Rhaella is still, as she is told, a 'handsome woman'.
She knows well what that means. She is past her prime, her child-bearing years long behind her, but still, there is a beauty that radiates from her, despite the toll the years have taken. She sits in her exquisitely appointed chambers in Volantis, and examines her reflection, smoothing the back of her hand along the hair at her temple, bound back severely from her face.
She had been nearing her fortieth year when she'd borne her last child, her sweet Daenerys, her blessing from the Gods. Now, as she nears her sixtieth, she cannot deny that her skin still remains relatively smooth and unblemished. She is as thin and slight as she was in her youth, though such fresh firmness has, perhaps, fled at last.
It matters little.
She has spent all these years in exile planning, and plotting and scheming. It might surprise even the slippery Spider himself, if he knew just how deep her own web lay. The net will tighten, now, and the Usurpers will pay a final price for the destruction they have caused, and it thrills her to be on the precipice of justice, at last.
There is a knock, and she twists to see Barristan enter her chambers, a small, pleased smile on his face. He is well-chuffed about something, that much is clear, and it bodes well for her own mood that he brings her good tidings.
She suspects she knows what it is, but she asks, all the same. "The Golden Company has arrived?"
His smile grows, and he stands at her side, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror. "Yes, My Queen. It is as you thought. Jon Connington is among their command. He asks an audience with you, on the morrow. Begs, really." Barristan sighs and shrugs, but his pale blue eyes twinkle with uncommon amusement. "But then, who can blame him." He takes her hand, where it rests upon the wood of the vanity, and raises it to his lips. "To bear witness to beauty such as yours would make any man beg."
Her lips twist of their own volition; His flattery is unnecessary, of course, but he cannot seem to stop himself. Silly old fool, she thinks, and stands, turning to face him with lone, raised brow.
"Trying to ply me with sweet words, Good Ser? So that you might find yourself in my bed, once more?" That earns her a chuckle, which might well have been an uproarious bout of laughter coming from the stoic old knight. He pulls her to his chest, arm wrapped around her back, the other tipping her chin up.
"Do I need to?"
Now she smiles, truly, because they both know the steps in this dance. He has been her lover since he found her in Braavos, scraping for mere existence, with two children in tow. He has been her rock, her foundation, an endless font of strength when she has required it.
Perhaps it is not the sweet, idealistic love she'd felt for Bonnifer, so long ago, but it is love all the same, and it is more than enough.
"I should think a knight so bold as you already knows that he need only take what is his." She steps away, feeling beautiful once more as he watches her, has already unstrapped his chestplate as she shrugs out of her silken robe and steps towards the bed. She belongs to no one, in truth, but she trusts Barristan above all others. He is true to her, and so she will let him have this illusion, let them both indulge before war is truly upon them.
Rhaella knows fear.
It is an old, familiar friend.
She had not feared Aerys at first; Their marriage was unwanted, that was a bond they shared, but they made do. Rhaella always did her duty, no matter the cost.
But after Duskendale, things were different. He was a man no longer, he became a monster, and though she pitied what he had endured she could not help but hate him for what he made her endure in turn.
She had not feared falling pregnant, when she first learned that Rhaegar would come. But in the years that passed after her eldest son's birth, she had learned to fear a missed course with an ever-growing intensity, a horror that would cripple her, a times, her ladies having to help her to her rooms when her knees would no longer support her.
She never really knew what had caused so much death, her sweet babes lost, one by one. Only Viserys and Daenerys had remained, after such terrible grief.
But she had her suspicions, oh yes.
She wonders if Pycelle is still alive. Sometimes she pictures what she will do to him, how she might inflict upon him the suffering that each loss brought her. Because in the end, the man had been in Tywin's pocket, that much was clear to her.
She hopes he is still alive. She prays for the chance.
Even greater, though, is the wish that Tywin still lives. Oh, the plans she has for him. She likes to think, in that sense, that Aerys would be proud of her. The Aerys she grew up with, the Aerys she married, the man that had remained even when the madness had taken him; Yes, he would appreciate the fate she has composed for Tywin Lannister.
Rhaella has always been afraid, she thinks, as she walks in the sweltering gardens, her lightweight dress shifting about her sandaled feet. But things are different now. She is different. In the distance, under the branches of a large tree, she sees the ones who bring her joy, who have made her heart heal, who have renewed her purpose.
She is wholly unafraid, now, and it is more liberating than she could have imagined, save for the fear that accompanies the love she holds for the trio chattering and laughing in the shade ahead.
