As the sun timidly emerged on the horizon, casting its gentle rays through the windows, Rhaenys slowly emerged from her slumber. The distant echoes of footsteps resonated within her chambers, a symphony of bustling activity. Yet, she remained motionless, feigning sleep, as if unwilling to acknowledge the world that awaited her. The weight of her impending union with Robert Baratheon loomed heavy upon her consciousness, threatening to consume her entire being.
An internal storm of emotions surged within Rhaenys, threatening to shatter her composure. However, with sheer determination, she mustered the strength to quell the tempest that ravaged her heart. A stern reminder echoed within her mind: the presence of others in this place would undoubtedly birth endless gossip, exposing her vulnerabilities to the merciless scrutiny of the court. There are people here, they will gossip about you if you let your emotions show , she reminds herself sternly. They will cut you open just to see you bleed, do not let them see you bleed . They would relish in her pain, eagerly dissecting her emotions.
Allowing herself a fleeting moment, Rhaenys basked in the solitude of her bedchamber, savoring the sanctuary it momentarily provided. Then, with a deliberate grace, she began to stir, her form gradually rising from the embrace of the soft linens. As she perched herself upon the edge of the bed, a loyal servant by the name of Mara was the first to notice her. In a tone laced with deference, she addressed her lady, acknowledging the imminent preparations that awaited them.
"My Lady, we were just on the verge of waking you up. We must begin to prepare you for today," Mara gently spoke, her voice imbued with a mixture of formality and concern.
Rhaenys, collecting herself, responded with a measured affirmation, concealing her inner turmoil behind a mask of composed acceptance. "Yes, of course," she murmured, her words bearing the weight of an unspoken burden.
With Mara's gentle assistance, Rhaenys rose from the comforting embrace of her bed, her limbs feeling heavy and reluctant to relinquish the warmth. They moved in tandem, traversing the expanse of her chambers until they reached a grand tub that beckoned with its inviting presence. A testament to luxury, the tub stood brimming with water, reflecting the soft glow of the morning light.
Curiosity piqued, Rhaenys lowered herself to a kneeling position, her delicate fingertips tentatively brushing against the water's surface. An unexpected chill jolted through her, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. Cold, the water was undeniably cold, its frigid touch piercing her senses.
"Mara," Rhaenys addressed her trusted handmaiden, her voice tinged with a hint of disappointment. "The water has gone cold. Inform the maids to bring forth hot water. I have no desire to bathe in such discomfort."
Mara, visibly perplexed, mirrored Rhaenys' actions, her own hand cautiously dipping into the water's depths. A crease of confusion etched upon her brow as she spoke, her concern evident. "My Princess, the water is not cold. Any hotter, and it may scorch your delicate skin. The water is fine as it is."
Rhaenys felt a twinge of annoyance at Mara's insistence, her desire for immediate compliance brewing beneath her composed exterior. "Mara, you know better than anyone that I prefer bathing in hot water," she interjected, her voice laced with a plea for understanding. The words hung heavy in the air, momentarily silencing Mara's intended response.
Summoning her strength, Rhaenys continued, her tone commanding yet tinged with a hint of vulnerability. "Please, Mara, bring the hot water without delay. I implore you."
Though a retort threatened to escape Mara's lips, her loyalty and concern for her princess outweighed any personal grievances. The air in the room shifted as Mara compressed her lips into a tight line, a silent affirmation of her compliance, before hastening her departure from Rhaenys' chambers. Her steps carried a sense of urgency, a palpable determination to fulfill her princess's longing for the comforting embrace of hot water. As she exited, Rhaenys took a quick look at the remaining occupants within the room. Only two unfamiliar maids lingered, their identities and capabilities foreign to her. Talya's absence left a void that could not be ignored.
Rhaenys, acutely aware of the presence of these unfamiliar faces, beckoned the girls towards her, her graceful hand motions implying a command for their attention. Their gazes met, uncertain and hesitant, as they silently communicated their confusion. It fell upon the taller girl, her features etched with a subtle blend of apprehension and curiosity, to articulate their response.
"Where is Talya?" Rhaenys inquired, her voice tinged with a note of concern. The two maids exchanged glances, seemingly caught off guard by the question, their hesitation palpable. A moment of pregnant silence passed before the taller girl found her voice, stepping forward as the voice of both.
