Rhaenyra spends her afternoon pacing — for she fears she would not rise again easily should she take rest. It is painful, of course. But the pain is a welcome distraction. Any distraction is a welcome distraction.
She has not a clue how much she could or should rely on her family. My husband is one of the smartest, but also one of the stupidest people I know. And she knows him well. Well enough to know that Daemon would not challenge the accusations.
"Why were you banished from Court, Father?" Baela had asked at dinner not long after they'd joined their families.
Daemon smiled and leaned back. "Which time?"
"Your Father abhors speaking in his own defense," Rhaenyra had answered. Which time was not relevant.
Baela had asked the question casually whilst playing with her pudding, but this new information earned her full attention. "Why wouldn't you defend yourself?"
Rhaenrya knew better than to wait for Daemon to answer, or rather, not answer. "Because then he'd have to admit that other people's opinions matter to him. Or have power over him. Dragons do not like it when another flies between them and the sun."
Daemon wordlessly turned his attention back to his plate, confirming her point.
Rhaenyra rolled her eyes. "And his pride and ambition once nearly had me disinherited along with him."
"No," he'd argued without looking up. "It didn't. Your father was angry with me, and me alone."
"What did you do?" Baela asked.
"Daemon," Rhaenyra warned him. "He didn't do it, was the point. But he potentially had a lot to gain from my Father thinking he did. And it almost cost us both our positions."
At this he did look up. "He wouldn't have. He was only trying to scare you into marrying Laenor." Jace and Luke exchanged looks. "And you certainly turned that situation in your favour, did you not?" Daemon sounded so proud of her younger self's rudimentary bargaining skills. She imagines he credited them to his influence.
But she did not let him off the hook. "He told me, 'I should disinherit you. Jaehaerys would have.'"
Daemon rolled his eyes. "Of course Grandsire would have disinherited you. He would have disinherited you for being born."
"What do you mean?" Jace had asked.
"The only reason Grandsire called the Council was to gain support for what he already wanted to do. What he had already done once before. Because Grandsire had a spectre haunting his reign."
"Why is that?" Rhaenyra asked. She could barely remember Jaehaerys.
"Rhaena."
"What?" Rhaena had exclaimed.
"Not you. Dreamfyre's Rhaena. She was the elder sibling after all. And a former queen twice over. Grandsire's claim to the throne depended on her gender disqualifying her. As does the claim of many lords of the realm."
That argument she had heard from Daemon many a time. They will not support your claim out of fairness — because what if that fairness were to be applied to them? No, they will be convinced with strength: with fire and blood. Or as Rhaenyra preferred, a strong position.
They no longer hold the strongest position.
"But you supported Grandsire over Grandmother," Luke had pointed out.
"I stood to become heir. Of course I supported it. At least I was open about why — unlike these Hightower pretenders who hide behind their faith. But that was when both claimants were raised as proper Targaryens. That is not so this time. Should the Greens take the throne, Oldtown will rule Westeros." He shakes his head. "Imagine how depressing and sexless the realm would be. What a nightmare"
He pondered that nightmare in silence for a moment, until Rhaena voiced her question. "Wait, why did you name me for Rhaena, Father?"
He returned from the sexless nightmare to answer. "It was your mother's idea. Rhaena was one of the strongest Targaryen women until life took too much from her. She thought it might inspire you to be the same. I had similar hope when I named Baela for my father." He looked between the two girls and made it abundantly clear which of them he believed lived up to their namesake.
Rhaenyra had not waited for privacy to yell at him. It would take Rhaena a few more years to realize that his distance was far more related to her personality than her dragonless status. But it was still clear on her face that the remark had not been lost on her. Rhaena had always been smart.
Rhaena, had been smart.
Rhaena had been forced to wed Maegor. Rhaenyra had not pondered her much whilst thinking of trophy queens, because Rhaena had not remained one.
Rhaena had escaped.
If I avoid medicine, I might recover enough mobility to escape by tonight… But where would I go? And Syrax and Meleys…
It was one thing to leave them only a few hours after capture when they might have hope of rescuing them or negotiating their return. But now…
Could she get to the dragonpit on her own? In her state? Without being noticed? The dragonkeepers would not do her harm, she is certain. But they also wouldn't be able to stop the Hightowers.