"Look there, my Lord, and tell me what you see." Rhaegar's oldest, dearest friend swivels his head, now flecked with silver in the mass of red waves, and she watches closely as he takes in the scene.
Daenerys sits, her babe on her bent knees, her back flush with her husband's chest. Even from here, she can hear the sweet music of Torrhen's laugh. What a treasure he is, a boy of almost two, with the softest cheeks that she cannot help but stroke when she cuddles him against her. Such a good, sweet little thing, so happy, so loved. He does not know fear yet.
If she has her way, he never will.
"Can it be the Princess Daenerys?" He has taken to calling himself Griff, has asked that she do so as well, and it suits her fine. For there is another Jon in their lives now, another treasure she holds close, and it saves her mind the trouble of keeping the two sorted. "How lovely she has grown, my Queen. The very image of her mother."
Rhaella smiles faintly, and they watch, in silence, as the child's father holds a little carved figure aloft, making it dance and run. Daenerys giggles along with her son, until chubby fists reach up and grasp the item, and sure enough, as she suspects, it is soon in the boy's mouth. He's cutting teeth, she knows. She has spent more than one night rubbing his sore, swollen gums with rum, easing the ache, singing the songs she'd sung to her own babes to this one.
It is quiet joy that fills her, in those moments. For this babe is one borne of love, a feat all too rare for those of her blood. She cannot say the same for Daenerys. For Jon, however, perhaps it holds true.
She wishes, not for the first time, that Lyanna was with them. A brave girl, even in death. How her heart would sing with Rhaella's own, at the sight.
She wishes, as she often does, that Rhaegar could see the man his last surviving son has become.
"Who is that with her? Her husband? The child's father?" The curiosity in Griff's voice is amusing to her, and she shields her mouth with the backs of her fingers to hide her smirk. She straightens her face, and pulls her eyes from the lovely picture the little trio make to study the aging Lord.
"The man she loves. One of our blood." She can see him trying to puzzle it out, in his mind, sees when he comes up empty as to who Jon might be. She has been looking forward to this, has thought that, if nothing else, it will bind the loyalists who remain even more firmly to this cause.
The silence ticks by, until he finally cannot take the suspense. "Tell me, I beg you. If it must remain a secret, I shall take it to my grave, you have my word."
"Not a secret at all," Rhaella says firmly, sniffing and lifting her chin. "Before you sits a miracle, my Lord. For the Lady Lyanna did not perish in Dorne, as was long believed." His eyes widen impossibly, and the man seems to understand what has happened the moment the Stark girl's name has crossed her lips. "Oh yes, now you see, now you understand. Gerold and Arthur fled with her, to Meereen, just after the boy was born. Jaeherys, he is named. But I think you will be glad to know that he is more commonly known by another name, a simpler one." She smiles at him, perhaps her first true one since he had appeared before her earlier. "Lyanna called him Jon."
His eyes fill with tears, but he straightens, an odd pride flickering in his eyes. "Truly?"
She nods, wonders what his next move will be. For he commands the most prized armies to be found on any shores, and she would have their swords before the day is done.
"We are with you," he breathes, and now it is as though he cannot look away. He shudders, and hastily swipes beneath his eyes, lost in his own memories, surely, as he studies the small family that will be the renewal of her House. Finally, he turns to her, jaw set with a firm dedication. "We will fight for you. My men," he pauses, exhales heavily, "They want to go home."
She reaches over, and takes his gloved hands, takes a moment to admire the way his golden armor shines in the full, blazing sun overhead. "So do I, Griff. So do I."
Daenerys sits with her, a week before they are bound for Westeros, trying not to fidget as Rhaella braids the silver hair that has grown long and thick, trailing down her daughter's slender back.
It will cause quite a mess, if it is not bound for flight, and so they have been experimenting with ways to secure it that will withstand the high winds that are their constant companion on dragonback.
"Mother?"
The hesitant question hangs in the air, and finally Rhaella secures the braid she's produced, and leans over her daughter's shoulder so that she can see her face. "What is it, sweetling?"
A nervous breath escapes, then her sweet Dany turns, her face earnest, but her brow creased with worry as she takes her mother's hands. "I suspect I may be with child again."
It is euphoria that floods her, and she beams, and kisses both of the girl's cheeks excitedly. "Oh, what blessed news you bring your old mother. What is this for?" She slides a thumb against the furrow between Daenerys's brows, smoothing the skin. "What is this fright in you?"