"She is still preparing your cloak, My Lady. Would you like me to fetch her?" she offered, her tone carefully measured, unsure of the desired course of action.
Rhaenys weighed the proposition, her mind embarking upon a contemplative journey. Deep within her heart, she longed for the comforting presence of her dearest friend, Talya, during this momentous occasion. However, the thought of disrupting Talya's meticulous work on her cloak tugged at her conscience. She recognized the unparalleled trust she had in Talya's hands, knowing that no one else possessed the same skill and devotion to complete the task. The night prior had been fraught with weariness and anxiety, leaving her unable to finish the embroidery herself. Talya, sensing her fatigue, had persuaded her to rest, promising to diligently work on the cloak. With a somber resolve, Rhaenys reached a decision.
"No, it's quite alright. I would rather not disturb her," Rhaenys finally responded, her words laced with a tinge of resignation. Understanding flickered in the eyes of both maids, their expressions mirroring their comprehension of the princess's wishes.
Before she could dismiss the maids and savor the solitude that awaited her, Mara reappeared in the chamber, accompanied by a group of five kitchen maids. The air became charged with a sense of purpose as they swiftly commenced the task at hand, diligently pouring the steaming hot water into the waiting tub. The liquid surged, threatening to breach the tub's boundaries, until Rhaenys called out, breaking the rhythm of their actions. "That's enough," she declared, her voice carrying the weight of authority. The maids halted their pouring, their gazes shifting towards the princess, awaiting her satisfaction.
Rhaenys leaned forward, her slender fingers delicately testing the temperature of the water. A satisfied smile graced her lips as she registered the intense heat that enveloped her senses. Her command had been fulfilled, and she felt a surge of contentment ripple through her being.
"Leave me. I wish to bathe alone," Rhaenys instructed, her voice carrying a gentle yet unwavering tone. The notion of privacy held paramount importance in this moment, a break from the prying eyes and relentless expectations of her station.
Mara, compelled to voice her concern, began to protest, but a firm look from Rhaenys silenced her. Recognizing the princess's resolve, she yielded, her silence speaking volumes. The handmaidens, following their leader's lead, departed the chamber without uttering another word, leaving Rhaenys to exhale a breath she had unknowingly held.
With graceful movements, Rhaenys shed her silky white robe, allowing it to cascade down and pool upon the chamber floor. One by one, her garments succumbed to gravity, slipping away until she stood unclothed, her vulnerability shrouded only by the anticipation of the forthcoming bath. Stepping gingerly, she immersed herself in the warm sanctuary of the tub, feeling the water's gentle caress envelop her form. Since the onset of her pregnancy, Rhaenys had noticed an amplified fondness for bathing in warm water, its allure captivating her senses. What was once an indulgence had now become a necessity, a longing she could no longer deny. Blaming her unborn child for such newfound preferences, she pondered whether her babe shared her affinity for the soothing embrace of heated baths.
Immersed in the steaming embrace of the water, Rhaenys remained motionless, her focus drifting away from the present. The tendrils of steam rose like ethereal specters, swirling and dissipating into the surrounding air. Lost in the depths of her thoughts, the princess ventured to another realm, a realm of memories.
A vision materialized before her, adorned with cascading brown locks and eyes of the same enchanting hue. A smile, resplendent and captivating, adorned the face of this maiden of her recollections. It was a face unlike any other, the face of her beloved mother, Elia Martell. In Rhaenys' mind, the image of her mother radiated a beauty and perfection that surpassed even the most ethereal of maidens. A soft ache tugged at her heart as she yearned for her mother's presence.
Oh, how Rhaenys missed her mother. Elia, with a heart that was only pure and good, something more valuable than any gold in the realm. The princess questioned whether there had ever been someone as faultless and beautiful as her mother, doubting even the divinity of the Maiden herself. The pangs of longing surged within her, intensifying the void left by her mother's absence. Today, on the day of her marriage, the realization struck her with a solemn weight—her mother would not be there by her side.
