RHAENA
For the first time in days, the dining hall is near empty.
Rhaenyra's bed intentionally pointed towards the window, the ocean, and the rising sun. She'd chosen her quarters to enable her habit of rising early to ride Syrax before her day starts. It was near impossible for someone other than Baela or her father — who were obviously sunset riders rather than sunrise riders — to sleep far past dawn in that room. Regardless, Rhaena was an early riser, and often she, Rhaenyra, Luke and Jace would have broken their fast and started their day before the two dragons would be dragged from their lairs. So when one of the maids came by with her clothes after noticing she had spent the night, Rhaena was already well awake.
It is for these reasons that Rhaena is confident she will not encounter her father in the dining hall. Knowing him, he saw the sun rise and decided it was time for bed again.
But she is surprised to encounter nearly no one else either. So few, that the servants had yet to put out the spread. The few early risers ate from individual plates delivered from the kitchens. Now that plans have been settled, others failed, messages sent, all there was to do for the day is wait. It seems many had decided to catch up on their sleep debt.
The Master-of-Coin, however, abhors debt of any kind. So it is Lord Beesbury she sees in the nearly empty hall. She cannot bear to eat alone in her family's personal dining room, so she opts to join him.
He smiles and nods for her to sit. "Good morrow, My Lady. Or should I say, Princess?" He speaks in that slightly indulgent way adults often speak to children, but Rhaena does not mind. Too many people spoke to her as a woman grown these past few days.
She takes her seat and flags a servant. "It is still Lady. Luke might be a Prince, but his seat is of a Lord's station, not a royal one. Only Jace's title may transfer to his consort," she says, comfortable with lecturing about protocols. A server places a plate before her, and she makes a note to have the contents of High Tide's food stores shipped over. They would be wise to transfer as many resources off Driftmark as possible; as it stands now, it is likely their most vulnerable and tempting target for dragonfire. Mayhaps if the Greens found it barren, they would see little need to burn it.
Accustomed to idle conversation at meals, she muses as much to her companion.
"You certainly have a talent for logistics, My Lady."
"Not so. I simply spent a good deal of time as Rhaenyra's assistant once Baela left for Driftmark. She felt I would benefit from a similar education." She leaves out the part where Grandmother insisted on Baela over Rhaena in hopes of putting an end to her escapades. Naturally, they only escalated.
"That might be part of it, but don't think I haven't noticed what you've been doing. It is my job to notice these matters, after all. You brought this castle into order when everyone was running around, not knowing where to go, what to do, or even where anyone was. And you got us some peace and quiet from that restless dragon. And the ravens! You have good ideas, if a little frightening at times. And I need your help with a similar conundrum."
"Oh?" she perks up, eager for a challenge.
"I've been trying to write to my grandson for nearly two days now, and it is not an easy task to fit so much onto one raven's scroll. Even worse, the more I delay, the more that happens, and the more I have to fit on the scroll! I do need to write something more detailed and personal than our generic announcement, to assure them of my well-being."
"You mean, that you aren't being coerced or impersonated and haven't been secretly tossed in a dungeon or executed by one of the factions?"
"Precisely. Even more complicated, is that Dragonstone has no direct raven for Honeyholt. Normally I would send it via Oldtown," they both exchange a look and nod, "but Highgarden will suffice. But it still means —"
"That it is likely your message will be read by outsiders. Outsiders who may wish to misuse the information, or refuse to pass it on."
"Indeed, My Lady. So tell me, how would you go about informing my seat of my status, and dragon escapades," he says, with a glint in his eyes.
She ponders over several bites. "You have a daughter who lives in the Riverlands, do you not?"
"I do," he says, surprised.
She nods and takes one more bite whilst she finalizes her proposal. "Send a brief message to Honeyholt via raven. Then you should send a long, long, long letter to your daughter via rider, mayhaps dragonrider if we find the time, so you know that it's secure. If your grandson receives a raven from her as well as you, that should be enough to assuage his fears and ensure his support. The details will make their way to him eventually, I would assume."
He takes a moment to consider. "That is what I shall do."
They turn their attention back to their meals and eat in silence for some time. Until Lord Beesbury puts down his utensils. "My Lady, if I may."
"Yes?"
"I was not always Master-of-Coin, you see. Although to someone as young as you it might seem so. And I was never meant to inherit my seat. But then the Stinger…"
The Stinger. Mayhaps Jace's caution the other night had been warranted.
He sees that she understands, and continues. "I thought I would spend my whole life maintaining the finances of my house. Suddenly I was the heir. I have been a pupil, a beekeeper, a bookkeeper, a lord, a council member, a fool as I've discovered, and now at what I thought would be the end of my adventures — a dragon-riding rebel who insults one King and poisons the other?"
Rhaena smiles.
"My point is, life is long, even for bees. Most bees take on many roles throughout their life, and all are vital. In one lifetime, the same bee will often be a cleaner, a childrearer, an organizer, and even a forager. Few bees begin as foragers. Most wait until the end of their lives; it is their very last, and most dangerous job." He raises a finger. "That does not mean it is the only important job. But just because an organizer bee decides to enjoy their life in the hive and accept that their job is valuable too, that does not mean that bee is giving up on ever being a forager. Few among us in this world, be they bee or human, have the same role forever. We change, we evolve, we grow up — aside from your father, that is."
She does not try to help it, she laughs.
"Do you understand what I am trying to say, My Lady?"
Before she can answer, or thank him, a sarcastic slow-clap approaches. They both turn to its origin.
Rhaena steps in before Lord Beesbury can die of fright. "You're actually awake?" She inclines her head to the barely risen sun through the window.
