistakable.
Maids joined in, commenting that once, when they were changing the King’s sheets, they had found a suspicious red stain.
Otto tried to stop it, but no one liked him much at the time. They all saw him as a power-hungry snake who used his daughter to climb even higher.
The best part was that I did not have to do a thing. Alicent did all the work for me. All I had to do was constantly wear black and never show any burst of anger that could paint me in a bad light. In doing so, I gained the sympathy of the court, the guilt of my father, and the loyalty of the small court, who mourned Aemma the Benevolent alongside me.
Alicent continued to prove herself a fool by announcing her pregnancy, which only confirmed all the rumors.
Whore or not, Alicent was queen, and if she gave birth to a prince, it would secure her position. Because of that, many houses sent their daughters to King’s Landing to become her ladies-in-waiting.
Once more, she made the worst mistake possible by choosing only ladies of the Reach, claiming they came from the most pious region and therefore had the most experience.
After all, it is a well-known fact that Reach ladies are considered the most fertile in Westeros.
Immediately, she made enemies of the Crownlands, Stormlands, and Westerlands, the very regions that had first sent their ladies.
When I heard of it, I could hardly believe it. My maids all but barged into my chambers to check on me. They thought I was being assassinated from how hard I was wheezing with laughter.
Immediately, I sent for Elenda Caron, Johanna Westerling, and Elinda Massey. With them as my new ladies-in-waiting, and Ser Harwin Strong as my sworn shield, we got to work.
First, I made sure to oversee all the charity work. As my muña and uncle had proven, being loved by the smallfolk was a great advantage.
In the streets of King’s Landing, Aemma is known as the Benevolent, while Alicent is scorned as the Highwhore.
My uncle is the Prince of the People, but my father, the King, is called Otto’s dog. The lack of respect Viserys I Targaryen inspires is a warning bell. I will not be a weak ruler like that.
Never.
So, I convinced my father to leave all charity work to me.
“Sweetheart, that is the job of the queen,” my father tried to let me down gently.
Not that I was giving up that easily.
“Father, Alicent has been very preoccupied with her pregnancy,” I did my best to sound worried. But it was too damn hard at times. “She has yet to get used to being queen, and the Red Keep is in shambles. We cannot let great-grandmother’s and muña’s work go to waste.”
My father winced at the reminder of Alicent’s many fumbles as queen. It did not help that I was still wearing black, in full mourning attire, with a veil and everything. Father might not have cared for muña, nor given her the year of mourning she was owed. But I was the dutiful daughter, as the court had begun calling me.
Dutiful to my muña, rather than my father.
As expected, the guilt did its trick, and I became the Realm’s Delight.
But now it went beyond just my beauty. With my modest dresses and my now-signature veils, I forced everyone to look past my features.
They saw my wit as I haggled prices with Essosi merchants.
They saw my compassion as I opened orphanages and soup kitchens across King’s Landing.
They saw my insight when I proposed a project to create an institution where the smallfolk could go to learn their letters, numbers, and a trade of choice.
“Why would you try to educate the smallfolk?” Borros Baratheon demanded to know.
He, Elenda, the Lannister twins, Johanna, and Elinda were having tea with me in Aegon’s Garden, while Harwin stood guard.
At the start, it had only been the girls. But when I saw the lords approaching, I decided to invite them. I could always use more donations.
“Purely for selfish reasons,” was my response.
I knew they would not understand empathy or kindness. Not because they were bad men, but because they were raised as privileged ones. They had never needed to place themselves in another’s shoes.
Seeing the confused expressions around the table—even from my ladies—I chuckled.
“You see, most nobles make their income from taxes. Some profit from import businesses—wine, cattle, cotton, or grain—but the majority of wealth comes from merchants and the smallfolk,” I began to explain.
Unsurprisingly, Tyland and Johanna were the ones who kept up the most. When the others nodded in agreement, I continued. “Now, the economy of a territory halts when there are no coins being circulated in the streets.”
“Because they have none,” Jason said, wisely enough.
I hid a smirk behind my veil when I saw Jason wince. By the annoyed expression on the other twin’s face, Tyland must have kicked him under the table. Say what you will about them: the Lannister twins were annoying and full of themselves, but their bond as brothers was beautiful to watch.