Sometimes she must remind herself that Daenerys is not a naive young girl anymore. She nears her twentieth name day now. She has walked through fire, done impossible things. She has brought about the return of dragons to the world. She is a woman, but sometimes, Rhaella still wants to hold her close, do what she must to protect her only daughter.
She has so much more to protect now, but she is stronger than she has ever been. Rhaella has become what life has made her, what she must be, to finish what must be done. And she will do it, will do whatever she must, to ensure the future of her family.
Daenerys swallows, and shifts on the bed, her red gossamer skirts pooling around her. "I fear this war will take away everything I have received, everything I love most. You, Torrhen," she gives a another hard swallow, another sad, lingering glance, "Jon." Her hands are freed from Rhaella's then, slipping down to cover her stomach, where her next grandchild might well be growing. "What is the value in taking back Westeros if I lose all that matters to me?"
Rhaella understands. She knows this fear, she has felt it for longer than Daenerys has lived. But she has mastered it, and now she will show her daughter how to do so as well.
She knows what she saw, in her dreams, before Daenerys stepped into that pyre at the heart of Rhllor's holiest temple. She knows what the future holds, and she will see it come to fruition.
"Do you know what I dreamed, my sweet? Jon dreamed of his dead men, and his wall of ice, and for you, dreams of the fire and flame, but your mother had a very different dream." Fear flees from those elegant features, so like her own, and is replaced by a hungry curiosity. Daenerys shakes her head, waits for Rhaella to continue, and so she does.
"I dreamed of a dynasty to last a thousand years, my lovely girl. Of a brilliant blue sky, filled with dragons. I knew the towers and paparets that broke my view. I knew the chair that lay inside that Keep that lay before me." She cocked her head, and clucked her tongue, and took her daughter's face in her hands. "Westeros is ours." She tightens her hold, wills Daenerys to understand. This is inevitable, what they will do next.
For Rhaella knows the prophecies that fueled her own father's desire to see her wed to Aerys. She knows how they fueled her husband's own madness, and consumed her oldest son as well. And above her own need for justice, delivered to all those who have wronged her, is the image that still haunts her, the one she cannot erase from her mind. The men who spring from the ice, who tear down the Wall to the North, who can only be eradicated by that holiest of fires.
It seems trivial to wonder if it is true. She is past such questions. She only knows that if it comes to pass, what she has dreamed, that it is only the dragons that will save her people. She was born on Westerosi soil. She was raised in that land. And she will protect it, for they cannot, and perhaps will not, protect themselves.
She will ensure they are ready.
"Do not be afraid," she whispers to Daenerys, her voice gentle. "For we have regained what was lost to us. We have our dragons now, my darling, and there is nothing that we face that can match their might. You need fear nothing," she urges, their eyes locked together. "It is them, our enemies, who should be afraid now. Do you understand?"
With a shaky nod, her daughter answers. "Yes, mother, I do." But then she looks askance, her eyes narrowing before they meet Rhaella's again. "But we cannot hold the throne through fear alone. That much I know is true."
Rhaella smiles, a slow, pride smile spreading. "You grow wiser by the day. But worry not." She lets out a silent laugh, and lifts her chin, a playful haughtiness stealing over her. "I will bear every drop of fear they can spare me. I will show them what happens to those who think to work against us, once we have what is ours." She leans close, and intensity coursing through her. "I shall leave the love for you and Jon."
"You have become a dragon, it seems," Daenerys replies, and it is the finest compliment anyone has paid her, Rhaella believes.
Outside, her dragon screams into the night air, followed by two others, and Rhaella breathes, in and out, peace suffusing her.
"Perhaps we all have, my sweetling." She caresses Dany's face fondly, then tweaks her nose. "And soon, we will show them exactly what we are." With a knowing look, she rises, and fills a goblet with wine, taking a sip and watching the way her daughter nods with growing confidence. "Won't we, dear?"
Daenerys stands as well, her hand stealing back to her abdomen and rubbing gently. "Yes," she says, with renewed determination. "We will."
They begin in the North, as their ships head South, and in Rhaella's estimation, to rather lukewarm fanfare.
She cannot say she is surprised. She has come for the same reason Aegon and his sisters once did. The North has declared its' independence from the Crown, an understandable move with Cersei currently holding the throne, but she will not tolerate open rebellion once she has reclaimed the seat her ancestors forged.