"Of course, matters to attend to. We are at war in case you've forgotten." Her father crosses his arms and glares down at her, ignoring the poor bookkeeper trying to disappear into his seat. "Where were you? You never went back to your room."
"You actually know where my room is?"
He gives her a withering look that she thrives on. "Where's my sword?"
"I'll give you one guess."
He sighs. "Seven Hells, Baela," he says more to himself than to them. "Has me pitying my father sometimes." Then he remembers he was talking to someone. "Get up, both of you. Gerardys has called a meeting."
She rises. "Very well. Let me just see to the children first."
"Drop the martyr act. They're fine."
"Do you even know where they are?"
"Of course. They are my children after all."
"Alright, where are they? All three of them?"
To her father's credit, he does not refer to notes on his hand. The man has seven children after all. No, that many children requires his whole forearm. He lifts his sleeve and points. "The nursery," he says proudly. "All three of them. Then they break fast with the children of guests, then Aegon and Joffrey have a reading lesson, while Viserys does whatever toddlers do."
She eyes the chart more closely. There are seven columns, each with an initial. Because two of them start with a J, he's marked the J's with the Valyrian shorthand for "good" and "bad." "Good J" has actual words and details, with many branches connecting to A and V, while "Bad J" simply has a drawing of a sheep on fire, then a line continuing to a drawing of a dog — or a wolf. The B and L combine lines at Storm's End, followed by a drawing of a ship with a question mark, leading to the words: THE gift, with a drawing of a sun crossed out.
That had better not mean… Oh no.
The R just has a question mark. Of course.
"My word," she cannot help but say. "That looks exactly like the chart Rhaenyra would draw. Except, you know, she would have eight columns."
"Ha ha, very funny. Quickly now, he was annoyingly insistent about it." He turns without waiting to see if they follow.
Her grandparents have already arrived when they catch up. Her father is answering some question about the whereabouts of one of the younger children like he's won some victory.
"Congratulations," her grandmother says. "It only took fifteen years and losing both your wives, but you've finally achieved the bare minimum for parenthood."
Her father makes no reaction, he simply takes a drink and reclines in his chair even further. "Well cousin, if knowing where your children are is the bare minimum, at least one of us has achieved it."
"Excuse me?" her Grandsire challenges.
"You wouldn't understand, but that was very funny."
It was moderately funny. But Rhaena is worried about something else her father thinks is funny. She scans the room suspiciously, and then she spots it on an end table by the fireplace behind her father.
That fucking o—
No.
That oil. Seven Hells. The worst part is, there was just as much a chance it was Baela's idea.
They do realize it will embarrass me just as much, right?
Stupid question: Baela didn't think, Father didn't care. She continues past her grandparents to her father's end of the table, and begins plotting how to knock it into the fireplace before Luke returns.
It takes some time to rouse the rest of the council. Maester Gerardys enters only once they begin. And the look on his face tells her, he didn't wait because he was busy, he waited to arrive because he didn't want to sit here with the news. He holds a raven scroll in his hands, and whatever message it might bear, she suspects it will stick in his mouth for quite some time before he spits it out. Clearly, others suspect this as well, as he soon has everyone's undivided attention. Even her father gives up his laconic posture to straighten in his chair.
He gestures for him to hand him the scroll and put him out of his misery, but Gerardys wishes for that neither. Which means he does not trust her father not to explode.
That doesn't really narrow it down.
He does manage to unstick his mouth at least. "The Septon from Storm's End wrote this late last night, it only now arrived. He was… disturbed by accounts he overheard."
Everyone tenses when they hear Storm's End. She is glad her father does not have his sword. She does subtly move his cup away from him though.
Gerardys continues. "He felt that his lord did not honour the… rights of an envoy supported by the Faith. He wrote to report as much, and sent another raven to Oldtown."
"Oldtown," her father scoffs. And then he remembers himself. More importantly, he remembers his forearm. He does not need to consult it though. His voice goes cold. "What happened."
"We do not know yet. Let me make that clear. We know nothing for certain."
"Enough stalling!" her Grandsire snaps. "What happened?"
Poor Gerardys. He doesn't want to say it, but he doesn't want anyone else to have to work it out, either. "La— Princess Baela and Prince Lucerys were not the only envoys last night."
"This isn't some campfire story," her grandmother warns. "No need to build it up."
"I do not think he's building it up," her father mumbles. She catches his meaning.
He's easing us into it.
She cannot help it, she starts shaking ever so slightly.
"Last night." Her father confirms. Like he's remembering something. "Just after midnight?"
"How did you —"
"Who was the other envoy?" he asks so urgently, like he knows but dreads the answer. She looks to see she need not have moved his cup, instead his nails dig into the Painted Table. When the answer does not come immediately he slams his fist. "Gerardys!"
"Aemond." Something heavy drops within Rhaena, within everyone in the chamber. Except for her father. He simply nods in confirmation.
"You're at the worst part, spit it out now," says her grandmother.
But he's still reticent. "Apparently there was some type of confrontation in the Main Hall. Much of it took place in High Valyrian and it was second hand so he cannot atte—
It is Grandsire's turn to slam his fist. "Get on with it."
He does. "Aemond apparently attempted to abduct La— the princess, all three of them ended up drawing their swords, Aemond backed down once the princess drew Dark Sister."
Ser Steffon lets out an audible sigh.
"And Lord Borros allowed this to happen?" her grandmother demands.
"No one wanted to intervene. Aemond had Vhagar directly outside the Hall. He did ask for assistance in apprehending the princess, but she declared that if anyone touched her, her father would burn the castle to the ground."