Tears welled within Rhaenys' eyes, their crystalline droplets cascading into the depths of the water. She made no effort to stem their flow, allowing her grief to mingle with the warm liquid. The memories of her mother, once cherished fragments of a bygone era, now embraced her with bittersweet tenderness. Rhaenys confronted the harsh reality that her mother, her guiding light, was gone, leaving behind only these memories as her legacy.
The death of her mother weighed heavily upon Rhaenys, an indelible mark etched upon her soul. Its impact, like a permanent shadow, cast its darkness over every facet of her existence. Deep within the recesses of her heart, she acknowledged that the grief she carried would forever remain, an unyielding companion. Even in the moments of profound happiness, a somber tinge of sorrow would persist, an ever-present reminder of her loss. Rhaenys grappled with the paradox, wondering how others could seemingly move on while their mothers remained forever absent. An unnerving thought settled within her: perhaps they were simply more adept at concealing their grief, shielding their pain from the prying eyes of the world.
Her fingers, like delicate dancers, dipped and swirled within the depths of the water, their gentle movements accompanied by the soft splashes that resonated throughout her chambers. In the solitude of her bathing sanctuary, Rhaenys allowed her thoughts to wander, her yearning for her mother swelled within her. A whispered plea escaped her lips, lost amidst the steam-kissed air, "I would give anything to have you here, mother."
Her mind drifted towards her brother, Aegon, an empathetic longing pulsating within her. Did he, too, carry the weight of their mother's absence in his heart? Rhaenys fervently wished for him to share in her grief, for their shared sorrow to serve as a binding force between them. But doubt whispered it's poisonous words, suggesting that perhaps Aegon's memories of their mother had faded, eroded by time's relentless passage. It was a thought that pierced her soul, intensifying her own burden. She felt an agonizing solitude in her remembrances, as if she alone retained the vivid image of Elia Martell. In her youth, she had sought solace in sharing her mother's memory with her handmaidens, but their reactions had crushed her spirit. Their disbelieving gazes pierced her like icy daggers, their dismissive gestures insinuating that she had fabricated her mother's existence. They had denied Elia's very existence, erasing her from their collective consciousness. It was an injustice that drove Rhaenys to the brink of madness, a cruel reminder that her mother's legacy was slipping away, slipping into oblivion.
Within the confines of Rhaenys' heart, a sacred museum had taken root, a sanctuary dedicated to the memory of her beloved mother. Each chamber, every corridor, overflowed with treasured artifacts of Elia Martell, carefully preserved within the recesses of her being. Like a keeper of precious memories, Rhaenys diligently tended to this emotional archive, ensuring that her mother's essence remained eternally vibrant.
In this personal museum of the heart, portraits of her mother adorned the walls, capturing Elia's radiant smile, the warmth in her eyes, and the grace that defined her every movement. The colors on the canvases seemed to dance, enlivened by the depth of emotion they invoked. The halls echoed with the gentle whispers of cherished conversations, the echoes of shared laughter and tender words of guidance. Fragments of her mother's essence were displayed as relics in glass cases, preserving the echoes of her laughter, the soft touch of her hand, and the comforting embrace that had once shielded Rhaenys from the world's harsh realities.
With tender devotion, Rhaenys would often wander through this museum of her heart, allowing the artifacts to reawaken her senses. She would gaze upon the portraits, tracing the contours of her mother's visage with her fingertips, as if seeking to bridge the gap between the tangible and the ethereal. In these moments, Elia's spirit flourished, enshrined within the hallowed halls of Rhaenys' memories.
For Rhaenys, this museum was her solace, her connection to a mother she could no longer embrace. In each cherished artifact, she found solace and strength, knowing that her mother's essence resided within her, imprinted upon her very being. Though time may try to erode the details, she vowed to protect and honor her mother's memory, preserving it as a beacon of love and guidance.
In the depths of her heart's museum, Elia Martell lived on, her presence forever enshrined, and Rhaenys found comfort in knowing that her mother would never truly fade away.
She stops herself from wandering into her mind any further, Rhaenys directs her attention towards the practical task at hand—cleansing herself. Carefully, she poured a fragrant oil into the warm water, its aroma enveloping the air with delicate notes of blossoms and citrus. With purposeful intent, she immersed herself in the soothing embrace of the scented bath.
