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What are you doing, Rhaenyra?
You’re on the floor and that floor is too dirty for your blood. Stand, stand, damn you. Before you—your pale skin, your silver hair, your delicate features—are corrupted by common filth. Try harder, push further, you are a queen!
Daemon. Daemon the Corruptor. Daemon your Light and Flame. You refuse to reach for him despite how your knees tremble and your body sways like a broken branch. His hands are stained by blood you did not order to be spilled.
How do you sleep, Rhaenyra?
Queen bitch. Mother of bastards.
Do you hear Jaehaerys scream? Do you hear Maelor ripped apart? You can’t hear them beyond your own screaming, can’t see their blood past the blood of your own sons on your hands. But you can hear your half-brother, you can feel his rage like it’s your own because—
You are more similar than you allow yourself to know.
The path to the throne is not gold. Not armies. Not bending knees and oaths. It is blood. It has always been blood. Aegon the Conqueror must have known—he created a throne of swords, not fabric. He was never comfortable on that throne, and he didn’t want others to be. Never forget what blood was spilt for this fucking throne of twisted metal. Never forget who was lost so Targaryens could rise.
It’s the blood of Lucerys and Jacaerys. Not yours. That must burn, that must make bile burn your throat, but you can’t throw up in the middle of a war. They will talk about it if you do. A weak queen with a weak belly, never mind that you were a mother first.
You were a mother. Three sons left.
Three sons you don’t look at now. You need to plan, you need to fight, you need the throne. If you lose, it will mean Lucerys and Jacaerys died for nothing but ash and bone and that lie you stained their souls with. They will die not as heroes, not as boys, not as princes of the blood, but as bastards. You tell yourself Joffrey, Aegon, and Viserys can wait. You don’t hold Joffrey when he cries.
It can wait. War doesn’t allow mothers to hold their children.
War doesn’t allow fathers to hold their children either. Jaehaerys, Maelor.
Their blood has mixed with that of your sons. With Helaena, that strange half-sister you called a lost cause. With Aemond, that half-brother with rage so deep it lashed out at everyone in range. With Daeron, that half-brother whose face and voice you can’t imagine.
Sit on the throne, Queen Rhaenyra. You are gripping it so tightly, blood pools down your fingers, and you don’t relax your hands. The twisted metal is digging into the small of your back, and the fabric sticks to your skin. This is it. It is yours now. You’re holding it for Jacaerys who should have been king after you were ashes in the wind. You’re holding it for Lucerys who would have been Lord of Driftmark.
Hold it, grip it, bleed for it. Do it for all the dead and dying.
You didn’t hold Joffrey when he cried. Memory is so fragile during war—you forget the small things, the precious things, who holds the power when brought together.
Commoners. Their bite is stronger than you knew.
Joffrey fell. Down and down and down. You have no time to cry for him, no time. The only son you didn’t really grieve. You don’t grieve Daemon either. There is only—
Nothing.
There is no time. War drinks it like it devours breath.
It devoured Jacaerys, Lucerys, Joffrey. Your arms tremble with a mother’s impulse as you hold your Aegon, trying not to see the empty space where Viserys should be. He’s another ghost. You’re so certain of it.
Dragonstone is a tomb, and you find yourself finally at home. You might see your boys again, those precious boys too good for this world. Aegon—your boy—had already found you again. Aegon—your half-brother—has found you. Aegon. They always find things in the end.
A throne. A queen. A mother.
Rhaenyra doesn’t find anything but dead boys, dead husbands, and dead parents. It’s an inheritance from your mother. Your father crowned you in life, your mother crowned you in the grave.
Do you hear the singing? The dead babes are led by your mother. She is watching now so carefully, and she takes in each of your sons with open arms. She has already held your twisted daughter who couldn’t live.
Breathe in, Queen Aemma. Give those babes life in the heavens. You command it now, your throat sore against raw tears and dragon smoke.
