Chapter One: Awakening
They say that most babies and children remember their past lives for a little while. My case is identical to everyone else's, in that way. But how many remember? Perhaps there are more like me, who carry their past lives with them like a ball and a chain.
If there are, they don't speak of it.
Rhaenys was an unsettling baby. Her dark eyes were watchful, tracking every move that anyone made around her. Her every sound was full of intention, though it took her longer than expected to mother claimed that each of her cries were as distinct as words, with occasional odd sounds and gibberish language. Either way, her caretakers rarely had to guess at what the demanding child wanted.
She didn't remember much of this, of course. An infant's brain is not developed enough to hold coherent thought or episodic memory. That part of the brain finishes forming at around two, with solid episodic memory not appearing until almost seven.
The distinct moment when Rhaenys truly awakened was when she was nearly four. It was late in the afternoon, where the sun turns the golden that is most complimentary on human skin. A rectangle of that golden light poured over her as she played with a small wooden horse, endlessly fascinated at the mechanism that allowed it to roll and the vibration that small bumps in the rich carpet added to the sensation. She was wearing a dress that her father favoured, a rich dark velvet trimmed with violet silk. Entirely inappropriate for a toddler her age, but with money and power comes a lack of common sense.
A spike of pain ripped through her skull so suddenly that she couldn't even scream. Instead, she collapsed to the carpet, bile rising in her throat. she remembered her death, then, a death with tubes down her throat and a thirst she couldn't quench, with coughs that racked her body so hard that all her muscles seized up at once.
She remembered wrapping herself around a warm body and covering a face in kisses. She remembered drinking glasses of wine and crying after her Mom said something cruel and then told her that she 'took it wrong'.
The jumble of consciousness and memory crashed over her like a wave on a windy shore, sweeping her and tumbling her head-over heels into a life once lived. She remembered, and remembered, and remembered.
When she came to herself, days later, there was a difference in the way that she stood, in the expressions that she made. It was impossible to face the world with the pure innocence of a child again. The pain and experience of a lifetime wasn't something that could leave her untouched by cynicism. She felt a pang of sadness for her new parents, that they would lose the experience of introducing the world to their first child in such a way.
Parents. Rhaenys opened her eyes.
Mama had been by her bedside the entire time and she had the half-moon shadows under her eyes to prove it. She and Rhaenys looked much alike, with the clouds of dark, unruly hair and soft brown eyes. Her skin was a touch tawnier than Rhaenys', though, which made her jealous.
"Mama," Rhaenys croaked. Her throat burned like she had tried to eat a lemon raw.
"Rhaenys?" Mama said, throwing her arms around Rhaenys' neck. Rhaenys' body lifted up with the force of her hug. Her cheek, as it touched her own, was wet. "Rhaenys, how do you feel?"
Rhaenys wrapped her tiny arms around as much of her as she could. Though she was not the mother from her new memories, her scent and embrace was achingly familiar as 'Mama'. She could feel her muscles relax into her. "My throat hurts," Rhaenys said honestly. It did, all the way down to nearly her stomach.
"I'll have a servant bring you something for your throat right away," Mama said briskly, ringing a small bell. A girl appeared, as if summoned by a spell.
"Your grace," she said with a curtsy.
"Bring a tonic from the maester, for a sore throat." Mama's entire demeanor changed as she spoke to the girl. It was still friendly, but there was an air of command that made her seem ten feet tall.
"As you wish, your grace," the girl said with another bow. Rhaenys didn't hear the door close behind her.
Though this was all standard fare to her experience as Rhaenys, it rang sudden alarm bells for her new memories. The toddler hadn't known what "your grace" really meant. Now that she was awake and thinking more actively about the world around her, the more her vague memories as Rhaenys seemed stranger and stranger. What kind of place still had exposed stone walls and floors? No technology in her memory, either. The swords glinting at the sides of armed guards with long white cloaks seemed odd too. A renaissance fair?
No, this place was all Rhaenys had known, in this life. Unless she was on some ren faire-esque commune, perhaps things were different in this time.
"Oh, you're still tired," Mama fussed. Her hands pulled the richly brocaded blankets up to Rhaenys' chin and smoothed back her hair. "Are you hungry? You haven't eaten properly in days."
As if on cue, her stomach growled. "Yes, please," she said.
Mama called another servant for food, and in what seemed like mere minutes, a bowl of soup was in front of Rhaenys. She tried to feed her, but she pulled what she hoped was a stubborn face, wrinkling her nose. "I can feed myself."
She managed to feed herself and tried to ignore the hurt in Mama's eyes.
A few days later, after she had settled into the routine of the castle, Rhaenys finally figured out where she was.