And amusing. Very amusing.
“In some instances,” I agreed. There was no reason to embarrass Jason and make an enemy of House Lannister. “But in many cases, they are afraid to spend the coins they do have, which in turn lowers the price of goods.”
“Deflation,” Tyland nodded sagely. He sighed when his twin looked even more confused. “In simple terms, fewer coins circulating lead to less spending, falling prices, and, in turn, economic slowdown and job losses, which affects the taxes we collect.”
“And teaching the smallfolk their letters and number will help?” Borros asked, sounding more intrigued now than mocking, as he had been before.
“Yes, because if they can count, they will not be swindled out of the wages they are owed. And if they can read, they will not sign contracts that compromise them,” I answered, forcing myself not to stare at Tyland.
I knew he was smart, but being able to simplify and explain was another skill entirely. Lyman had long been looking for someone to mentor, someone to prepare as his successor before retiring. I think I found him the perfect one.
“When my visits to the city increased, I saw many Essosi merchants taking advantage of Westerosi,” I continued, internally pleased by the expressions of anger around the table.
Just stir a bit of Westerosi pride and point at an Essosi enemy, and the egos of men will do the rest.
“If our people can haggle better, the economy will reactivate, and our coffers will be filled,” I simplified, seeing the greed light up Jason’s and Borros’s eyes. “Happy smallfolk, happy nobles.”
They took the idea and ran with it. Lannisport and Storm’s End followed King’s Landing’s lead, and within a few years, our patience was rewarded.
The rest of the Crownlands, Westerlands, and Stormlands followed close behind.
I was soon being compared to the great Targaryen rulers.
As wise as Jaehaerys.
As good as Alysanne.
As benevolent as Aemma.
Rhaenyra Targaryen became synonymous with the Realm’s Delight, and with Rhaenyra the Golden, for the economic boom I pioneered.
My shadow had grown so large that it eclipsed the tragedies that befell the royal couple.
The long-awaited son was finally conceived on the seventh day of the seventh moon of the year. Even if Alicent had quickened on her wedding night, the boy came two moons too early.
The rumors did not wait to spread, even after the High Septon himself proclaimed it a sign from the Gods.
Otto quickly named the babe Aegon, or so I was told. At the time, I was in Storm’s End to celebrate the wedding between Borros and Elenda.
My lady-in-waiting had been courted by Borros in the most peculiar way. The lord had approached Elenda so she could teach him his letters. He no longer trusted the maesters not to cheat him, after hearing my account of the Essosi merchants.
From what Elenda informed me, the issue lay with size and spacing. For reasons unknown even to the maesters, letters would mix in his head. But if she ensured proper spacing and enlarged her writing, Borros’s reading improved.
While the cause of his difficulty remains unknown, the maesters do keep records of many folk, smallfolk and highborn alike, who struggle in the same way. Filled with gratitude, and reassured that he was not alone, Borros fell in love with Elenda. The misogyny he had once been known for slowly dissipated.
How could he look down on women after witnessing the wisdom of Rhaenyra’s actions and the patience Elenda possessed? A patience no maester before had ever shown him.
The happy nuptials did not last long. A missive arrived, informing them of Aegon’s demise. The poor prince was only a fortnight old when the shivers took him.
“House Baratheon mourns with you, Princess,” Borros bowed his head to me.
For his wedding, I had chosen to wear a beautiful burgundy gown, celebrating for the first time since muña’s death. However, once the news reached Storm’s End, I returned to black and my signature veil.
“Unfortunately, it is not uncommon,” I sighed. “My muña once told me that the birthing bed is the battlefield of women. Not all of us survive it, and not all children live. My muña lost many babes before and after me.”
My words spoke a prophecy of Hightower ruin. As my muña had suffered, so did she.
There were many miscarriages after Aegon, followed by a stillborn baby girl named Helaena.
After the young princess, the norm became moons of bleeding. This time, Alicent was not quick to become pregnant.
“A sign from the Gods it was,” Lord Gunther Royce scoffed. “It could not be clearer that they frown upon this match.”
“The prince was a bastard, and the princess would have been no better than a whore like her mother,” Joffrey Arryn agreed. “The Gods made sure we would not be forced to serve under such abominations.”