Rhaena had escaped with her dragon. Possibly, Rhaenyra could too. But she'd lived as Maegor's 'wife' for a long time before that. Rhaenyra does not intend to do the same. Vows said at swordpoint are not held to be valid, she remembers. But she takes greater comfort from the knowledge that no piece of paper can stand against dragonfire.
She is not given very long after Alicent left before her next visitors approach her door. She rushes to Rhaenys's now-locked bedchamber.
She leans against the door and raps on the wood — hopefully in a way to suggest she'd been waiting for some time. "Rhaenys," she calls. "You cannot withdraw like this. Not again. Not now. I need you."
Ser Harrold knocks at the suite entrance.
"Ent—"
But the door opens before she can finish — that does not bode well.
"Ser Harrold," a familiar voice chastises. "You do not wait for permission from prisoners."
"And yet, Lord Hand, word circulates that the Princess is an honoured guest."
She continues to lean against Rhaenys's door for another few moments, trying to summon her best Daemon impression.
She does not speak until they've closed the door. "Lord Otto, Ser Criston," she strides towards them and takes a seat. "Or should I say, Lord Commander?"
"Ser Harrold remains Lord Commander," Otto says. Ser Harrold stands off to the side, and both unwelcome guests loom over her. Rather than stand back up, she casually leans back into her chair. "He has demonstrated acceptance for our cause. And Ser Criston's strategic skills are needed elsewhere."
"Yes, he never was very interested in the guard part of Kingsguard." Half the time when he'd been her protector, he'd not even known where she was. Rhaenyra had not minded; she'd enjoyed the freedom. But she could resent the possibility that, had Criston actually taken the practical aspects of his job seriously rather than pretending he was in a fairytale, Aemond would have two eyes, Rhaena would have a dragon, and Rhaenyra would still only have two husbands by week's end.
She summons Rhaenys. "Well," she affects the most regal, disinterested tone she can manage. "It seems that I am your prisoner. I warn you that it will not be for long; my leal lords and family will come looking for me."
"I would not be so certain," Cole says smugly; or rather, says normally. Rhaenyra had long thought he always sounded smug.
Ser Harrold speaks up. "Why is he here?" he asks of Cole.
"I have something to deliver, and it must be ready by nightfall," he says mysteriously and far too eagerly.
Otto scans the room. "Will Princess Rhaenys not be joining us?"
"Or has she too tired of your presence?" Cole quips. So eager to finally speak as he wishes to me, he's neglected to actually be clever.
She leans back and studies her nails. "Her affliction has reemerged amidst the stress. She cannot suffer light nor noise."
They give her blank stares.
"Her affliction? Worsened by stress, brought on by her change?" she says as if it is obvious.
They still stare with comic confusion. Rhaenyra readies her finishing touch. "Her womanly change?"
No further questions.
"Ah," Otto responds like he understands. The Daemon on her shoulder tells her to follow with a quip, perhaps about how he wouldn't understand because his own lady-wife died before her change.
She swats him away. For now.
Cole fixes his attention on Rhaenyra's face as he speaks, as if seeking a reaction. "It appears your uncle did attempt to come to King's Landing last night." He savours each word. Once he sees he's not going to trigger any outward anguish, he continues. "He killed a number of men outside the city walls, and took off."
"You got what you wanted," Otto says. "Your family knows. Daemon knows. And now blood must spill." He says it as if it's her fault.
I mean it potentially is, she acknowledges. But he doesn't know that.
Otto continues. "We have sent an emissary with our terms, and have graciously included the… remains."
Daemon would have chosen the word graciously, to repeat mockingly, but Rhaenyra has yet to invite him back to her shoulder. "Emissary?"
"Lord Beesbury will be left on Driftmark. My grandchildren fly there as we speak."
"Lord Beesbury?"
"It had to be someone, and my daughter insisted on sparing him."
"And you believe he will return to your cause?"