Her nimble fingers reached for the soap resting upon the table beside the tub. Lathering it in her hands, she delicately massaged the creamy suds into her ebony tresses. The soft pressure of her fingertips against her scalp created a gentle rhythm, removing any trace of dirt or impurity that had clung to her locks. Gradually, as the soapy lather cascaded down her hair, it left behind a renewed sense of freshness.
Moving on to cleanse her body, she reached for a cloth, its texture smooth against her fingertips. With measured strokes, she methodically cleansed her skin, diligently attending to every inch with a sense of purpose. The water droplets cascaded down her form, leaving behind a glistening trail of cleanliness.
Once satisfied with her bath, Rhaenys emerged from the tub with a sense of haste. The thought of immersing herself in the now-sullied water held no appeal. Clad in the clean robe thoughtfully prepared by Mara, she wrapped it snugly around her, the fabric cocooning her in a comforting embrace. Drawing herself closer to the mirror, her gaze settled upon her reflection.
Inevitably, her eyes were drawn to her stomach, a subtle swell that marked the presence of life within her. Though still a modest bulge, Rhaenys found solace in its discreet nature. Her worries about the visibility of her pregnancy had plagued her, but now a fleeting sense of relief washed over her. She had successfully concealed her condition, allowing her the necessary time to make her official announcement to the court, revealing that she carried the child of the king.
A mixture of anticipation and apprehension filled her heart as she contemplated the impending revelation. For now, however, Rhaenys would bide her time, allowing the secret to remain safely nestled within her until the opportune moment arrived.
A resounding knock reverberated through the chambers, announcing an imminent presence at Rhaenys' door. Talya's familiar voice echoed, seeking permission to enter the inner sanctum.
"Yes, Talya, you may enter," Rhaenys responded, her voice carrying a hint of anticipation.
As the door swung open, Talya glided into the room, accompanied by Mara and the two maids whom Rhaenys had dismissed earlier. The princess's gaze immediately fell upon the exquisite cloak cradled in Talya's hands, a symbol of her unwavering friendship and dedication.
"Is that my cloak, Talya?" Rhaenys inquired, her voice infused with a mixture of curiosity and excitement.
With a radiant smile adorning her features, Talya affirmed, "Yes, Princess. I have just finished it." Rhaenys felt a swell of joy ignite within her, mirrored by the exuberance emanating from her devoted friend. Talya's boundless enthusiasm surpassed even Rhaenys' own, and in that moment, she yearned to embrace the same unbridled happiness. Alas, as the weight of her impending nuptials pressed upon her, a somber shadow lingered, transforming what should have been a joyous occasion into an ominous march towards an uncertain future.
"Perhaps it is time to commence the preparations for today, My Lady," Mara interjected, her voice tinged with a mixture of practicality and empathy.
Affirming the sentiment with a solemn nod, Rhaenys acknowledged the need to embark upon the ceremonial transformation.
Rhaenys succumbed to the orchestrated movements of her maids, obediently following their instructions. Every gesture, every shift in posture was dictated by their bidding. She felt like a doll, a mere object being prepared for presentation. Like a pig for slaughter. This peculiar sensation, tinged with a disenchanting familiarity, lingered within her. It echoed the nights when she readied herself to fulfill her duty to the king, becoming a vessel for his desires. The realization weighed heavily upon her, a sadness tugging at her heart. How had she grown so accustomed to this role?
She pondered the alternate reality where the Targaryens still reigned over the Iron Throne. Would her father, if he were the king, have raised her as a sacrificial offering? Which man would have claimed her as his prize? Aegon, her brother? Or perhaps Aemon? Maybe even Viserys. She couldn't say for certain, but she held onto the hope that her destiny would have offered more choices and agency in such matters. Yet, as she matured, she recognized the harsh truth—those dreams could never have been realized. She was but a girl, born into a world where her purpose was to serve the men in her life: her father, her brother, her husband. Even if her father had been king, the most powerful man in the realm, her fate as a woman would remain unchanged. I would still be a woman, I will always be just a woman. Powerless in the world of men. Powerless within the dominion of men as all women are.