The young King, Robb Stark, greets them, flanked by his mother and his siblings, at the gate to the Keep. Barristan has flown with her, and dismounts from her dragon's back, holding out an unnecessary hands as she scales Dawnbreaker's wing. They are afraid, she thinks, as she steps onto the snowy ground. She cannot blame them.
One dragon is intimidating enough, but they have brought three, and it is a show of might that these proud, stubborn fools might appreciate. If sides must be taken, she means to show them which they would be wiser to back.
Daenerys has flown with Torrhen and Ser Arthur, and they climb down as well to Rhaella's right, while Gerold and Jon do the same to her left.
Together, they approach the King in the North. His eyes are more Tully than Stark, she sees, somewhat pleased that Lyanna's son has outstripped all save a few of Ned Stark's own children in terms of his Northern appearance.
He can see it, the moment his eyes land on his cousin by blood. Jon stands tall under the scrutiny, clad in black armor gilded in red. On it, at his breast, is the sigil he and Daenerys will adopt, what their personal banners will proclaim. The dragons, encircling the wolf, cast in red on a sea of black. They have chosen carefully, and as is the way of those born to nobility, they have made an alteration to the traditional Targaryen standard. It had been Jon's idea, and his reasoning for it so sound she had been rendered speechless for a moment. There was a cunning to him that she had wondered about, as sharp and carefully concealed as it was in Daenerys.
"They will see the wolf on our standard, you see, and think it flattery. Perhaps an homage to my mother, to the great House Stark." He had pursed his lips, narrowed his eyes, looked between Rhaella and Daenerys. "But I will know it as a warning to them. They are not the only trueborn Starks in Westeros. They will give the North," he had promised, a gleam in his eye, his gaze straying to where Torrhen played on a blanket, "Or I will take it."
Fatherhood has made Jon into a young man of great intensity, and it was plain on his face as he stared at each Northern face in turn, before stepping forward and extending a hand towards his cousin, offering his forearm. "Your Grace."
Behind him, his green dragon lets out a mighty cry, and the young King flinches, just slightly, before he extends his own hand. "Your Grace." She watches Robb Stark's face, as he takes in the full sight of Jon, the looks he exchanges with his mother, Lady Catelyn. She was always a pinched-face woman, joyless, Rhaella always thought, but then perhaps the cold simply cemented that look permanently on Catelyn's face. "You look like my father," the auburn-haired man admits, and his cool facade fades, a warm smile bursting free.
Catelyn does not smile, but her other children do, and the tension seems to be broken as the King in the North comes before her, his eyes flying to her dragon, and the black beast belonging to Daenerys before they meet with hers again.
"Queen Rhaella," he says respectfully, a quick glance spared for Barristan who stands at her side, hand on the pommel of his sword. "It is an honor to welcome you to Winterfell." Then he steps and, unheeding of his mother's quiet warning to the contrary, draws his sword and plants the tip in the snow.
"The North is yours," he proclaims, loud enough for all gathered to hear, and just like that, the deed is done.
Rhaella hopes the rest will fall into place just as quickly.
The Tullys of the Riverlands bend because the Starks have. Rhaella has chosen the order of their visits to the Great Houses for that very purpose. Edmure Tully is not a fool, it seems, and by the time they have arrived he knows well what his sister's son has done.
Olenna Tyrell ushers them into Highgarden the moment they arrive, feasting with them and declaring the Reach for the Targaryens to great cheers from the folk she has gathered. She is a sight for sore eyes, for Rhaella, an old friend but a crafty, scheming one all the same. One look at Torrhen and she is already asking for rights of betrothal, which Rhaella politely but firmly declines.
She will make no such decision for the boy. She will leave it to his parents to decide, and that will be quite some time from now.
Dorne bends because they have allied themselves with the Reach, at odds with their words, but Rhaella knows they have little choice in the matter. Doran is gone, and Quentyn as well, with only the Princess Arianne left to rule in their stead. It takes only the reminder that Jon was born in their lands to appease them, to allow them to proclaim that a son of Dorne shall sit the Throne.
That is the way these games are played. Jon and Daenerys have yet to learn the worst of them, but Rhaella has seen them all, and she will outplay any who challenge her.
Three kingdoms remain, and they will all be brought to heel when the Targaryens travel to the Crownlands. For the Stormlands, the Westerlands, and the Iron Throne will be hers when the Lannisters are deposed. She is looking forward to this final leg of the journey, though they are forced to delay to allow their landbound armies time to reach the capital.