"That is accurate," her father says. "So, everyone froze and stood there like useless stormlanders?"
Gerardys nods.
"Then they are still not safe from her promise," he says more to himself. Then he fixes his attention back on Gerardys. "Who did he declare for?"
His nonanswer is an answer.
Her grandsire asks the question no one else wanted to ask. "Where are they?"
"Aemond convinced Lord Borros to eject the Prince and Princess from the castle. He pursued them… According to witnesses, he actually took to the skies first."
She's still angry, she's still so angry. But she cannot help it. She grabs her father's hand, the one that claws at the table.
No one even prompts him anymore. "Some of the guards were in possession of Myrish glass. They don't know what happened yet. Or maybe they do now, but we don't. We only know…"
"Gerardys!" several nobles yell.
"There was fire within the clouds. Dragons screaming. The Septon did get a glimpse of Vhagar, they didn't really make it far. He had a Myrish glass as well. He wrote that Vhagar was acting erratically, like she was being swarmed by bees. Then the dragons flew too high to be visible. Vhagar has a low pitch, but the other two dragons he said had… distinct voices that could be heard over quite the distance."
Rhaena digs her nails into her father's hand the way Baela used to do. He winces and stops his own table clawing, but otherwise does not object.
"One… once the dragons were out of sight there was a scream. A dragon's scream that was cut off. And then another dragon crying. And…."
Rhaena draws blood. He still does not stop her.
"There were pieces. Large. They fell from the clouds. Even in the storm they could see them."
Her father prompts him. "Pieces of?" He rocks ever so slightly in his seat.
"A dragon."
Her grandmother allows for one sob before covering her mouth.
"Which one?" her father, as usual, asks the question no one wanted to ask, yet everyone wanted the answer to. Yet also didn't.
No answer.
He explodes from his seat and Rhaena loses his hand. "Which. One?" But then even he seems to grasp the conundrum.
But there's an even worse possibility, one Gerardys feels responsible to remind them of. "It is also possible… that the fight did not end there," is all he can say, all he can hint. He cannot say it outright, that both could be dead.
"No." Her father declares. "No. One of them mourns. One of them lives to mourn."
"What do you mean?" her grandmother asks.
He turns to her. "Did you not feel it? No, of course you didn't, you don't care." He starts pacing. "One of them called. Called Caraxes. Called Tyraxes and Stormcloud. The boys woke up last night. Someone called them. For a long time. That someone still lives."
And there it is again, that dilemma that is better than the alternative, yet no one wants to face.
Who do I pray for? My husband, or my sister?
Her father turns on the Sea Snake. "Why did you send them both?" he yells. "Baela would never have gone in with Aemond there, she's too smart. She's smart. She's smart," he assures himself. And then he, along with everyone else, realizes what he's reassuring himself of. He stops pacing.
No one challenges him. Because even though no one else was open about it, everyone is in the same conundrum: everyone has one they want to return more than the other. Some of the lords despise Baela, calling her their father's daughter. Others would be more comfortable with one of the girls as heir to Driftmark. No one says anything, but she can guess the room would be nearly split: the bastard, or the girl? The good boy, or the troublesome girl? Corlys's heir? Or the heir the Hightowers name?
They all stew in silent acknowledgment for some time. It is of course her father who breaks that silence. "I'm going."
"You cannot!" Rhaena says. "For all you know it's a trap. You're still weak," he glares at her for that comment, "and you have no idea where they could be. You are the cause Father. You ride the only dragon that might counter Vhagar. You cannot die."
He shakes his head.
"Daemon," her grandmother adds. "If… one of them is dead, one of them is dead. Leaving will not change that. But it will mean that you might not be here when we receive the news."
He is still unconvinced, but she can see he's worried he'll be convinced. He starts to leave before that can happen.
Rhaena springs up. "You have no idea where they could be! What if one of them is alive, and Vhagar is still chasing them? What if they come home, thinking you'll be here to protect them?" She has him, she knows she has him. Because her father has to do everything for himself.
He returns to his seat.
They sit there like that in silence, the whole council, as the sun rises. Word must spread throughout the castle, as the whispers from the Hall sound more urgent than they ever have. Rhaena tries to tell herself she does not hear the tone of debate.
Her father stiffens and looks up the way Caraxes does when he catches a scent. "Shh!" is all he says when she inquires. She does. Because the dragons are screaming. Greeting.
Her father stands. Her grandsire stands. Half the room stands. Rhaena cannot move.
The now-familiar hum of the castle dies; silence rolls towards them in a wave. It comes fast. Too fast for someone coming from the main entrance.
The Hall outside goes quiet. Even the guards do not announce her. They simply make way. And when Rhaena sees her, she understands. She would not want to intercept her either.
Baela wanders in. Wanders. There's no sense of direction in her movements, in her eyes. There is no sense of anything.
Mayhaps the men speak true, and her father and the Sea Snake are indeed cut from the same cloth. They both react first, and they both react in the same way. Both collapse and let one single sob escape before they catch themselves on the table. Both let their dominant emotion break through, both then look guilty and trade it for the opposite emotion, and then both stand there like imbeciles when they cannot decide what they are supposed to feel. Then, finally, they both give up and settle for their first, deepest reaction.
Her grandsire is devastated, and Rhaena hates him for it.
Her father is relieved, and Rhaena hates him for it.
Most of the council mirror their reactions, in a muted, less personal way. She would say the room was near equally divided.
Her grandmother sobs and rushes to Baela in relief, and Rhaena hates her for it.
But the worst reaction, the worst one by far, is her own. Because try as she might not to share in that dilemma, when her sister walks in, the first feeling Rhaena has is that of relief.