Mara's voice pierced through her musings, drawing Rhaenys' attention to the mirror. Their eyes locked, but the words that escaped Mara's lips evaded her comprehension. A touch on her shoulder redirected her gaze, revealing Talya's concerned face. Rhaenys tries her best to listen to whatever it is that Talya is saying but she has no luck and frustration takes over. This happens to her sometimes, voices become quiet and her mind can't quite focus on anything. It used to terrify her, the first time it happened she thought she had died. But Talya was with her and helped calm her down and soon she was able to hear voices again. Nobody knew of these incidents. With the help of Talya, Rhaenys was able to prevent such an incident from ever occurring outside her chambers.
With the awareness that solitude and tranquility were the keys to reclaiming her hearing, Rhaenys swiftly commanded her maids to depart from her chambers.
"Leave, I wish to be alone," Rhaenys implored, her voice laced with a hint of desperation. The four ladies exchanged concerned glances, their worry etched upon their faces, but they obeyed her command and departed from the chamber. However, before Talya could follow suit, Rhaenys called out to her dearest friend, a glimmer of hope in her eyes.
"Not you, Talya. Please, stay," she pleaded, her voice tinged with vulnerability. "I still need your help with my cloak."
As the doors closed, shutting out the prying eyes and well-meaning but suffocating presence of the others, Rhaenys crumbled to the floor with a thud, her body succumbing to the overwhelming weight of her emotions. Talya rushed to her side, embracing her tightly, offering solace and a safe haven within the shelter of her arms.
"I can't, Talya. I can't marry him," Rhaenys confessed, her voice trembling with sorrow. It was a whisper, barely audible, as if she feared the walls themselves would betray her. "This is not what I desire. I never wished for any of this."
In the tender embrace of her trusted friend, Rhaenys allowed her anguish to spill forth, her tears mingling with the warmth of their shared sorrow. The once unyielding princess found solace in the presence of her dearest companion, knowing that Talya was a rare anchor of understanding in a world that seemed determined to steal her autonomy and dreams.
Her friend's comforting touch continued to soothe Rhaenys, gently stroking her hair as she poured out her anguished thoughts. Talya listened intently.
"I don't want this, Talya. I don't want any of this," Rhaenys pleaded, her voice trembling with a mix of sorrow and frustration. "How can I marry him? How can I be bound to a man who played a part in taking my mother away from me? He stole everything, and now he wants to make me his wife."
Talya remained silent for a moment, absorbing the weight of Rhaenys' words. With a gentle but resolute tone, she finally spoke, her voice filled with empathy.
"You are not doing this because you want to, Rhaenys. You are doing this because you must," Talya reassured her, her words carrying a heavy truth. "It is not fair, and it is not what you deserve, but you know that this is the only way you can survive. Being Queen is the only way you can gain the power and influence to seek justice and avenge your mother."
Rhaenys's tear-filled eyes met Talya's, searching for understanding and solace. She found it in her friend's unwavering gaze, filled with compassion and unwavering loyalty.
"But how can I avenge my mother by marrying the very man who played a part in her demise?" Rhaenys questioned, her voice choked with emotion. "How can a daughter bring herself to do such a thing to her own mother?"
"Your mother understood how this world works," Talya stated, her voice filled with conviction. "She knows that you have no desire to marry that man, and she would understand. All you do is talk about how kind and sweet your mother was. Do you really think she would blame you for doing what you have to do to survive?"
Rhaenys paused, her mind contemplating Talya's words. After a moment, she responded, her voice laced with a mix of conviction and sadness. "No, my mother would never hate me for that. But they would."
"They left you, Rhaenys," Talya reminded her, her voice firm. "It does not matter what they think. Do not concern yourself with their judgment. You must do what you need to do, damn what they think."
Talya's words resonated deeply within Rhaenys. She had been abandoned by her own family, left to navigate the treacherous paths of the world on her own. She had fought for her survival every step of the way, and marrying Robert Baratheon was just another means of protecting herself. Her family had no right to pass judgment on her, not when they had fled instead of standing their ground. Rhaenys was no coward, and she refused to run away from her problems. If she were to remain a prisoner of the crown, she would do so wearing a crown of her own.
"Yes, you are right, Talya," Rhaenys acknowledged, her voice filled with newfound determination.
"Aren't I always right, Princess?" Talya replied playfully, a smile gracing her face. Rhaenys looked at her friend, a mixture of gratitude and affection in her eyes.
