Rhaelle has never in her life knocked on Shaera's door, and she sees no reason to change that habit now.
Even if it has been years since she stood in Shaera's rooms. What is a decade between sisters, after all?
"Hello, sister," she calls merrily as the door slams back against the wall, sending Shaera's clutch of dowdily dressed ladies scattering and shrieking. "What a pleasant day it is!"
Shaera's ladies look suitably scandalised when Rhaelle stomps in, still in her riding clothes - her boots click loud on the bare flagstones of the floor, and she's fully aware of the muck and dust clinging to her skirts and her cloak. She hopes that it bothers Shaera as much as it does her ladies, if only because she's more likely to get an honest answer out of Shaera if her sister has lost her temper than otherwise.
"It was, yes," Shaera says, mild as milk. "You would do well to seek out your own rooms, little sister - I am sure our lady mother is eager to see you."
"Oh, I've seen Mother already," Rhaelle says, waving a dismissive hand as she takes the seat nearest Shaera. "And Papa, and your little Rhaella - what a charming child! Is she always so sweet?"
Shaera's smile is rigid, shameful in the same way as her smile during the dinner Mother hosted to honour Shaera and Jaehaerys' marriage - not that they'd left her and Papa with much choice. Shaera has always been good at smiling through outrageous circumstance, and it's almost a comfort to see that that, at least, has not changed.
"She is a very pleasant-tempered child."
"Much more so than your boy," Rhaelle presses on. "My Steffon says that your Aerys is quite the little bully-"
"Leave us, ladies!" Shaera says, shriller even than Rhaelle remembers, and the thin fury on her face when the door closes is precisely as Rhaelle remembers. "How dare you-"
"How dare you," Rhaelle hisses, leaning in close - she's bigger than Shaera has ever been, tall and broad and strong and much, much angrier. "Have you not inflicted enough pain on Mother and Papa? Have you not shamed yourself enough without forcing this nightmare on your own daughter?"
"It is no nightmare-"
"You who screamed the city down when denied a marriage for love ," Rhaelle sneers, "you would force your own child into a marriage she fears so much that even I, who has never had the pleasure of knowing her until today, can see it?"
"She will birth a line of heroes-"
"She will be a wreck for the rest of her days, sister, and you know it. You know what that whelp you and Jaehaerys bred is. He might have charmed all those little lickspittles and fools about court, but I can see him for true. I can see you in him, Shaera."
Shaera is so sweet and gentle and kind and delicate. Shaera is also greedy and selfish and cruel when she thinks no one can see. She has always been so, and Rhaelle does not imagine that it has changed.
"Papa will not stand for it," she says, "Mother will not stand for it, Ormund and I will not stand for it - I will send for Duncan and Uncle Aemon, if needs be, and we will all stand against you."
"Aerys and Rhaella are mine and Jaehaerys' children," Shaera fumes, "you have no say-"
"I will find a decent husband for her and steal her away to safety, if that's what it takes," Rhaelle warns Shaera, sad for what might have been between them, had Shaera only seen the sense of Papa's plans. "I will not allow you to do this to her, Shaera. I will not allow you to betray her as you did me."
"Little love? Are you well?"
Betha can see well enough that Rhaella is far from well, but it takes a great deal of coaxing to tease the truth out of her little granddaughter, and gentle coaxing at that. For all that Rhaella is Shaera's image, she has none of Shaera's strong will or stubborn pride.
Who is there in all of Westeros who could possibly be gentle enough for Rhaella? She had once worried that there would be no one in all of Westeros who could handle Rhaelle's light without stifling her, and had been thrilled when Ormund Baratheon had proven himself a better man than any other Betha knew. How is she to find such a match for Rhaella, who flits and folds like a butterfly's wing, perfectly lovely and terrifyingly breakable?
"Aunt Rhaelle can't fight against Mother," Rhaella says, "not over me. I know she said that Lord Ormund won't be put down, but Father is Prince of Dragonstone. "
"And your grandfather is King, Rhaella," Betha reminds her, guiding Rhaella to sit beside her. "He and I made you a promise, and we won't see it broken."