And she hates herself for it.
Baela does not react to their grandmother, and seeing just how injured she is, their grandmother stops trying to touch her. She clutches the book from Rhaenyra's bed to her chest — Rhaena realizes she came in that way. Her clothing is burned and ripped and covered in ash, as is her hair. Her bare hands are a bloody mess, and the way she holds them seems off. Her face is covered in cuts and bruises, the most noticeable being a large black bruise in the centre of her forehead.
Her eyes are so vacant. She limps, but she floats. Rhaena does not think Baela can feel her body as of yet. "What's happening?" she asks to no one in particular, with no sense of urgency.
"We heard about Storm's End," is all their grandmother can say.
"Oh, sorry. I didn't think he would write, the craven. I thought I could take my time. Moondancer is tired."
"It wasn't Lord Borros," Lord Bartimos informs her. "It was the septon."
"Oh… so we didn't need to eat him then. That would have been easier. But that's later."
She turns to their father, who has said not a word and still grips the table for support. "We need to alert the publishers; they need to print a correction. Oh," she looks around like she's considering something. "Never mind, we killed them."
"What?" her father says, not even sharpening his "t" to indicate he is above questions.
"Us. Or, our kind. Fourteen of you and me, Father. We, they, killed the publishers before they could print the correction. Now it's up to us. We cannot have people jumping without knowing how hard it is to fight. But also, you can live. You can live. You just cannot kill. I think. I do not know. I already found too much out... Oh, right, your sword."
She walks away from their grandparents, further into the chamber. She removes Dark Sister and its sheath and places it upon the table before them. "It might need some care. I think some of Aemond's blood is still on it. And the hilt took the impact from the jump."
"What?" exclaims more than several people.
"Worry not, he is alive. Or, worry for that reason I suppose."
It is only then that Rhaena notices she has another sword. She takes that one off too and looks around. "Where is Jace? Is he back yet? I hope he likes this. It cost a lot." Rhaena studies it closer. It must be Blackfyre. There's no other Valyrian steel sword with that design that she knows of. But…
"Baela how did you get that?" their grandmother asks.
"Aemond," she says like it's obvious and anyone who asks is stupid for asking. And then she turns to Rhaena. "I'm sorry Rhaena. I wanted to kill him for you. But he said they'd kill Rhaenyra if he died, and I wanted to live. I couldn't get off if I killed him. Besides, you don't want Vhagar, she's an overrated mount in terms of passenger safety. You can do better. An egg, mayhaps."
Confused glances are shared all about the room. One message rises above the rest: What the fuck?
Rhaena still does not know what Baela is talking about. But their father does. He must recognize some clue in her speech, then looks again at the book she had placed on the table, and for just a moment, his face transforms. Above all the emotions rises that so-familiar one, that look that Father has so often bestowed upon Baela throughout her life, but more so than he ever had before. The look he had not once ever spared for Rhaena.
Pride.
For a moment, their father actually smiles. But in a surprising act of self-awareness, he puts it away before the rest of the council can see. But not before Rhaena sees. More importantly, not before Baela sees. And she apparently does not like what she sees. But then she too puts it away.
She's still swinging the sheathed Blackfyre around as she speaks. "Oh," she says. She unwraps something from the hilt and displays it.
An eyepatch.
"Oh… no." she studies it and pulls some pale hairs that seem caught. "And I thought it was just him who was the hairpuller. Oops." She turns back to Rhaena. "I'm sorry it couldn't be his head, but mayhaps this could be a… a sampler?" she tosses the eyepatch to Rhaena, but she makes no move to take it.
Even their father can see her mind is not right. Or, mayhaps he would know the best. "Baela," he starts cautiously.
"No No. Not you. Not yet. You do not start with the Doom. The fires did not start with the Doom they started small. Worked their way up, I imagine."
She turns back to Grandsire. Or rather, wavers around to Grandsire. She blinks awake. "Why did you send him?"
He can barely choke out a response. "What?"
"Why. Did. You. Send. Him? What was he going to do that I would not be able to?"
Grandsire is already devastated. He changes his face no further.
Baela is not satisfied. "Why did you send him? I just want to know. I just don't understand. Why did you send him? It was such a long trip Arrax was so tired and I was already there so why did you send him?"
No one answers her.
"Why!"
Sea Snake is beyond answer, so Lord Bartimos stakes over. "Princess, there are matters in this world that you wouldn—"
"I'm sorry," she snaps. "Have you ever fought a mounted dragonrider without a dragon? Have you ever fought anyone outside of a tourney, or a skirmish? What exactly would you understand that I don't? Have you ever fought a storm? It's really hard, but I don't see why it would have been any easier for Luke. I'm a much better climber, always have been."
Satisfied that she silenced him with confusion, she turns back to Grandsire. "Why did you send him? He was just a boy! Did you think a boy would fare better than a volcano? Volcanoes killed more dragons than anything else ever did! Is that it? Did you worry I would erupt? But how could you know that? You do not know me. You've never known me. You left. You left us to her!" she points to their grandmother. "How could you know that I am as he is," she looks ever so briefly to their father, then back away, "whilst neither Aemond nor Luke are not?"
"Baela," Rhaena says.
"Why did you send him to die, Grandsire? Why?"
"Baela!" their grandmother gasps.
"I do not understand. He was so small. I am just as tall as he was."
"Lord Bartimos," she turns back to the poor man, "what was he supposed to do? Tell me! What was he supposed to do!"
No one answers. Even if someone had an answer, Rhaena suspects no one could speak.