" Thank you, Talya, for everything," Rhaenys expressed, her words filled with sincerity.
"You are my Princess, it is my duty to care for you," Talya responded. "Well, even so, you have my deepest gratitude." They shared a brief moment of laughter before Talya embraced Rhaenys, lifting them both from the floor.
"We need to put on your cloak. It's almost time to depart," Talya informs Rhaenys before momentarily leaving her side to fetch the cloak. The garment is truly magnificent, reflecting Rhaenys' decision to pay homage to her mother's lineage. Instead of donning the traditional red or black colors of House Targaryen, Rhaenys has opted for a beautiful yellow cloak. The emblem of House Targaryen, a three headed dragon, is intricately embroidered with red thread. Though she would have preferred the Martell sigil on her back, she knows that no one came to see the daughter of the sun get married, no they came to see the daughter of the dragon to be wrapped in the stags cloak.
As Rhaenys gazes at herself in the mirror, Talya stands behind her, gently draping the yellow cloak over her shoulders. Rhaenys feels like a stranger to herself, despite being told that she resembles a ten and four year old girl, now, all she sees is a woman, unrecognizable even to herself. She contemplates her growth, realizing how easily the passage of time slips from memory when one is left alone. Would her family even recognize her? She doubts it. The last time they laid eyes on her, she was merely a three-year-old child.
"I should depart now," Rhaenys declares, although she remains motionless, hesitant to leave. Talya nodded in agreement with her, yet she too remains immobile. Eventually, after moments of silence and stillness, Rhaenys turns around and embraces Talya tightly in her arms. The princess clings to her friend as if fearing someone might snatch her away. The girls hold each other for a prolonged moment, only parting when a knock at the door interrupts them. Barristan Selmy's voice breaks the silence.
"Princess Rhaenys, we must depart immediately to ensure we arrive on time for the ceremony," Ser Barristan's voice reminds Rhaenys.
"Yes, I will join you shortly, Ser," Rhaenys responds with a hint of acknowledgment. Talya, giving her one last encouraging smile, takes hold of Rhaenys' arm and guides her towards the chamber doors. Letting go, Talya opens the doors, and Rhaenys lets out a sigh as she steps out, greeted by Ser Barristan.
"Princess," he greets her with a respectful nod.
"Ser Barristan," Rhaenys greets him in return. She begins her walk, with the knight following closely behind. Talya remains behind at the Red Keep, as she must. The journey passes more swiftly than Rhaenys had anticipated, and before long, she finds herself in the wheelhouse, en route to the Sept of Baelor. The windows are adorned with blue curtains, rendering her alone in the enclosed space. The knight of the Kingsguard rides alongside, while Rhaenys lacks company within the wheelhouse. The voices from outside echo loudly. The people of King's Landing have gathered to witness the Targaryen princess being married off. Robert has turned this day into a grand spectacle, promising food and wine to the common folk of King's Landing after Rhaenys persuaded him to include them in the celebration, even if in a modest manner. As the crowd cheers, eager for nourishment and a chance to revel, Rhaenys can't help but feel bitter. It was her idea to provide sustenance to the common folk, yet here they are, praising a king who seldom thinks of their well-being.
As Rhaenys sits in the wheelhouse, the sound of her name being called reverberates through the bustling crowd. Strangely, it brings her a sense of solace, knowing that someone amidst the crowd is thinking of her, acknowledging her presence. Yet, despite this fleeting connection, her nerves remain unsettled. Palms damp with sweat, her eyes begin to well up with tears. In an effort to regain composure, she tightly shuts her eyes, inhaling and exhaling deeply. Clenching her hands into fists, she feels her nails digging into her palms, a painful sensation that serves as an anchor for her frayed emotions.
Slowly, she opens her eyes once more, seeking respite from her mounting panic. Her gaze drifts toward her hands, and her attention is drawn to the ring adorning her finger. It is a precious possession, one of her most cherished belongings. The ring once belonged to her mother, its centerpiece a radiant red ruby. The moment it was bestowed upon her, Rhaenys nearly wept with joy. The tragic events that followed her mother's demise left her bereft of most of the precious jewels that had accompanied them to King's Landing. Stolen during the sacking of the city or claimed by the Lannister queen, only a scant few remained. Yet, in a gesture of remembrance, Jon Arryn had made it a point to return her mother's jewels to her after the execution of the lion queen. The ring, now a symbol of both loss and precious memory, captivates Rhaenys' attention as she seeks solace amidst the mounting chaos.