Let it not be said that the Vale does not remember. The grudge they held against House Hightower only grew as the years passed.
“Please, sers, be kind,” I coughed, maintaining my dutiful-daughter façade. Behind my veil, however, I was smirking. “Half-siblings they might have been, but they were still my blood, and babes at that. Syrax burned their pyres, as she did for muña and Baelon.”
The two knights looked chastened and murmured their apologies.
They had come to King’s Landing to announce the death of Rhea Royce, who had suffered a hunting accident.
Otto tried to lay the blame on Daemon, but Gunthor was not having it.
“May I inquire how you came to that conclusion?” Gunthor raised an eyebrow, mockingly. “Prince Daemon is waging war in the Stepstones. Plus, my cousin’s death had many witnesses. Myself included.”
It took all of my self-control not to laugh, right then and there in open court. Otto’s face… I will remember it for eternity.
Later that day, Gunthor shared that while he did not like Daemon, he could respect the fact that he never forced himself on Rhea, nor did he ever lay a hand on her.
“The insults could be cruel at times,” Gunthor said, smiling grimly over a goblet of Arbor Gold. “But for the most part, she was happy. My cousin ruled Runestone without any man telling her what to do.”
From the stories he shared, drunk on Arbor Gold, I deduced that my late aunt’s tastes did not lie with men.
By the end of their visit, Gunthor was declared Lord of Runestone, and his son, Ser William, was named his heir.
Ser Joffrey Arryn was also accepted by the Crown as Jeyne’s heir, which would finally shut Arnold up. And if not, he could always take his complaints to Syrax. I also played the matchmaker and had Gunthor’s daughter, Alysanne, betrothed to Joffrey. He would have the support of a strong house like the Royces backing him.
With the Valemen’s departure, Otto celebrated by announcing yet another pregnancy, one that was soon followed by yet another tragedy.
The baby, Prince Aemond Targaryen, was born with an empty socket.
The memory of Alicent’s screams still sends shivers down my spine.
The Queen refused to hold the child and never visited him as the poor boy struggled to survive in the royal nursery.
While the Greens—the Hightower faction—were struck by tragedy after tragedy, the Blacks, named for my signature mourning attire, celebrated. My project expanded into the Vale and the Riverlands, and I was already in talks with the North. Johanna married Jason, and Tyland was finally named Master of Coin.
As for my youngest lady-in-waiting, Elinda, she came of age and was allowed to marry Harwin.
I was at Harrenhal when the news reached us. Aemond had finally succumbed to his ailment; a sudden infection proved to be his undoing. And the War for the Stepstones had come to an end.
Prince Daemon had won.
Not that I expected anything else.
My ladies-in-waiting laughed at me as I eagerly flew back to King’s Landing on Syrax. I arrived a couple of hours before Caraxes.
It was enough time for a bath, to perfume myself, and to braid my hair up. I wore a dress with a burgundy bodice and a skirt layered in different black fabrics. I was the center of attention in the great hall, many lords and ladies gawking. It had been years since they had seen me wearing anything but black, much less showing my face.
Kepus received the hero’s welcome he deserved and was granted the Stepstones to rule as his reward. Many isles were given to knights, second and third sons who had fought there, so they could build keeps.
But the Grey Gallows went to House Velaryon, more specifically to Ser Vaemond and his sons, Daemion and Daeron.
Daemon was now Prince of the Stepstones and Lord of Bloodstone.
When kepus asked for my hand as his reward before the whole court, I expected my father to be angry and refuse.
He did not.
He accepted and announced the wedding to be held in a few moons.
The Great Hall broke into cheers as I ran down the dais and threw my arms around Daemon in a hug.
My maids later informed me that they heard a screaming match erupt in the King’s chambers that same night.
Otto claimed the match was a threat and would weaken House Targaryen, as if the King marrying a girl from a minor house, without a dowry, and one who could not give him a healthy child, had not already done the greatest damage.
At least Daemon would keep our blood pure, and with him came the Stepstones and Caraxes.
Alicent, on the other hand, wailed that the Crown could not celebrate while still mourning the death of a prince.
I wanted to slap her so badly. As if she had ever visited Aemond’s nursery. As if she were not the very reason a wedding had been celebrated while the realm was still within the mourning period of a Queen.