"Not at all. But he is of no threat to us with your family. And he is expendable — which is the only kind of messenger we would send to deliver such news to your hu— your uncle, of all people."
Her shoulder Daemon does not like what he just heard, and beseeches Rhaenyra to embrace him. She does, because she too is annoyed. "So, I am to be wed to Maegor the second? Shall I dawn a black veil?" she asks, knowing that the Black Brides did not actually wear black.
"That will not be necessary."
"Shall we make it a triple then? For tradition's sake. Ser Harrold, summon one of your cousins, one with good childbearing hips; let us get a Westerling to honour Maegor. And mayhaps one of the Four Storms, a Baratheon to bring it full circle? A full circle of trophy queens."
Otto remains infuriatingly calm. "The Crown adheres strictly to the guidance of the Seven, Princess. We do not practice polygamy."
"Tell that to my husband."
"Your marriage has been declared null and void — soon for all the realm to hear."
"Oh no… If that's what the paper says." Otto's eyes finally flash with annoyance.
If I get through this, I'm telling Daemon I get to be the irreverent one sometimes.
Rhaenyra does not ask how they intend to force her compliance; she has a suspicion. They don't have one of my children, so they'd be smart to use the next best thing. And they knew enough about Targaryens, about her, to know that the next best thing would still suffice.
She settles instead for more of her husband's sport. "It's for the best, I imagine. No grandson of yours could be capable of satisfying one woman, let alone three."
"Your position is weak, Rhaenyra."
"That's not something I've heard before."
"Mayhaps no one had the heart to tell you," Cole responds. Alright, she allows, that was a better one.
"Still, you've handed us the Master-of-Coin and the longest-serving lord"
Otto is confident. "He will not last at Daemon's table."
"Daemon is not the only one to support my cause."
"Who else would be in charge?"
Right. "Fair point," she concedes.
"Princess," Otto dares address her as if she were still a child. "I urge you to be compliant. It is in everyone's best interests. For you, for your family, for your vassals, for the realm." "And you truly believe my compliance in this mummer's farce will be enough to convince the realm? The Black Brides spoke their vows as well."
"As did Argella," Otto responds. Rhanenyra flinches, wondering if Alicent had coached him. "It matters not how it begins, so long as the reign follows strong. And you will find we hold much more support than Maegor ever did."
Rhaenyra scoffs. She finds herself wishing Cole would speak. Both are insufferably smug, but she prefers Cole's barely contained hatred to Otto's condescension.
But condescension continues. "This war will be fought with words and ravens — far from your uncle's skillset. And we are the voice of Oldtown."
"Not once we've removed your tongues. By my understanding, none of you know even know its proper use. Mayhaps if you had, your daughter would not have grown so repressed."
Cole tenses and balls his hand into a fist, but before he moves forward and attracts Ser Harrold's attention he… smiles, and relaxes. That's not a good sign.
Otto refuses to take offence — or, knowing that family, does not understand. "Rhaenyra, the lords have little reason to intercede. To their knowledge, you fled to us for protection from your uncle. That much will be clear at the ceremony tonight."
With those words, Rhaenyra redirects her attention to Cole; she believes she knows why he's here — and why he's so eager.
"Aemond will sit the Iron Throne. He will wear the conquerer's crown."
What could Ser Harrold even have done if Cole had stepped forward?
"He flies the last remaining conquering dragon. Every symbol of legitimacy lies with us."
If it comes to a fight, he will suffer the price.
"We have the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard…"
He cannot protect me.
"…the Hand of the late King, the Dowager Queen, near all of the small council."
"Not to mention the queen," Rhaenyra reminds them.
No one can protect me.
Otto ignores her. "And then there are the lords of the realm. All of whom are to receive word of your h— uncle's crimes upon the morrow."
"The lords of the realm are sworn to me," Rhaenyra reminds him.
"Indeed they are. So they need not worry of breaking any vows. They must simply declare fealty for the heir they've known for twenty years — and her King-Consort."
"You are no Alicent, Otto. The lords are not so naive as to believe I would take another husband so soon."
"You've done so before," Cole says.
Fuck.