Your half-brother looks tired but the fire in his eyes hasn’t faded with distance. It has grown brighter with a fever. He had been burnt, that delicate face mutilated on one side, and you hate it. He was always a pretty child, you thought. It feels wrong to see it twisted into something common and hurt.
He calls you by name. No sister crosses his lips just as brother has never crossed yours.
You hate it. You hate it. You hate—
Aegon makes your little boy watch.
In your mind you chant, over and over, with frantic speed.
Aegon, Aegon, Aegon, Aegon, Aegon, Aegon, Aegon.
You don’t know which Aegon you mean. You reach for your son, you keep your eyes on your half-brother, you remember Aegon the Conqueror—splitting yourself into so many pieces until your skin feels tense. It stretches across your bones until you can feel warmth of something slick trailing down your cheeks. You don’t know if it’s tears or if your body is trying to tear itself apart.
The dark claims you with fire before you can ever feel the shattered teeth of a dying dragon.
Die screaming, Rhaenyra.
Scream like a—
.
Queen.
.
Mother.
.
Sister.
.
Rhaenyra woke with a gasping, choking gurgle. A noose was around her neck. Pulling and pulling the air from her lungs, she clawed at her bare skin. Daemon jumped awake next to her, his hand reaching for Dark Sister, and she barely noticed him. She sobbed past the phantom pain in her throat.
It wasn’t the polite tears she was taught to bare. It was hideous and loud. There was no stopping it when it broke free.
“Rhaenyra, what—”
Rhaenyra screamed. Daemon reached for her, his strong and calloused hands wrapping around her arms, and she twisted like an animal.
“Don’t touch me!”
The corridor outside their chambers was becoming loud. She didn’t care. She kept screaming, kept pushing her husband away, kept fighting like a beast.
Guards shoved their way through, their hands on their swords. Daemon said something and they backed away, their eyes watchful on the crown princess.
“Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra. Look at me.” Daemon’s voice was a calm in the storm. Just loud enough to be heard over her.
“Mother?”
Rhaenyra’s head shot up, her eyes wide and wild. Joffrey.
The boy she never held even when she could hear him screaming and crying in his room.
She scrambled over the bed, over Daemon’s lap, and held her son. He squeaked when his bare feet left the ground.
“My boy, my babe,” Rhaenyra said, her face buried in his dark curls.
Luke appeared at the door. His face was pale and he took one step into the room before Jace placed a firm hand on his shoulder. Luke looked at his brother with frightened dark eyes. “Jace—”
“I know.” Jace spoke quietly but Rhaenyra’s face rose, her body still rocking the tense, confused shape of Joffrey.
She didn’t want to let Joffrey go. She needed to hold Jace and Luke. Moving down to the ground and kneeling to keep one arm around Joffrey, she raised her other one and pleaded to whatever gods listening that this wasn’t a dream.
Luke shook off Jace’s hand and ran, collapsing against his mother. His eyes were already wet, her Luke. Her most sensitive boy who felt everything strongly. Even when he didn’t understand what was happening, why she screamed Dragonstone down.
Jace took more time, his dark serious eyes focused on his mother, jaw tightening and brows furrowed. Rhaenyra shook her hand and something in her eyes must have convinced him. He came slower, kneeling carefully.
Rhaenyra grasped her boys like a drowning woman.
They were alive. They were—
“Where’s Aegon and Viserys?”
“Asleep, which is what we were all doing before…this.” Daemon had left their bed and was standing over Rhaenyra and his stepsons. One of his hands was still holding Dark Sister.
“I—I’m sorry. I was…there was. A nightmare.”
It had to have been a dream. A nightmare. She could feel the warmth of her sons. Smell the fear-sweat on Luke. Hear the rapid breaths of Joffrey’s against her neck.
“Some nightmare,” Daemon said dryly. Jace shot him a look, his eyes narrowed in warning. Daemon raised his free hand, his other loosening around his sword. His raised arm was scratched to high heavens.