But Baela can speak. She puts Blackfyre back around her waist, and picks her book back up from the table, clutching it for stability. "I wanted to wait. I waited. I was waiting like you taught me," she turns to their father. "But you did not teach him. You taught him something different. But I wouldn't have gone in. I wouldn't have. I waited for hours. But he flew straight in. He said 'they know we're here Baela, so we have to go.' And I said no we do not, volcanoes need go nowhere. But he was just a boy, so he went. But I wouldn't. But I had to. To protect him. I tried to protect him. I would have done it, maybe, I don't know. He said they'd kill Rhaenyra if I killed him but I don't know if it's true. He was crying and all. But Luke came back, and..."
She had drifted far away again, she takes a moment to come back. She finds Grandsire once more. "I'm lying. Yes I do. I know why you sent him. Fuck you."
"I, umm. I should go see to Joffrey," her Grandsire says. "He needs to hear this from family."
"He's with his brothers," her father warns, eyeing the Sea Snake suspiciously. "You certain you want to take that on?"
"Daemon! I am capable of caring for those not of my blood." And then he runs. He runs from the room.
"It is true," Baela agrees once he is gone. "He is no Grandmother."
"Baela, that's enough," their grandmother snaps. Rhaena does not like her tone, but she has to admit their grandsire looked on the verge of a heart attack.
"Oh, not you. You didn't love him. You didn't even like him! You're probably even glad he's dead! Rhaena is both widow and a claimant, you can probably justify passing over Joffrey in Luke's honour! Isn't that what you've always wanted?"
"Baela!" she gasps.
"You didn't even like him! He needed you. At least Grandsire actually wasn't there when he needed you. You pretended you weren't when he did."
"What?"
"We sent him to you, so Crazy Queen wouldn't try to kill him. You pretended you weren't there, so he burned. He burned because of you. For me, he did it for me. But he did it because of you. Because you didn't love him. Grandsire did, but…. I suppose, did he love him for ambition? Grandmother, if you cannot love those not of your blood, does that mean you only love for your blood? Can either of you even feel love? Or is it just… greed?"
Fuck, Baela. Rhaena looks around to see if the blood comment registered, but who is she fooling? Everyone knows.
"I'm sorry grandmother, I got it wrong, I always get it wrong. This is all my fault."
Despite the insults, their grandmother tries to calm herself. "My dear, it is not. It is Aemond's fault."
"No, it is mine. This could have been over mayhaps. I should have left."
"Storm's End?"
"King's Landing. I should have left after I saved Ser Erryk."
Half the council winces at that blow. Rhaena is among them. Their grandmother is among them. Her father just stands there like stone, studying Baela, who still rambles. "If I had left, you would not be here. You would not be here to put yourself before Rhaenyra. Mayhaps we would have rescued you! Mayhaps no. I don't know."
No one speaks. No one wants to draw attention to themselves.
"Oh." Baela blinks. She reaches into her pocket and staggers towards their father. "This is for you." She drops the tiny note from Rhaenyra's ring onto the table.
Why would she do that? We agreed!
She wanders away, all the way out of the room. Despite the fact that she'd just exploded on her, Grandmother follows her, crying her name.
Rhaena snatches the note before their father can reach it. Her father grabs her hand. "Rhaena."
"It is nothing worth reading," she says.
"Then why did you dive for it?" It is hard to argue whilst she's still stretched over the table. Her father does not pry it from her hand, but he does not let go either.
"Are you familiar with the saying, 'do not indulge those who make sport in provoking people?'"
"Rhaena," he says in the father voice. He slowly slides her hand off. Once the note is clear of her hand, she locks it with her other hand to hold up her chin. She grits her teeth as he reads.
Mayhaps his eyes are so old, he cannot — Nope.
Her father makes the look of someone who stubs their toe and is trying not to react. Her father had never been very good at not reacting.
He looks back up at Rhaena.
"He wants a reaction, Father. Do not give him one."
The petulance returns. "I'm not reacting. You're the one reacting."
He lets his hands drop it back down to the table. Silence takes the room yet again.
"Should I…" Ser Steffon starts, "get the septon?"
"No," her father decides. "We do this the Valyrian way."
Lord Bartimos is no longer afraid to speak. "We don't… we have not enough information in regard to the remains." For once Rhaena appreciates his bluntness.
"A sarcophaghus, mayhaps?" Ser Erryk suggests. "One from Driftmark? We could do a sea… burial."
"No." Her father says once more. "He was a Targaryen. We will have a pyre." But then something seems to occur to him. "Wait." He turns to Rhaena. "Rhaena, what do you want to do?"
She is surprised for a sole moment, then she remembers that she is technically the widow.
I am a widow of five-and-ten, she allows herself to think for only a moment. Only one moment. Because Rhaena was not the one who spent all that time with Luke, who went on egg adventures with Luke, who stayed up late reading Valyrian horror with Luke. She was not the one who watched Luke die. She has to be the one to hold it together now.
"That sounds… agreeable." She cannot exactly say 'good,' can she?
"And what do we…" Ser Steffon trails off uncomfortably.
Maester Gerardys help. "An effigy is often used in the absence of remains. Any material that is flammable will do. In the general form of a person."
She already knows what to do. "Very well, I will take care of it."
"My Lady," Lord Bartimos grates again. "That is not necessary. Let us—"
"No. I will handle it." She remembers after yet again forgetting that the Celtigars are Valyrian. Oops. She turns back to Lord Bartimos. "Could you consult the priests, and handle the rest? A sunset ceremony will suffice."
"I will see it done, My Lady."
"Should we send some kind of announcement?" a noble asks. "A condemnation of their actions?"
"Most of our ravens are out," her father reminds him. "Dragonstone is hardly a continental centre for communication."