"Besides," Otto continues. Your position as heir does not exempt you from having a marriage chosen for you. Many lady heirs of the kingdoms have submitted to the wishes of their council."
"Nevertheless," Rhaenyra reaches. "You have guaranteed that House Velaryon will side with us. Our husbands are likely amassing an army as we speak."
"And how do you intend to defend that army? How do you mean to protect the fleet from dragonfire? The simple fact is, we now have more dragons than you. Larger dragons. Caraxes is now your largest by far, yet he is dwarfed by both Vhaghar and Dreamfyre."
They had discussed the possibility of a dragonfight in the past. Or rather, dragon deterrence. They had decided that Caraxes and Syrax would be a decent match for hoary old Vhagar — Caraxes, Syrax, and Meleys would barely be a fight at all. Without two of the three, and only the children to back Daemon, Rhaenyra did not like their odds against the four Green dragons. But they had agreed on something else as well. "Helaena would be little use in a dragon fight against my husband."
"She may lack for ferocity," Otto acknowledges. "But Dreamfyre's size is considerable. And all she need to do is get in the way and distract. You cannot kill her without turning the realm against you."
Fuck. They were weaponizing Helaena's youth and innocence. Something tells her the realm will not apply similar standards to the rebellious daughter of the Rogue Prince. And Baela's dragon is so small; were she to fight, she would have to fight. No innocently 'getting in the way.'
Otto condescends softly now. "It need not go that way, Rhaenyra. We have sent the terms to your family. They may all depart safely — even your uncle. You may even choose to raise your two youngest at Court."
"So you can use them to ensure our compliance? I think not."
"Very well," he hardens. "You have time left for more heirs. Once you've proven cooperative, you may enjoy more freedom. I do not wish you ill, Rhaenyra. This compromise saves your life. But should you forsake our help, as you have always done, you will find yourself suffering very different consequences than you would have under Viserys."
"Such as?"
"Actual consequences," Cole says with a shit-eating grin.
Otto continues. "But that need not be so, Princess. You have one last chance to salvage your honour. You never felt right about what you were doing, but you didn't have a way out. You were afraid if you outed your elder three as bastards we would have you all killed, and your father refused to see it, regardless. And then Daemon… who insisted you marry him so soon after the death of your husband. You were so grateful and unsuspecting."
Rhaenyra looks nervously to Ser Harrold, who still stands perpendicular to them all. Otto's next words may confirm her suspicions. "But then the King died. Daemon grew too bold, and you started raising questions — so he started raising hands."
There it is.
"You escaped and came to us for help. You discovered the evidence of his crimes. And now you only wish to live your life in peace after being used as Daemon's proxy for power."
"Ser Harrold, leave us," she commands.
He hesitates.
"They need me. What are they going to do, hurt my feelings? Go get some rest."
Ser Harrold nods, and reluctantly follows her order.
"Clever girl," Otto allows. "Mayhaps you are wise enough to choose the correct path before you." He nods to Cole, who at least removes his gauntlet.
Her white knight doesn't waste a moment. Such is her fatigue that she doesn't register the strike until his hand has returned to his side. And she can tell, he'd rehearsed that a thousand times in his head over 15 years.
Closed fist? Really?
She had never truly been struck before, she realizes. Criston is certainly determined claim all my firsts that were attributed to Daemon. She laughs maniacally. Because it's funny, and because she knows it's the last reaction he wants. His face twists with rage, and she's satisfied to see that her laugh likely hurt him far more than his strike did her. And she laughs even more at the idea that he thought he could hurt someone who just survived a stillbirth mere hours ago.
"She's lost her mind," Otto remarks.
Cole's hand curls back into a fist. "No, she's always been a mad cunt." He leans forward.
"No!" Otto orders. "One strike, one bruise. That is adequate."
Cole relaxes his fist, only to grab her arm. He forces her to her feet with a painful twist.
"Ow," she says instinctively. Because the rule for pets that take things too far is to let them know it hurts — but his grip is not the accidental kind she knows to watch for; he means her harm.