Rhaenyra didn’t remember doing that. She tightened her grip. Joffrey wheezed.
“Mother,” Joffrey whined, “Too tight!”
“And I’ll hold you until you pop. It’s my right as your mother.” But Rhaenyra relaxed her grip, one hand coming up to caress Joffrey’s curls, the other running through Jace’s.
She wished she had three arms. Instead, she leaned and kissed Luke on the forehead. His face scrunched, trying to pull away with a squawk.
The guards left, giving them privacy now that it was clear there was no active threat.
Daemon stood in silence, watching his wife with her sons.
“What did you dream?”
Rhaenyra’s hands firmed around Joffrey and Jace before she forced them to relax. “I don’t wish to speak of it. It’s over now. My boys are—” She cut herself off, blinking against a fresh wave of pain in her chest.
Daemon crouched and Jace tensed. He ignored it. “You were screaming. You sent half the guard to our chambers. You scratched me until I bled.” His violet eyes were dark in this lighting, a dark steel, as he met Rhaenyra’s reddened eyes.
She wanted to look away, to bury her face in Joffrey’s hair once more, but she was frozen in place. Her mouth opened and closed without a word.
“Leave her alone.” Jace, her brave and protective boy. He never fully trusted Daemon with her and his brothers.
Daemon’s face twisted with something dark and frustrated. But he raised his hands, finally letting go of Dark Sister. It left a small sound as it fell the short distance to the floor.
Jace did not relax.
“My sons were dead.” Rhaenyra’s throat was sore. The words were a mere croak. They fell into the silent room like a needle.
She made herself meet her husband’s eyes again. “You died. I believe Viserys died, though I saw no body. Aegon lived.”
He didn’t deny what she dreamed. He stared at her, his eyes serious and stern, his face unreadable. “And you?” he asked softly, nearly gentle.
Rhaenyra closed her eyes and gave in. She buried herself once more into Joffrey’s curls, breathing him in deeply. Joffrey didn’t whine or make any complaints. His small arm came up to wrap around his mother’s shoulders.
“Dead,” she whispered. “My half-brother Aegon commanded his dragon to burn me.”
“That will never happen, mother. We won’t allow it,” Jace swore.
Luke made an agreeing noise.
Rhaenyra couldn’t breathe past the tightness in her chest. She swallowed past a lump.
They were so young, her boys. So young. And already thinking in terms of war. In terms of blood and breaking and barren lands.
She wouldn’t allow it.
A vision or nightmare—it didn’t matter where she stood—she would keep her sons alive. But first, first—
Aegon, Aegon, Aegon, Aegon, Aegon, Aegon, Aegon.
The half-brother she never really saw until the end. So broken, burnt, and bent. Taking Dragonstone on the back of his dying Sunfyre, that beautiful dragon whose eyes had gleamed with tears. Those tears had turned to steam when they dared to meet his skin.
He looked like her. That rage in his eyes. He survived on it, Rhaenyra just knew in her heart, until he could kill her.
She had never even seen Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, or Maelor. She had never really spoken to them or Daeron, that half-brother sent away to the Hightower at twelve.
Rhaenyra finally, her bones screaming in reluctance, pulled away from her sons. Jace was watching her, Luke’s cheeks were wet, Joffrey was flushed from being held too tight.
She took a breath and it was almost easy.
“I need to write a letter.”
Whatever power, if any, had sent her that horrible nightmare had given her a chance. She could change something now, while she was wide awake and her sons were alive. Starting with Aegon, that half-brother who had her grief and rage in the dream.
Daemon raised an eyebrow at Rhaenyra’s face, the strength in her shoulders, but he said nothing and did little more than tilt his head.
.
.
.
Prepare yourself, Aegon. You will have a big sister for once in your life, and you may grieve your privacy. Rhaenyra will hear you say sister and mean it.