But when the raven arrives, she is ready.
She stands staring up into the night sky, when Jon finds her. She sweeps her hand along Dawnbreaker's scaly hide, the welcoming warmth easing her nerves.
"Are you worried?"
He does not look at her, just up to the sky. Sometimes, when the light is right, she can see Rhaegar there, in his face. She wonders what he would say to his son, if he were here. Would he compose a song, perhaps? A sonnet? Or instead a grave warning of the pit of vipers they would now tread willingly into?
He had always had a poet's heart, Rhaegar had, though his sword hand had grown as sure as any warrior's. Jon was no poet. He had that Northern hardness in him, that stalwart bravery. He was watchful, and wary, protective of his wife and child in a way that made her want to weep if she thought on it for too long.
"No," she said quietly, then turned to look at his profile, gilded in silver moonlight. "Are you?"
He chuffed out a laugh. "Perhaps. Not for myself. For my family, of course." A sigh escaped, but his head remained upturned. "I must simply pray the Gods will grant us good fortune, in the wars to come, and do what I can to ensure the day is ours."
She watched him for a moment longer, then laid a gentle hand on his arm, drawing his attention at last. "He would be proud of you, you know. Rhaegar."
His brows knit together, and he frowned slightly. "So Arthur and Gerold are fond of telling me. I would hope so."
It is eerie, she thinks, how that melancholy air that had always hovered over Rhaegar shows itself in his son. He is more likely to be brooding than smiling, always dwelling on the next obstacle, taken with the need to protect his family. It makes her heart clench, when she sees that, sees those remnants of his father lingering at the edges. It eases the sting of such loss, in truth. It has helped her to move past them.
"Well," she says quietly, seriously, "I am quite certain of it." That earns a quirk of his lips, though perhaps he just means to humor her. So, she mentions the name that always makes him soften, that conjures an easy smile and reignites the warmth in his eyes. "And I know Daenerys is as well."
As she predicts, he grins at that, eyes crinkling at the edges as he turns to look back at the moon. She remembers her own trepidation, when she received Lyanna's raven, her fear for what this arrangement would mean for her daughter, her dread over what sort of man he might have become. She had seen what such circumstances did to Viserys.
But he was more than she could have expected, and everything she had hoped for, and she squeezes his arm again, her own lips tipped up as she recalls how easily they fit together, Jon and Daenerys. Once joined it was as though it had always been such, as though they were the center of the other's world.
And when she sees it, she knows what the smallfolk who look upon them will see. She knows they will do anything for each other, committed with a holy devotion that stirs her soul. It will stir theirs, as well. The people love such things, Rhaella knows. The lords and ladies concern themselves with power and position, but the smallfolk want to be inspired. She will make sure they are.
"She is with child again," Jon murmurs, patting her hand where it lays on his arm, his voice tightening with reborn worry. "Did she tell you?"
She sees the fear in his eyes, knows what has brought him out here at last. "She did," Rhaella answers. "No fretting, now. You must set it aside, difficult as it might be."
"If something happens-" He bites out the words, unable to continue, eyes going a bit glassy, his voice roughening.
"The only thing happening on the morrow is victory, Jaeherys." She sounds stern, she knows, but it seems to be what he needs. A shadow passes, then another, and she sees their dragons circling past, coming to nest beside her own, she fancies. "Remember that." For as much as she can see her son in this man, she can see his mother as well. In her mind's eye Lyanna is ever-present, lying upon her bed, sallow and wan but full of hope, lit from within, determined. She can still hear the woman's voice, whispering in her ear.
'The blood of Kings is in his veins. Promise me, Rhaella. Promise me you will see this through, see them sit the throne. They were born for this purpose. Born to face what is to come. Promise me.'
She has promised, and she will do this. She will do whatever it takes, sacrifice whatever she must.
He nods, then, resolute, and she is satisfied at the hard set that takes his face, the way his eyes narrow; He is calculating the battle already, in his mind, playing through each scenario as they have done countless times. She distracts him only once more.
"Speaking of babes, where is my little wild boy?"
Torrhen has found his legs, and what had started as a wobbling slow gait has become a deceptively quick race whenever he is put on the ground, and she has seen this young father before her chasing him down so many hallways and corridors she has lost track. It always makes her laugh, no matter what she is doing. She stops and watches until they are gone, and stores the image in her heart. He is growing quickly, little Torrhen, and his second name day approaches.
Once the war is won, she will host a celebration for him, ensure he spends the day as merrily as he is able.