It did not matter. The wedding happened, no matter how much the Hightowers protested and begged. Then I was whisked away to Bloodstone, where construction began on the keep meant for our second child.
Unlike my muña, pregnancy came naturally to me. I was soon with child and more energized than ever.
However, Alicent did not fare well. It seems my father did not learn his lesson and got his queen pregnant again.
Which led me to this waiting room, where my husband rubbed my feet, my maids fed me lemon cakes, and my ladies-in-waiting’s children played nearby. All the while, in the background, Alicent’s screams could still be heard.
Cassandra Baratheon was a replica of her mother, though she bore her father’s coloring. She took tentative steps around the room, slowly but closely followed by Cerelle Lannister. The girl was a Lannister through and through, with golden locks and emerald eyes.
As for the babes, Elenda cradled her secondborn and first son, Maron, in her arms—a mirror of his father.
All the boys were. Tyrion, in Johanna’s arms, looked just like Jason, and Elinda held a miniature Harwin in the form of baby Jace Strong.
The screams abruptly stopped, and silence reigned.
“Another stillborn?” Daemon sneered.
“Kepus,” I chastised, turning toward the doors. “They are still your nephews and niece, even if they have Hightower blood.”
Before Daemon could reply, the doors slammed open, startling all three babes awake, their cries filling the room. I focused on the maid, even as my ladies-in-waiting glared at her and tried to hush their boys back to sleep.
Because I knew. I could see it in her eyes. My father had done it again.
Syrax burned the pyre of Prince Daeron Targaryen, and Alicent’s body was sent back to Oldtown with her father, after Otto was dismissed as Hand of the King.
Three moons later, I gave birth to Prince Aemon Targaryen on Dragonstone, far away from the grey rats and under the careful attention of midwives and Essosi healers.
Lyonel Strong was named Hand of the King, and Borros replaced him as Master of Laws. Tyland remained Master of Coin, and Corlys continued as Master of Ships. Harwin joined the Small Council as Commander of the City Watch, and Gerardy became Grand Maester. With Ser Redwyne’s death, the Small Council was completed by Ser Harrold Westerling, who took the position of Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
This Small Council did not push my father to remarry. Not that there were ladies lining up for the position. Not even Corlys offered Laena.
Why would he? After all, my father had butchered two wives.
Viserys I Targaryen could have gone down in history as the Peaceful.
For a time, I thought he would be remembered as the Weak, like Aenys I Targaryen.
Instead, he was remembered as Viserys I the Butcher.
A Targaryen warning tale, like Maegor I the Cruel.
Life moved on, as it always does. It does not wait or stop, not even for dead queens.
Baelon followed Aemon a couple of years later, joined by Elric Baratheon, Myrcella Lannister, and Luke Strong.
Three years after that, I finally had my Visenya. Her birth was once more shared with my dear friends’ children: Floris Baratheon, Loreon Lannister, and Joffrey Strong.
My father retreated into a shell of himself. He rarely left his chambers and spent his days playing with his old Valyrian scale model. Not that I paid him much attention. I had a realm to rule, left in the hands of an absentee ruler, and the full-time labor that came with being a muña—especially a muña to dragonriders.
Yes, Syrax had also become a proud muña to three hatchlings.
Vermax, a handsome olive-green dragon with orange membranes, bonded to my firstborn, Aemon.
Arrax, a gorgeous pearl-white dragon with golden horns and chest scales, hatched for my Baelon.
And finally, Tyraxes, a red-and-black hatchling who embodied House Targaryen itself, just like my perfect Targaryen princess, Visenya.
As the years passed, the children grew, and betrothals were arranged.
Myrcella and Maron.
Cassandra and Tyrion.
Floris and Jace.
Visenya and Baelon.
Why not make my daughter queen? She was too much like her kepa and needed the freedom of the Stepstones.
As for Aemon—well, let’s just say Corlys died happy, knowing that his granddaughter, Daenaera, would one day be the wife of the Crown Prince.
Once more, Westeros would have a Velaryon queen.
When the time comes for me to sit the Iron Throne, I know I will have laid a foundation that will carry me through my reign.
And if all it required was one small curse taken from Queen Visenya’s secret safe on Dragonstone—
Well… no one needs to know.