I was inspired by a post by tumblr user visenyaism to write, uh, this. This has been written and posted within a couple of hours past my usual bedtime and I refuse to spend a bunch of time looking over it, so if it's slightly unhinged and very unpolished that probably has something to do with it.

Title is from The Garden by The Crane Wives.

Jaehaera was crying again. Perhaps she had been for hours, for all Helaena knew, but no, one of the servants would have seen to her if that had been the case. It was hard to tell, sometimes, when the children (no, just the one now, the ends of the boys had come to pass, as she had always hoped they wouldn't) were truly crying, right now, in the present moment, when she heard echoes of it from the future so often. When she was haunted by the echoes of it from the past. Perhaps Jaehaera wasn't crying right now.

She should go check, she knew. Caring for the children had been easy once, a joy of sorts, one thing that had not been true pain, until it had been. Now, she had trouble remembering that Jaehaera was not dead yet.

...She wasn't, was she? Helaena supposes she should see for herself. She rises from the book on insects she hadn't truly been reading, just staring at, trying to evoke past joy, and lets her feet carry her to the children's room. She finds Jaehaera, alive, sobbing, curled in on herself, seemingly oblivious to the maid attempting to comfort her.

The girl—Daisy, Helaena believed her name was, someone she had never seen in her dreams, someone she could imagine might be happy someday—looked up at the opening of the door, a panicked look on her face. "Your Grace! I'm so sorry, I'm trying to calm her down, but I—She—"

"It's quite alright," Helaena said, her own voice sounding far away. Perhaps this was another dream. No matter. She walked to the bed Jaehaera was curled up in and held her. She had no comforting words. What would she even say? It's okay, everything will be alright? She knew better than anyone that wasn't true. Nothing would ever be alright again, not for them. They had only ever been made for death.

"Mother," Jaehaera sobbed, clinging to her, but she said no more. Helaena counted that as a blessing. After a time, her presence soothed her daughter enough for the girl to sleep. Helaena studied her face. Jaehaera looked older than this at her own death. Perhaps Helanea wouldn't even see that for herself, one of the few mercies the gods had granted her.

Because it was almost time. She had been terrified of it for so long, but she understood the need now.

"Your Grace," Daisy squeaked out hesitantly. "Have you... eaten today?"

Daisy was always such a sweet girl. "I don't remember," Helaena admitted, noticing for the first time how hoarse her voice was. From disuse or thirst or both, she did not know. "It is no matter. Rhaenyra will not notice. She has more pressing matters to attend to. You may return to your duties."

"That's not why I..." Daisy shook her head, sighing. "If you're sure."

Daisy flees the room with her head ducked. So, Rhaenyra was the one sitting the Iron Throne at the moment; she was not mistaken of the time. Helaena looks at Jaehaera for a long moment then, satisfied she would not awaken, leaves the room herself. She finds herself in her old (current?) chambers, not caring to wander the halls of Maegor's Holdfast and possibly run into someone else.

She stares out the window. The window she'd always hated, always kicked and screamed when brought near her entire life. The light shining in from it seemed so inviting now. Beckoning. You must do your duty, Helaena.

And so she would. This duty seemed less painful than all the rest. All must reap what they sow; fire and blood would come for them. The Doom, a few centuries late. She did not know how, exactly, but she'd seen the shape of it all: her death would mean the death of the last dragons. House Targaryen could not survive without their kin, their weapons. It would be a slow death, but inevitable.

It did not seem so horrible now as it once had. She pushes the window open, climbs onto the windowsill. Staring down at the spikes, she feels another stab of fear, has a harder time breathing.

"From the flame we were born," she mutters to herself, almost like a prayer. "By the flame we were nurtured. To the flame we must return."

She closed her eyes, forcing herself to loosen her grip on the frame. "Let it all burn," she breathed out.

And then Queen Helaena played her part, as she had always known she would.

She thrashed and roared as two minds became one. A chain snapped, tiny men like ants scurried away from her.

Something unforeseen. That was rare for her. It struck her as ironic that the people who would rise up after her death would kill her for the second time.

She would fight back, the way she never had before, because her role was not done yet. She was not free of it yet.

But she would be. Soon.