"Last I saw, Daenerys was forcing him into a bath." Jon chuckles under his breath. "Though she may need Arthur and Gerold to drag him in. He's a strong little lad for his age." He tries to sound put upon, but Rhaella hears the pride in his voice, knows how it must swell in his chest. His eyes are on hers, then, and he gives her a tiny grin. "And I believe he was looking for his Lala."
It is like an embrace, to hear the name the boy has been calling her. 'Grandmother' is far too long, and he is still a babe in part, his mouth struggling with the letter 'r'. No matter how many times his parents correct him, and tell him her name is 'Rhaella', he is unmoved, and stubbornly insists that she is 'Lala'. When he calls her 'MY Lala', with great force, usually when she is trying to leave him with another, tears of joy always rise in her eyes.
A child's love is like no other, so pure and unadulterated in it's expression. He may call her Lala until he is a man grown, she knows, and she will always kiss his brow and pull him close, just as she does now.
"Well then," she says grandly, taking Jon's arm and pulling him gently, so as to lead them both inside, she is already primed to see his round, sweet little face, to press her nose to his dark curls, "Lala cannot keep him waiting."
She stands amongst a war camp, tension snapping along her veins, her heart pounding. The fire rises inside her, as she unfurls a scroll and reads the message. She looks to the messenger, who has risked much to travel outside the Red Keep. Tywin and Cersei have fortified themselves inside, along with the entire population of King's Landing.
She hands the scroll to Daenerys, watches as her daughter and her grandson read the message, sees the horror that flashes across their features.
She knows already what she must do. She hates that she cannot strike, not yet. Rhaella has always prided herself on her patience, but it runs short.
"Will she do it? Will he?" Jon's voice is hushed, angry, terrified. "Will they truly kill these people, rather than surrender to us?"
When Rhaella laughs it is bitter. She knows full well what Tywin is capable of, and she has heard enough about Cersei to reinforce what she already suspected about the woman. "They would rather die than bend the knee, Jon. Do not doubt for a moment that the Lannisters are too proud by half. Their pride is their weakness. They want to force our hand, make us strike the city. They want us to be the monsters."
She returns her attention to the messenger, who is shaking slightly. She presses a dragon into his hand, the coin cold and solid between their palms. "Tell him I will see him. Tonight. Bring him here. And be discreet."
With a nod, the slim young man is gone, and Rhaella hopes he manages his task.
"We will not fall into this trap," Rhaella says, and makes her way to the large tent that has been erected for her. She holds open the flap and waves the pair inside. "Now, let us plan."
If Varys is surprised to see her, he does not let it show. He looks untouched by time, his eyes glittering as he studies her, then Jon and Daenerys in turn, and she wonders what it is that lurks within the heart of him.
She does not trust him, and they both know it. But she does believe they have a common goal, is inclined to agree that the people must not suffer in this campaign to take back the capital.
"Do you know where it's been moved? The wildfire?" There is an odd irony that it was a Lannister who slew Aerys, for even daring to suggest he would use the vile substance. And now, the Lannisters stand poised to do the same. Aerys would laugh, madly, if he were here.
Aerys would tell her to burn them all.
But she will not, if it can be helped.
Varys nods, eyes darting around, almost panicked. "I do. And I have on good authority that, at the first sighting of your dragons in the sky, they will ignite it. There are five locations throughout the city." He gestures to the map on the table, the city between them, and moves markers to several locations. "Those who do not die in the explosions will no doubt starve to death."
Daenerys studies the man in turn, skeptical. "And we are to take you at your word?" She leans on her hand, playing the part that has been set for her. Rhaella learned long ago the value of playing the part of the wide-eyed innocent. It has served her well on more than one occasion, and she stifles a knowing laugh as Daenerys presses on, Jon standing tall behind her where she sits, his hand on her shoulder. "Forgive me, Spider. I am but a young girl, and do not know the ways of war," she pauses, as though she cannot find the right words. Just as Rhaella has told her. "But it seems to me that we have little reason to trust you. After all, were you not the one who sent assassins after us? For years? Had us hunted in the streets like dogs?"
She has worked up a few tears, that glisten in her eyes.
"Tell me who you truly serve, Varys. Tell us where your true loyalties lie." At Rhaella's sharp order Varys sighs, and looks at the map, fingers toying with the markers idly before he answers.
"To the people," he swears, finally, vehemently. Rhaella is tempted to believe him. And now, it seems, she must.