Aegon has never broken a promise to Betha, not in all the time she's known him - Duncan and Jaehaerys and Shaera and Daeron broke Aegon's promises, that their children would see worthy marriages that could bring peace to the realm as Aegon's uncles' marriages would have, had they not all died or been fools, that their children would not marry one another.
Duncan and Daeron were fools for love, Jaehaerys and Shaera tangled up in sin and selfishness so tightly that they forced Aegon's hand, and broke Betha's hand. The boys at least were sorry, sorry enough to give up the throne and to give up the splendour of a prince's life for that of a warrior-
Gods be kind, how she misses Daeron. Her laughing lad, so bright and golden and lost.
But Jaehaerys and Shaera were never ashamed. They never cared that they had made it so their own mother could no longer look them in the eye, that it had been impossible for Betha to take any joy in the births of her grandchildren - she takes joy in little Rhaella now, of course, but Aerys is everything she feared would result of her son fucking a child into his sister, and the thought of him wearing Aegon's crown turns her stomach.
"Not even if Father insists?" Rhaella begs, and Betha draws her close as tears begin to spill down Rhaella's pale cheeks. "Please, Grandmother, please-"
"I did not think you would invite so many guests," Rhaelle says, reading over the guest list with her feet crossed on the edge of Aegon's desk. She's hunted out a pair of dusty old leathers and is wearing her husband's tunic, and with her hair bundled up in a tangled nest atop her head, she's the image of her mother. "Nor such a variety of them."
"Best meet as many boys as we can," he points out, watching her over the top of the stupid bloody reports on the treasury that he ought to be reading. "How else are we to find a nice one for Rhaella?"
"I don't think it's a nice boy we need to find for her," Rhaelle says. " I needed a nice boy, because I was a hellion, and we struck lucky with Ormund - there isn't a nicer man in Westeros, yourself included."
"You flatter me, little egg," he says, rolling his eyes. "Go on, then, daughter, what do we need to find for Rhaella? Surprise me with your insight."
"We need to find the most cunning, mean boy in the realm," Rhaelle says, "and we need to make sure he's completely besotted with Rhaella, so that he turns all that meanness against Aerys."
"And for Aerys, then?" he asks, because Jaehaerys has been clamouring on about finding a wife for his son, since Rhaella has been denied them. Who is equal to a princess? No matter what girl he's given, it won't be the same! "What kind of girl should we find for him, do you think?"
"One who can endure him long enough to get a son out of him," Rhaelle says, cold and hard, and when Aegon looks her in the eye there is nothing of Betha there - she is all him.
He lets the unspoken conclusion of her plan hang in the air a moment. Lets it linger.
"That's treason, my girl," Aegon says quietly. "He's second in line for the throne."
"And so I should excuse him for already being an abominable bully and a horrible little bastard, just like his mother?" Rhaelle asks, setting aside the list and dropping her feet so she can lean over the desk toward him. She has Betha's eyes and hair and nose and mouth, but that square jaw and those hard shoulders are all Maekar Targaryen, and Aegon feels his father's absence like a kick in the gut, as he only does near Rhaelle and Aemon. "If it keeps Rhaella and all the other little girls like her safe from Aerys, I'll wield the blade myself. I'd do it a thousand times over, Papa, to spare the girls of this realm the fate that might have been mine, had Ormund not been the man he is."
Rhaelle settles into Ormund's hold as he spins her about the floor, laughing simply for the joy of being close to him.
"We ought to give our boy a brother," she teases, fitting herself tighter to him when he snorts against his terrible laugh. "Well, we could at least make the attempt-"
"If you would, Lord Baratheon."
They draw to a halt - and draw every eye in the hall - when Jaehaerys appears beside them, hand out for Rhaelle to take. Behind closed doors, she isn't above causing a scene, but to do so now would shame Mother and Papa, so she removes herself from Ormund and takes Jaehaerys' hand.