All the same, best to give him the reaction he seeks before he escalates. I suspect I will not be able to put him in time-out for him to cool down.
She lets her arm fall as limp as she's able, yet he maintains his grip.
Otto steps closer to stare her down. "Let me be clear. You live because my daughter has a mother's mercy. If you make this any more difficult, we will revisit our plan to crown Aegon. You, Syrax, and Meleys will die first —and your family will follow. We have yet to send the ravens, after all."
"Something tells me Aemond will disagree with you killing his key to the throne."
"Likely, but that is only of concern for today. Tonight you will wed, and tomorrow he ascends in your stead. We may not be able to reverse course afterwards, but that only worsens the consequences of spurning our mercy."
"Your mercy?" she cannot help but laugh. Cole twists her arm even further and she winces. The shock from the impact is wearing off and her head pulses.
Otto actually grabs her face to turn to him. "You might soon call yourself a Queen, but you have woman's parts, a woman's faint heart, and a mother's fears. If your family makes this harder than it needs to be, we will be forced to neutralize them and House Velaryon. They will have no exile to claim. You will be confined to the black cells and your stepdaughters will join you there."
She wiggles out of his grasp, and he lets her. "And tell me… what happens when the realm demands the proof behind your accusations? I am no Alicent. I know you could not possibly have true evidence, nor will you find any."
"You poor girl… so entranced by your depraved uncle, you cannot even see the truth that lies before you."
"Indeed I can. Daemon did not kill Laenor."
It is Otto's turn to scoff.
Let them ponder this: "I know Daemon did not kill Laenor, because I did. And you'll never be able to prove it."
Criston's grip slackens in surprise and she can tell they believe her; not because she was truly convincing, but because they truly thought her capable of any sort of depravity.
She continues. "Even Daemon is not certain it was me. But I had to do something, didn't I? I needed trueborn heirs and protection, and Daemon was determined to leave the continent. I needed to give him a reason to stay."
"Why?" Cole sneers.
"I'll be honest, I was ready to let him go. But then I saw him loading his daughters onto Caraxes. He had child seats for them; he buckled them in like he knew what he was doing. You cannot understand what that does to a woman." She should probably stop, but Criston's cross between outrage and frustration he so wants to present as disgust… it is too good. He is out of allotted strikes, but Rhaenyra has plenty of her own left — and little of her mind.
How long does post-injury euphoria last, I wonder?
"And did you see him wielding the parenting finger at the boys after supper? Had I not already been carrying my daughter whom you've just murdered, I would have conceived right then and there." Even the Daemon on her shoulder winces at that line, but Rhaenyra is so far gone she's determined to put him to shame.
She hesitates a moment, then decides Harwin would think it funny enough. "And gods was it worth it; that man knows how to satisfy a woman like I have never been satisfied before," she pointedly looks to Criston.
What am I doing?
"Enough!" Otto orders. "You are to act the courtly queen this evening — in silence. We still hold the dragonpit."
Not great.
"So here is your choice. We will hold the wedding here tonight and have Aemond's coronation in the dragonpit on the morrow. If you cooperate, we will leave you here for the coronation. But should you make a spectacle, you will accompany us. And after the ceremony, Vhagar will slay Syrax, and possibly you, depending on how far you push me."
He studies her reaction, the reaction she refuses to give. "Do you believe me?"
She gives him a cold smile. "There are few cruelties I would regard as beyond you, My Lord."
He answers with no words, but his intent is clear: You are correct. But also, fuck you. That is Rhaenyra's interpretation, at least.
"Come, Ser Criston. Let us leave the Princess to rest." Cole reluctantly releases her arm and follows him from the room.
Only when she's alone does she fall back into the chair. She can hide behind masks of Rhaenys and Daemon no longer. She can move no longer. Yet she cannot be still. If she goes still she might not move again.
She shakes. She rocks. She shivers. She does anything but dare move, or think, or stay still. She remains that way for she knows not how long — hours, likely. She watches the light through the windows fade and refuses to think about what it means for them to fall dark.