She nods. "Good. Then you will see to it that they are made as safe as they can be. You know the tunnels that run beneath the city well enough. We will delay our attack for a fortnight. And you, Spider," she jabs a finger in his direction, "Will ferry out as many people as you can. The others must shelter in their homes. I would avoid unnecessary bloodshed."
He stares at Rhaella so long that it is almost unnerving, but nods, apparently satisfied with what he finds in her eyes. "I will," he swears, and though he speaks so very many lies, she thinks, for once, he is telling the truth. He hesitates, for a moment, then continues. "I believe they intend to flee the city, as well. If you strike with the dragons. I can show you where, so that you may station your own men there to catch them."
With a wry twist of her lips, Rhaella points to the map. "Show me, then. I will allow no Lannister to go free."
The deed is done, swiftly enough, and a plan is hatched to evacuate as many smallfolk as is possible to the surrounding villages, under the cover of night.
As she walks through the encampment with him, however, she delivers a warning, before they part ways. She has walked them to where the dragons wait, intentionally, her eyes never leaving his face, watching the fear he tries to hide.
He is right to be afraid.
"I am granting you my trust, just for this, Spider. Just this once." She draws him to a standstill, her hand circling his wrist, her dragon at her back. "Betray me," she says, letting him hear the steel in her voice, "and I'll burn you alive."
He trembles under her grasp, but dips his head in acknowledgement. Something that looks strangely like respect glimmers in his eyes. "You have changed, you know. You are not who you once were."
Rhaella knows what he is implying. He is right. She is no longer the meek, quiet, dutiful Queen of Aerys' rule. She has outgrown that woman, left her behind on the Essosi shores. She does not need to be that Rhaella anymore.
"I am so much more than that," she swears, and points off and away, into the night. "Be on your way, and do your part, or you will see exactly what I am capable of."
Tywin is a shadow of the man he once was. He stands, clapped in irons, with his wretched children beside him. When she looks at him, she thinks of many people. She wonders if he would have become what he is, if Joanna had survived. He might have. Joanna was a dear friend, but not without her own deceits and plots.
But her children are another matter.
Of the entire group, only Cersei has the gall to stare back at Rhaella, as she paces in a circle around them, in the ruins of the Red Keep. If they meant to hurt her, by destroying it with wildfire, they are sorely misguided; She is glad to be rid of the memories. She will build something new. She will start fresh.
"What am I to do with you, I wonder?" Tywin gives her only sparse glances, keeping his head down, subservient. She cannot deny that it pleases her, to see him like this. The proud lion, laid low, humbled at last. "You realize, of course, that I cannot let you live."
The sun is shining, though smoke still fills the air. People have massed in the square, come to see what fate she has for the ones who have wrought such destruction. All over the city lay piles of stone and wreckage, though her most recent reports have told her that the loss of life was minimal.
And as she suspected, the people themselves have rallied to her side, gaping in open-mouthed wonder at the three dragons who watch over the proceedings, perched atop the rubble. They whisper amongst themselves that the Gods have blessed them, saved them from the Lannisters. The Targaryens have returned, have saved them.
Her plan proceeds exactly as she foresaw. She laughs brightly as Tywin's shoulders sag at her declaration. The last of his hope has left him, she knows. Let fear be his companion, now, in the moments he has left. It is richly deserved.
Her only pity is for the slender, golden-haired girl and boy who stand just behind their mother. It is to them she looks now, smiling kindly as they watch her with wary eyes. "Do not let it be said, however, that I am without mercy. I should end your line today, remove House Lannister once and for all, pluck it, root and stem, from Westerosi soil." She takes a breath, waits, draws out the suspense. "But Myrcella and Tommen ought not be punished for your sins. I will allow them to live."
Cersei says nothing, watching, but Jaime begins to weep tears of relief. If he had not stabbed Aerys in the back she might be moved to show him mercy, but his sins have grown far too great in number, no matter his remorse. She understands what has stirred him. They are his children too, after all.
She sees she has Tywin's attention, as well, and she gives a prim nod. "Myrcella will be sent to join the ranks of the Silent Sisters. And for Tommen, the Night's Watch awaits." Tywin sneers at her, realizing that this small allowance is all they will receive. It is all they deserve. She will not punish them with death, but she will not allow them to roam free, either. "No, your line shall not die this day. Eventually, yes, but not this day."
With a wave of her hand the children are taken away, and Tyrion, the half-man, stares at her, his eyes heavy with pleading. "Please. Can there not be some negotiation?"