"Don't forget our plans, my lord," she tells Ormund, just to see him smile and blush, before turning to her brother. "Brother, to what do I owe this dubious honour?"
Jaehaerys is more honestly charming than Shaera, for all his frailty - Rhaelle's shoulders are broader than his, her back straighter, her arms stronger - but he is weak-spirited in a way none of their siblings are. Duncan and Daemon were stronger than anyone Rhaelle has ever known, to so openly defy Papa, and Shaera's brazenness is a strength of its own, but Jaehaerys has always followed where Shaera leads - which means he is here on her orders.
"I wonder, little sister," he says, his smile not wavering even though his eyes are cold, "if you had anything to do with that."
At his nod, Rhaelle looks back over her shoulder, and finds herself laughing again.
Duncan's hair is gone almost all grey, even though he's only five-and-thirty, and he looks terribly like Papa. She wonders which of them would be more annoyed by the comparison, and realises that it doesn't matter - because on Duncan's arm is his Jenny, and her presence in King's Landing will annoy Shaera so much that no one else will have time to be annoyed.
She leaves Jaehaerys in the middle of the floor, dashing over to greet Duncan - her favourite brother, because by his sins, he brought her Ormund, and before that he used bring her fresh peaches even after Mother told her not to eat more before dinner - and laughing more when he darts forward to sweep her into an embrace that sweeps her clean from the floor.
He is her favourite for being so much taller than her, too - the only one with their grandfather Maekar's powerful build, according to Papa - and he takes her face in his hands when he sets her down, and presses a kiss to her brow.
"Surely this cannot be Father's little egg?" he demands, dark eyes shining with mirth. "How long has it been, Rhaelle?"
"Too long," she promises him. "Now, fetch your wife, and I shall fetch my husband, and we all shall go to Mother and Papa, and we'll have a lovely evening."
"I was told the children would be here," Duncan says, holding out a hand behind him and smiling down at pretty, pretty Jenny, who even now, with laughter lines around her eyes and mouth, reminds Rhaelle of a dark tulip newly blooming, with her long, slender frame, and her magnificent tumble of deep red curls. "Your lad, and the others' two."
"Cup bearers," Rhaelle says, smiling up to Ormund when he takes her hand and tucks it into his elbow. "Come, come, let's laugh together so Shaera can start seething properly."
"Now, egg," Duncan chides, and that sends her off into gales of genuine laughter - and Ormund and Jenny and, yes, even Duncan join her, and when they turn to greet Mother and Papa, Shaera is red in the face and Jaehaerys looks uncomfortable as only he can.
Let them hurt little Rhaella now, Rhaelle thinks. Let them damn well try.
"Tell me, Father," Duncan says, leaning over the table just as Rhaelle had only days before. "Is it true? That Jaehaerys and Shaera meant to force their children on one another?"
"They still mean to," Aegon says, "for the prophecy of your wife's witch."
"I would have kept her away, had I known what harm her words would do," Duncan says, solemn as the grave - Aegon misses the lad Duncan was, before it all went arse over elbow, and it still stings to see the boy who once reminded him of his shining, startling mother be so quiet and serious. "Father, I-"
"I know, lad," he says. "For now, there's naught to be done. All we can do is arrange to keep the little one away from the boy for as long as possible."
"I've asked about both of them," Duncan says. "Everyone likes Rhaella, which I expected, given how fond Rhaelle is of her, but I did not expect Aerys to be so popular. I don't mean to condone forcing brother and sister to wed, but is he so terrible as everyone says?"
Aegon thinks of his own brothers, long gone but for Aemon, and sighs. He loved Daeron best, after Aemon, and Aerion not at all, but he is grateful to Aerion for opening his eyes to the truth of his grandson.
Little Rhaella is just as terrified of Aerys as Aegon was of Aerion, as a boy. It does not matter how charming and gregarious the court thinks Aerys is, it does not matter that he gathers friends to him like a Lannister gathers coin - rot will out. It always does.