Before her second midday visitors, Rhaenyra's top half had at least been pain-free. Now, every inch of her body aches in a myriad of ways. The staircase whilst carrying, the stillbirth, the blow to her head, her arm that was now turning red, to purple, to black. She imagines her face matches her arm, yet she dare not rise to check. But she still cannot rest, lest another visitor attempt to rouse Rhaenys.
She is alone in her suite, yet it is still far too loud. The murmurs from the castle, the bird calls from outside, even the faint scratching coming from within the wall is insufferable.
The scratching from the wall?
She forces herself to rise again; each time takes longer than the last. She waits for the noise to start again.
Scrich scrich scrich. Tiny rapid scratches like a rat's. The origin does not strike her as unusual; rats are known the frequent Maegor's tunnels. That is why the rat-catchers know them so well — that was how Daemon then came to know them so well.
Scrich scrich scrich.
But rats do not limit their scratches to groups of three. She approaches the panel.
Three more scratches.
She hesitates a moment. Then taps the panel three times with her fingernails.
"Enter," a voice whispers from the other side. She jumps back. But she's running out of time, so she takes a chance.
She taps again.
"Enter," the voice repeats. It is an uncommon response in this region. To her knowledge, only her own family used the word as an invitation.
But she cannot risk giving up her emergency exit to a Green. She tries to think, which is growing more and more difficult as her ears ring louder. I have to try something though.
"Come," she says. She had removed the furniture in front of the panel to investigate the noise, they should be able to enter on their own accord.
But no one does.
"Enter," she speaks clearly.
The panel opens, and a man of slight build steps through.
Rhaenyra stumbles back. "Seven Hells!"
"Good evening, Princess," the man says with an unmistakable Fleabottom accent. He gives her second look, presumably to study the bruise that likely covers her cheek. "My, I do not envy the poor bastard who gave that to you."
"Who are you?"
"A rat-catcher by trade, a messenger by opportunity. Afraid I mustn't stay long; you took awhile to find. Now the night grows dark, and the Keep grows busy. But I'm glad I found you — your son took quite the risk to bring this so close to the city." He hands her a scroll.
The scroll has no wax seal, only a leather binding. There is small, messy writing on the outside as well.
What D says! — LWait no not the last part I didn't read the whole message first!
Not the last part!
But don't worry I'm quicker than J I stopped reading after the first line I promise!
I don't even understand that type of talk in High Valyrian very well because I never looked in those books except for one time by accident!
And that was only the outside. She smiles her first sincere smile of the day — she does not even care that it hurts — and eagerly unrolls the parchment. True to his word, the message is in High Valyrian.
My Love, My men will be able to free Syrax and Meleys at nightfall following the pretender's coronation. Once their release is secured my messenger will escort you through the tunnels to meet them. Where you go and who you meet are yet to be determined by tomorrow's events, but I promise you that we will free you and the dragons by that next morning. You'll be happy to know Luke and Jace fared admirably opposite the Greens, and Jace waited for them to depart before fainting like a little girl. Baela and X made it safely back to us, and the Sea Snake's fever has broken. I tolerate X and Lord Beesbury in your honour. I promise we will all be reunited soon. I promise they will die in agony for this. Play your part until then. Wear our marriage ring inside your stays whilst you speak your vows; it will make a charming tale for the smallfolk, alongside how I presented you with Otto Hightower's head, stuffed with his grandson's useless cock. I will decorate your throne first with the tongues, then the cocks, then the hands, and finally the heads of every Green traitor, and then I will show you what a truly skilled tongue and hand (we'll wait on the cock part, obviously ) can do. Their screams will last for a fortnight, but it will be your screams that keep the city awake. — Your One True Husband"So sweet when he writes me poetry," she says now that her good humour has returned.
The rat-catcher presents her with her wedding ring. "I'm to give this to you as well, Princess."
"Thank you." She hides it between the layers of her stays.
"The message you must now destroy, lest one of us is found. Now, you have a wedding to get to, and I must leave before they find me here. Someone will come when all is ready."
"Wait," she says before he can leave. She looks him up and down to confirm he's the right size. "I need your help here. For when they come get me."
"What can I do for you, Princess?"
"You can take a nap."