Rhaella regards him coolly. She knows he has used wildfire himself, in the years since Robert's death. The arrogance of these lions, she thinks, has only ever been matched by their hypocrisy. She looks at them and sees poor Elia's face, sees the faces of the grandchildren lost to her. For House Lannister, her patience has reached it's limits.
"No," she says, finally, firmly, and stops pacing. "For you, there can only be death." The folk below cheer, begin jeering and calling out insults to the golden-haired Lannisters, and she allows it for several moments. She waved a delicate hand to the mass of people, and looks to Tywin. "Here is what your hunger for power has brought you, Tywin." She comes close, mindful of the guards who stand ready, should her prisoners make decisions that would truly be unwise. Barristan is, as ever, at her side, his blade already drawn. "How does it taste, I wonder?"
Cersei snarls and spits in Rhaella's direction, struggling with her own chains. "And you think you hold the power, now?" She is nearly hysterical, and a guard takes each of her arms to halt her movement. "They will turn on you, as well. Fickle, dirty animals that they are."
She hates the smallfolk, it is clear. She does not understand where true power lies. She has curried favor with the Houses, and ignored the people, and now she sees her hatred repaid with their own. But Rhaella is not surprised. Cersei has always been a greedy, grasping little snake.
"I know I hold the power now, you silly fool." A silent pull, and Dawnbreaker approaches, talons scrabbling across stone, and a rank smell greets her nostrils. It is Tywin who has lost control of his bowels, as hot gusts of air beat down on them. "It's simple, really. A truth my ancestors learned well. They are the true power." She points a finger to where the other two dragons now approach, Jon and Daenerys climbing the steps to join her, their faces blank and apathetic as they regard those now cowering in fear.
"Any final words?" Daenerys asks the question coldly, smiling over her shoulder to the people still chanting and calling for Lannister blood to be spilled. "It seems they are rather ready to be done with things."
Jaime eyes the sword Jon bears, and the one Barristan has already drawn. "Is it to be our heads, then?"
Jon smiles, just barely, scoffing under his breath and looking to Rhaella knowingly.
She laughs, and shakes her head. "No, no, Ser. For like my husband, my champion is fire."
The guards clear the way, at her nod, and the Lannisters are left crowding together, huddled, and for all the pain they have caused her, all the Targaryen blood they have spilled, Rhaella feels a deep and abiding satisfaction as she calls out to her dragon, her voice in chorus with Jon and Daenerys, as they do the same.
"Dracarys," they say together, calling forth that most holy fire, the fire that belongs only to them, and to their beasts.
They do not scream for long. They are lucky, she thinks, that dragonfire is so very hot. A riotous cheer erupts, as the flames recede, and only piles of ash and melted iron chains remain. She breathes out, relieved, complete.
Aerys would be proud of her, she thinks.
But there are others, who flit through her mind, a flash of silver, a flash of dark, who would be proud as well. It is those whose memory she holds most tightly to, in this moment, when victory tastes sweeter than she could have imagined.
The day she sets a dainty, booted heel on the shores of Dragonstone is an exceedingly happy one.
King's Landing must be rebuilt, and so they will rule from here, for now. This is her ancestral home. The home her blood built.
She closes her eyes, as soon as she is off Dawnbreaker's back, and kneels, reaching a hand for the grassy soil of the cliffside, and cries.
She feels first one presence at her side, then several, and a pair of small, chubby arms wraps around her neck.
"My Lala," she hears in her ear. She wraps her arms around the little boy, the little Princeling, the one who will be King, in the distant future. "Lala ky?" She sniffs, and opens her eyes, to find the boy peering at her, worried, his small lips pouting. "Lala sad?"
She shakes her head and lifts him, holding him to her as she stands, and gives a watery smile to the boy's parents. Together they look to Dragonstone, the Keep forged by dragons, the dearest home of her heart. Here she had birthed her sweet Dany, in the middle of the greatest storm in a century.
"No," she whispers to the boy in her arms. "Lala is very happy, my sweet."
She watches as Jon comes to stand behind her daughter, wraps his arms around her, whispering in her ear as their hands come to rest, together, on the slight swell of her stomach. Here Daenerys will birth their next child, and the next, and the next.
They look to her in unison, and she presses a kiss to Torrhen's cheek, making him giggle as the wind whips over the cliffs, creating a mess of their hair.
"Welcome home," she says, and begins to walk, leading the way.