Ser Lorent finally edges towards the paper her father had forgotten on the table, then picks it up. "Ooof."
"What does it say?" asks Ser Steffon.
"Nothing," Ser Lorent answers, and leads him from the room. Apparently not learning from their reaction, others start to read the message. There are a few gasps and winces.
Not everyone can be a Luke, I suppose.
"For fucks sake!" her father snaps. "It's not that scandalous, and it's fucked up that they're making it fucked up. Let it go. Trust me, Rhaenyra is perfectly capable of making herself comfortable in chains."
I hate that I know that.
Still, she tries to help. "I believe the issue is that chains are an undeniable symbol of captivity and bringing them into a situation makes it impossible to disguise the power dynamics and lack of consent, especially in a situation regarding a 'trophy queen,' it be—
"No one cares Rhaena!" And then her father storms out of the room.
At least he was the fourth person to do so, and the first three did not even do so because of him!
"Can we use this as evidence?" asks some imbecile.
"How?" Lord Bartimos demands. "For what? To whom? What do you think is happening?"
Simply from seeing the state of her hands, never mind the state of her mind, Rhaena knows Baela will have no luck taking care of herself, should she even be inclined to do so. Due to her time on High Tide Baela has no regular maids here anymore. Suspecting she has her work cut out for her, Rhaena summons all of Rhaenyra's maids available at the moment, as well as her own.
Also, they're going to have to cut her hair, she's guessing.
Baela is not to be found in her room, but she is not difficult to find. A small crowd had gathered outside Rhaenyra's room, which Baela had apparently made her lair. Screaming comes from within, as well as crying. But it is not Baela doing the crying. One by one, everyone who enters in attempt to care for or comfort her emerges in tears.
One of those poor souls is their grandmother.
"Did you at least get her bandaged?" Rhaena asks.
She nods. "She's clean. But I think… I think she's injured. Severely. But she scared the Maester when we called him."
Like father like daughter. Looks like someone else is in need of some special Honeyholt honey.
"Absolutely not," Lord Beesbury declares when she petitions him. "There is a difference between addling a dragon king gone mad and a young girl in pain. And addling her so close to the event could also distort her memories. I am an old man, and apparently not very clever, but if learning I'm not very clever has taught me anything else, it's that the Hightowers are liars. We need a detailed, analytical account now, before she sleeps. It might even do her good." He picks up a fresh ledger from his office shelves.
"Aren't those for numbers?" Rhaena asks.
"They're for all kinds of information. And it will be much easier to sort and order the smaller events later if they are properly labelled now." He makes his way towards Baela's lair, which is easy to find, because the screaming continues as more people try to reason with her. Fortunately for everyone, her father is not among them. Baela already turned into a dragon on a monthly basis, and their father had learned the hard way not to disturb dragon Baela in her lair. She'd thought the whole castle had learned, but then she sees it's mostly visitors at the door.
"Are you certain you want to try your luck in the dragon's lair? No one else has faired well."
"That is no dragon," he says. "At least not right now. What we have here is a hurt, angry, adolescent girl. Far more terrifying, if you are properly versed in the subject." He knocks and waits for an answer. "That's the problem, everyone is likely going in expecting dragonfire. They're going in protecting their skin. But girls in this state… they go for the heart."
"Go away!" shrieks the dragon the old man insists is not a dragon.
"Baela!" Rhaena shouts. "Let me in before I send Joffrey flying in through the window!"
Baela does actually let them in through the door she'd just barred. Rhaena looks to the crowd as they enter. "Go make yourselves useful, would you?"
Baela leads them to the seating area, still clutching her book. "What's he doing here?"
"Data collection," Rhaena says. She appraises Baela once more. With the ash gone, she can see just how far the cuts and bruises extend. Her hands are completely bandaged, and something was still not right about them. Something is wrong about the way she holds herself as well, like she's trying to avoid using parts of her body. Honestly, she looks like Father after that time he took a fall down the dragonmont, and insisted he was fine.
Her hair is burned. It had been washed, but the ends are still charred. Fortunately, her skin does not seen too badly burned. Nowhere near the state of L—
She pushes the memory back. She cannot right now. She's the one Targaryen left who's still in their right mind. Aside from Lord Bartimos, she's possibly the one Valyrian left in the castle in her right mind.
Fortunately, there's also an Andal still in his right mind. "Now Princess, I know this is hard to talk about, but we need to get a sense of what happened while it's still fresh."
"I told you what happened."
"Baela…" Rhaena says. "No one understands. It all sounds very chaotic." Some people came out swearing she said she punched a storm.
"Which the Hightowers will no doubt take advantage of," Lord Beesbury warns. "We need our account to be the account. Additionally, there were witnesses on the ground. We need to determine the veracity of those witness statements. We don't want the Greens spinning this to their advantage, do we?"
Baela shakes her head. "I… I don't know. You wouldn't understand."
"I don't need to. I just need the cold, hard, boring facts. We need not discuss it any more than that. After, we can put this away," he holds up his ledger, "until we need it. And if you so choose, you never need speak about it again."
"People will still ask."
"Then you send them to me. And that includes that dragon you have for a father."
"And what, you'll scare him away?" Baela scoffs.
"Scare? No, I'll do one better. I'll bore him away. That man might have the temperament of a dragon, but he has the attention span of a honeybee."
Baela laughs.
"We don't want the Greens trying to spin their webs, do we? Because I've sat on their council; they will try to spin this. Not only because what they did was incredibly wrong. But from what I'm able to gather, you made their false king look like the silly, childish, but dangerous pretender that he is. You took his sword, did you not? I'd like to know how you did that."