"Your mother and I found Rhaella hiding under her bed, crying into her dolly's hair," he says. "She was so afraid of being married to Aerys that she wouldn't let your mother out of her sight for days, as if she thought Jaehaerys was going to steal her away and force her to a sept right that moment. I won't see her married off to Aerys. I won't. "
The grand tourney finally takes place near two moon's after Grandfather and Grandmother coaxed her from under her bed, six weeks since Aunt Rhaelle's arrival, a month since Uncle Duncan's.
Rhaella has a new dress, in soft, deep purple samite, with full skirts and snowy lace underskirts, and she has a halfcape of silvery satin over it to cover her bare arms. She feels very grown up, and when Grandmother presents her maids with a delicate coronet of silver filigree and pale amethysts to set into her hair, she feels beautiful.
"We'll find you the finest husband in Westeros, little love," Grandmother promises her. "You see if we don't."
Lord Ormund and Uncle Duncan both offer her their arms when she arrives in Grandfather's study with Grandmother, but Grandfather pushes them both aside with a good-natured huff and takes her hand. Grandmother takes her other hand, and together they lead her out of the castle to the carriage waiting for them outside.
Aerys is with Mother and Father, dressed in red and black and scowling, and his whole face goes red when Rhaella steps into the front carriage with Grandmother and Grandfather.
The tourney grounds are near two miles outside the city, and Grandfather sneaks her candied lemon the whole way, biting down on smiles whenever Grandmother shoots him suspicious glares. Rhaella has never been happier, knowing that Aunt Rhaella and Uncle Duncan are close behind, with Lord Ormund and Lady Jenny and Steffon, and that they will keep Aerys away from her.
Steffon sits on the bench beside her, in the royal box, and Grandmother plants a huge bowl of cherries before them with a wink. She sits right behind Rhaella, Grandfather behind Steffon, and the others are all arrayed around - Mother and Father and Aerys are in a different box, with the small council.
"Who do you think you will marry?" Steffon whispers, collecting cherry pits in his left hand and plucking fresh cherries from the bowl with his right. "Mother wants to find you someone who'll fight with Aerys if he's being difficult."
"Grandmother wants to find someone gentle, who won't want to live at court," Rhaella whispers back. "Do you know anyone who might fit?"
It is only after the first day of competition, when the melée is done and the order for the next day's jousting has been posted, that Betha has her epiphany.
Rhaella takes off ahead of them, hurling herself into Loreza Martell's waiting arms and chattering like a squirrel, laughing and laughing and going quiet and pink when she notices that Loreza is not alone.
"This is my son, Rhaella," the Princess of Dorne is saying when Betha and Aegon reach them. "Doran, introduce yourself to the Princess, sweetling."
The boy, Doran, is slim as a reed, with an unremarkable if pleasant face, and fascinating eyes - as dark as Betha's own, but bright with an intelligence that makes Betha think of Aemon, away at the Wall.
That unremarkable but pleasant face flushes just as hard as Rhaella's, when they greet one another, and Betha thinks, oh, thank the gods.
"The Princess will be quite safe with me, if you care to leave her be, Your Graces," Princess Loreza says, looking baffled but pleased by the way her lad and Rhaella are stammering at one another. "I shall return her to you at dinner, if that suits Your Graces?"
"Of course, Your Highness," Aegon says, grinning wider than Betha has seen since this whole mess began. "Although, my youngest daughter has expressed an interest in meeting you, if you are amenable?"
"Lady Baratheon? Of course. I would be honoured."
Halfways back to their pavillion, Betha elbows him hard in the side.
"Rhaelle hasn't expressed the slightest interest in speaking with Loreza Martell-"
"Not yet," he agrees. "But the gods themselves won't be able to stop her now."
"You saw it too, then?"
"They're only children," he says, thoughtful, "but it's a better start than any other I've seen recently. And…"
"And, my love?"
"And who better to defend Rhaella against a dragon," Aegon says, "than a Prince of Dorne?"