Rhaenys and Father were playing in the central garden, where she hid from him and ran through the maze of trees and bushes until they both collapsed, laughing, in the ferns. She was fairly sure they'd crushed them, but it was good to see him laugh so freely. He had been so sad recently. Sad always.
Rhaenys wasn't sure how old she felt - though she had the memories of that other life, they were more distant, like a movie she had seen before. Some of the memories were as poignant as if she had lived them herself, but less emotionally charged memories didn't seem to hold the same weight. Though she saw and understood more now, she was settling into something more in-between. Though she had the weight of a lifetime, this world she was in was truly unfamiliar. The wonder of a child was in every human, if you dug deep enough.
"Father, what's your name?" She asked. It was the kind of question children this age would be asking, once they figured out that words like 'mama', 'father', or 'your grace' weren't names.
Father stilled, his white-blonde hair falling into his eyes as he regarded her. Rhaenys wasn't often at eye-level with Father, so she was milking the time they had now. His eyes were a curious color - a pale purple, like lilacs. With hair and skin as pale as he was, she assumed he was albino. She followed an account on social media with an albino girl with purple eyes, before.
"Why do you ask, little wren?" he asked, gathering Rhaenys up in his arms.
She snuggled closer. "Just thinking. I have a name, Aegon has a name, and Ser Jamie has a name, but Mama and Father aren't your names, right?"
Father laughed, and she could feel the rumble where she was cradled against his chest. "Yes, Mama and father aren't our names." He just held her for a moment, before setting her down.
"Rhaenys," he began, "My name is Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, and Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms."
His name rung like a bell in Rhaenys' ears, summoning a memory from before. Memories that had been fading slowly since she had remembered them.
The teal sweatshirt radiated warmth as I pulled it out of the dryer, carefully folding it and placing it in the laundry basket to carry back to my room. I hadn't had time to read those books or watch the TV show everyone was talking about - Game of Thrones - but I found a bootleg copy of the audiobooks and downloaded them instead. So these days, tales of betrayal, magic, and brutality followed me as I did chores around my house. I didn't have time to read otherwise - stupid double major. The first round of laundry had gotten me through the first few chapters, but there were a few names that already hung like ghosts in the background of the story - Rhaegar Targaryen, Lyanna Stark, The Mad King…
Rhaenys stared at the ferns, trying to process this information. Was he named after the book character or something? But the rest of the name was straight out of the book too. Dragonstone sounded like something from a fantasy book, and the seven kingdoms… well, she remembered that much.
It was still too much to believe. "Is it…" She struggled for the word. One way that she wasn't faking childishness was that she was still learning the language. "From a story or history?"
Father smiled again, but this time a little sadder. "I'm named after your grandmother."
Rhaenys stared expectantly up at him.
"Rhaella," he added belatedly.
"And I'm named after you!" She chirped.
He pulled Rhaenys onto his lap. "No, child. Though I am named after your grandmother, you are named after a Queen. Your ancestor, the great Queen Rhaenys."
Still cradling her against his chest, Father stood and made his way to his solar, where his harp stood against a windowsill. Rhaenys dutifully waved at all the servants and guards as we passed by, but deep down she was still reeling. Queen Rhaenys? That book series had suffused pop culture for a few years of her short life, but it was still a blip on the scale of things that were important to her to remember. How could this be real?
Father settled her on the desk of his solar, where she fidgeted uncomfortably. Every emotion felt too large for this small body, like it would explode out of her at any moment. She wound and unwound a dark curl around her stubby finger and tried not to shake or cry.
Father didn't notice her nervousness as he strummed at his harp. "Do you want to hear the song of Queen Rhaenys?" he queried.
All Rhaenys could do was nod. Horror filled her with each melodious paragraph as he serenaded her with a tale that was far too familiar - of Aegon, his sister-wives, and the conquering of the seven kingdoms.
As the ballad swelled to a close, the pressure in her chest built to the exploding point, and she burst into tears. Father immediately abandoned the harp to cradle her close to his chest. "What is it, darling? What's wrong?"
Rhaenys only sobbed harder, clinging to his chest. Every sob shook her, like a leaf in a hurricane.
The enormity of it felt like it would crush her. She was Rhaenys, daughter of Raegar and Elia. Within a year, maybe two, she would be dead. They would all be dead, in the most brutal and horrible ways possible. Father would abandon them, and Mama, and they would stay a ghost story to haunt Westeros. The fuel for the next half-century of bloodshed.
Rhaenys didn't want to die. She didn't want Mama and Father to die. She didn't want baby Aegon, with his wispy strands of blond hair, to die.
She cried until she couldn't, until they had to put her to bed like a limp rag doll.