"Baela, please." She looks to her sister. "For me. And… for Luke. I want to know."
Baela cannot look at her any longer. But she does answer. "Very well. But Rhaena, I don't want you here when we get to L— Not now."
"Alright."
"No feelings," he assures her. "Simply boring facts."
To his credit, he does make it as dry and boring as one could make a dragon battle. Each time Baela becomes overwhelmed, he asks about little details: colours of the floor of the Hall, the shape of the clouds, timing of lightning and thunder, Vhagar's stray movements, what marks she might have left on Aemond and how. He even asks questions about specific spots on Vhagar.
"Oh, I know that horn. My coat was almost caught on it when that pretender threw me off for quipping."
"I thought you said it was for crying?" Baela asks.
"Oh no, I was sobbing the whole time. It was talking back that caused that child to throw me off."
Rhaena laughs. "That would do it."
"Worry not, My Lord," Baela actually volunteers information. "You are far from the only man to cry atop Vhagar. I left him shaking and sobbing like a baby."
Lord Beesbury actually cackles in glee. Then he remembers himself and clears his throat. "Now, what I'm getting so far. Before things turned tragic, is that you were attacked by a King riding the largest, oldest dragon in the world, so you jumped onto his dragon, pummeled him, and took his sword?"
I have no idea how we're going to announce this without it sounding fake.
Baela picks up Blackfyre and hugs it like it's a consolation. "Pretender king. He's a pretender king. And he started it. And I also made him cry. But he didn't have control. He didn't even have control when he attacked me. He truly thought it was a game."
"That… is very useful. We can use that. I've only ridden with two riders, but I definitely got a sense he was a very erratic flyer. I must say, Your father is far more considerate of his passengers."
"That's strange," Baela says. "My parents would usually seat us on Vhagar as children, because she's larger and therefore less turbulent."
"I suppose the rider makes the difference then. I did have a good feeling when your father had to disconnect the child seats before I got on."
Rhaena hates that she knows Rhaenyra would have jumped him had she seen that action in progress. She hates that it was such a common occurrence that the thought even popped into her mind. And she hates that she hates it, because Rhaenyra is lost to them, almost as certainly as Luke is lost to them.
Even if we get her back, this is going to kill Rhaenyra.
"So, when did Aemond lose control?"
"Multiple times, I think." She looks up to Rhaena and stops speaking.
Rhaena takes the hint. "I have some affair to attend to." She stands. "Will you two be alright?"
"It depends," Lord Beesbury says. "Is anyone 'alright' in my company? I must warn you, Princess, this is about to get far more boring. I hope you'll have patience for a slow old man."
Baela nods.
She needs to change into outdoor clothes for her task, so returns to her room for the first time that day. To her surprise, there is a personal guard stationed by her door.
"I thought we decided we were too short on men?"
"His Grace insisted. Likely because of, you know," he inclines his head towards her door. She does not know.
She stops short when she enters. Someone has been in her room. It is too crowded. More cluttered than it was last time she was here. Because the main open space is now occupied.
Five lit braziers of different sizes stand at the centre of her room. She approaches.
What in the Seven Hells?
Carefully, she removes the lid on the largest and closest brazier to examine the contents. Dragon eggs. Three of them. Likely from the same clutch
She replaces the cover and investigates the one next to it. Two dragons eggs.
She opens each one, and finds that fourteen dragon eggs in total have been delivered to her room.
I suppose he's given up on his ridiculous Vhagar plan, now that she's — she cannot allow herself to finish that thought. She gathers what she needs and takes her leave.
"How did he move everything in so fast?" she cannot help but ask the guard.
"What do you mean?"
"These must have come from the dragonmont. He made quick work, is all."
"I wouldn't say that. It took us the last few hours of the night. We really do have a staffing shortage, by the way. Especially at night."
"I'm working on it."
All these years, all I had to do was tell him I hate him? What a waste.
Wordless, far too late, awkwardly excessive, yet still could possibly double as a fuck you. It would be pretty standard as far as her father's apologies go, had he apologized enough in his life for there to even be a standard.
She gathers the silk wrap from the Silent Sisters and heads outside. She could have had the supplies brought to her, but Rhaena does not desire company. Just once today, she wants to be alone. With her own thoughts, her own feelings, no one else's.
She is in luck, and the particular garden she needs is silent. Most of the plants have died or gone dormant in this section. She opts to use the dead and dying plants from outside, rather than burn the healthy ones from the solarium. Something told her they would need to treat many a burn this winter.
Apparently, she is not alone in that sentiment. Because when she turns the final corner to reach the lykāpas perzot, she is no longer alone in the gardens.
Her father is already there.
He stands in the middle of the largest bed, tossing all the loose, dried lykāpas perzot onto the path. She considers turning around before he can see her, but she is too tired for evasion games. More importantly, when he turns and sees her, she can tell he is too tired for his own usual games.
So she sits down next to the pile. "This is more than enough, already."
Good or bad, always so excessive.
He nods and sits down to join her. A few minutes in, she realizes she would have had little luck alone. Bending the plants whilst wrapping is a four-handed job. Even with four hands, they mess up quite a few times and have to start sections over.
It takes so long, and becomes so frustrating at times, that they end up removing their coats and rolling up their sleeves in the midday light. Neither of them would ever claim to be an artist. Especially her father, considering his dog or wolf attempt. She looks for it on his arm, only to find it gone. The skin where that stupid chart had been was scrubbed raw and angry. Some traces remained in other columns, but Luke's was completely gone. Likely, so was the top layer of skin.
Somehow they do eventually manage to achieve that effigy form they'd been working towards. It's not great, but it is dignified, at the very least. Still, she cannot help but break the silence as they examine their work. "If Alicent saw this, she would lose her mind."
For once, that deranged laugh of his does not grate. She even joins him.
Alright, I understand now. Evil laughing is more fun than normal laughing.
She does not mention the dragon eggs. She knew he wouldn't want a thank you, and she doesn't particularly want to give him one. But thinking of that day does make her mention something else. "If you try to use that oil in any way today, I fucking swear…"
"I know, I know."
She looks up at the sun still high in the sky. They have some time left before the sunset pyre.
The pyre.
"Oh, right." She fishes into her pocket for the pouch she'd long been carrying. "I meant to give you this. The priest found them in the pyre yesterday, I don't know why they were there but I figured…" she trails off as she hands him the pouch, because she does not know what she figured. She only knows that she has no idea what to do with them, and that her father knows everything about Valyrian ceremonies.
He empties the bag into his hand, and any trace of laughter disappears. He takes on a far away look. "How did these…"
"The priests think they must have been… within, Visenya. I do not know why."
"These are from her necklace."
She had suspected so, but she could not understand why Rhaenyra would send her favourite necklace to be ruined. Hostage or no, there was little reason to it.
She imagines that neither does her father, because he's simply staring at them, ever so slightly shaking his head, as he ever so slightly rocks. "Why didn't anyone bring these —"
"We did not see them until the next day. We left the pyre right after…" she no longer feels the need to throw his actions in his face. Not right now at least. Because from the look on his face, he's doing that all on his own.
For once.
But they cannot have two crazed dragons running around, not right now. She needs to bring him back. "Father?"
She had not seen him panic in this manner since the last time they wrapped a mummy. Make no mistake, she has seen her father snap many a time. That man is perpetually on the verge of an assortment of breakdowns. But this is different. This is rare. He does not lash out at the target nearest him, his fire is not directed outward. And even though the words that barely escape his lips sound like, 'as the stars stand witness,' there's quite clearly another set of words pushing back, pushing him back further and further from the front of his own mind where he so commonly lashes out with fire, pushing him back until he can no longer escape.
Three words Rhaena did not believe her father capable of saying in succession, but he is clearly capable of thinking:
I fucked up.
He disappears faster than the time he'd discovered Baela had even fewer reservations about discussing oranges than he did. Unfortunately, there was no Rhaenyra for him to send in his place to address the confused child he'd abandoned, so she just sits there for a time. Sits there confused.
I do not have the energy to process this. She puts her coat back on and lays down to nap. She imagines she's taking advantage of autumn's last bit of heat. No one disturbs her. Either because they do not know where she is, or because they decide she needs rest. So Rhaena does not awaken to any human rousing her.
She awakens to a baby dragon's wail.
She jolts and sits up, trying not to think about the fact that she'd just fallen asleep next to an effigy of her late child-husband.
Is this it? Are we under attack already?
They are down two dragons from last time. She wonders if the Greens suspect Jace is away. She scans the sky but can see very little from the courtyard, so she makes a run for the open front field by the dragonmont.
Everyone else apparently had the same idea, and she has to fight through the crowd to reach a spot with good visibility. To her relief, there are no green dragons in the air. There is only Tyraxes, struggling to break free of several ropes and nets that had been cast over him, as Stormcloud tries to stop him from leaving or spewing fire on the dragon catchers below.
Among those dragon catchers are Grandmother and Grandsire. Grandsire seems to believe, or rather hope, that Joffrey will not torch his own kin for trying to pull him back to the ground. Grandsire apparently did not learn from Luke's fate.
But Baela did. And it's only when Moondancer appears between Tyraxes and the sun that Joffrey finally concedes to land before a second tragedy can befall them. Grandsire rips him from the dragon, whilst Grandmother gently helps Aegon down in his still makeshift saddle. Neither have a chance to scold Joffrey, because Baela lands soon after.
She wears the same look on her face that their father had worn when he'd pulled her from Sea Smoke. That cross between anger and panic, so deeply mixed that she cannot distinguish one from the other. "What do you think you're going to be able to do?" she yells in their father's scary voice. Even their grandparents take a step back.
Joffrey puffs and tries to sound defiant. "Father once said —"
"I don't care what Father once said! Father is an imbecile who knows not of what he speaks and definitely not of what others hear! Vhagar could swallow your stupid baby dragon whole if she were so inclined, and probably even if she wasn't. Seven Hells, she likely swallowed Luke whole! Mayhaps if you hurry, you can catch up with him! He could still be alive and in wait! You can share your final moments together, wouldn't that be sweet!"
Any trace of defiance left Joffrey at the first mention of Vhagar. As she continued, he simply became more and more horrified.
As did everyone else.
Joffrey bursts into tears and runs off screaming. His dragon does the same in the opposite direction.
At first, no one wants to process what she just said. Finally, Grandsire summons the courage, likely hoping she has already used all her insults for him, Rhaena imagines. "Baela!" is all he can say though.
"Grandsire," she mimics.
"That is enough! You sound like your father," he says, which is probably the absolute worst thing he could have said.
The girl actually lets the pain show on her face. Lets the girl show on her face. She runs back into the castle before Rhaena can tell if she's crying, and she gets through the crowd much faster than Joffrey did. Onlookers clear twice as much space as they ever did for their father.
Among those onlookers is Lord Beesbury, who must have followed Baela from the castle. He turns to Rhaena. "Does he know what's coming for him?"
"No, I do not think he does."
Lord Beesbury shakes his head. "May the mother have mercy on that man, because his daughter certainly won't."