Rhaenys' gaze lingers on the ring, its delicate presence triggering memories of her mother. In the recesses of her mind, she can almost recall the sight of Elia Martell wearing the cherished piece. It is these small mementos that keep her mother's spirit alive within Rhaenys's heart, a comforting reminder of the love and warmth that once enveloped her as a child.
Thoughts of her mother also serve as a stark reminder that the Martell family will be absent from today's proceedings. Doran Martell's delicate health prevented him from undertaking the journey to King's Landing. As for Prince Oberyn Martell, he claimed to be engaged in his own ventures, or so Lord Arryn had been informed. Rhaenys, however, suspects that her uncle's true whereabouts lie with Aegon. It seemed he had chosen to be by Aegon's side, forsaking his presence at her side. Whatever the reasons, the responsibility of giving her away now falls upon Stannis Baratheon. As cousins to her father, she and Stannis share a bloodline, and since no other family members deemed her worthy of their presence, Rhaenys must reconcile herself with the austere man as her escort.
As the wheelhouse gradually slows down, Rhaenys senses the impending arrival at the Sept. She takes a series of deep breaths, attempting to steady her racing heart. Eventually, the motion ceases entirely, and the doors of the wheelhouse swing open. Standing before her is Ser Barristan, his weathered hands extended to offer assistance. Graciously, Rhaenys accepts his calloused grip.
Silently, the princess begins her ascent up the steps of the Sept of Baelor. The surrounding area is teeming with common folk who have gathered for the occasion, their presence lending an air of anticipation to the proceedings. Gold cloaks stand dutifully by the steps, ensuring a clear pathway for the guests. Each step feels interminable, Rhaenys aware of the pounding of her heart and the moisture welling in her eyes.
She mentally chastises herself, repeating the mantra, not here, you can't let them see you as weak. Keep going . The internal reassurance, uttered like a whispered prayer, gradually infuses her with a newfound strength. Miraculously, it helps her push through the vulnerability threatening to consume her.
Finally, Rhaenys reaches the pinnacle of the steps, her gaze promptly falling upon Stannis. It is no small feat to overlook his presence, for while not towering like Robert, his stern countenance commands attention. With measured steps, she makes her way toward him, preparing to greet him.
"My Lord, I do hope I have not kept you waiting for long." Her voice carries a delicate sweetness. However, the Baratheon lord's face remains impassive, not even a hint of a smile gracing his features. This reaction has become customary, though it never fails to unsettle Rhaenys. She cannot help but yearn for his approval, even though she knows that his disposition has always been aloof. Stannis Baratheon was never exceptionally kind to her, but he also never displayed outright cruelty towards her. Indifference seems to be his default stance toward her, much like Robert's past demeanor. However, any resemblance between the brothers abruptly ends there, as they stand as starkly different as day and night. Observing their interactions can be somewhat entertaining—the stark contrast between Robert's boisterous jests and Stannis's unyielding, stoic demeanor never fails to captivate her attention.
"We should get going. Everyone is already inside waiting for us." he remarks, his tone decisive. Rhaenys nods in agreement, intertwining their arms together. The man straightens his posture, and together they make their way towards the entrance of the Sept. Rhaenys fixates her gaze ahead, directing her attention towards the aged septon and the figure of the king standing beside him. Close by, Lord Arryn stands as well. As she draws nearer, she musters every ounce of composure she can, preparing herself for the solemn recital of vows she never desired to make. These vows, forced upon her as a consequence of her father's folly, now demand her sacrifice. Rhaenys feels like a little girl again waiting to be saved. Waiting for her father to burst through the doors of the Sept of Baelor, which have already been shut, and carry her far away. The same way he carried off his Lady Lyanna, why can't he do that for his daughter? She used to hear whispers of how Rhaegar had taken Lyanna Stark because she did not wish to marry the heir of Storms End, he saved her from an unwanted marriage. Why can't he save me? Why did he leave her? Why must I marry Robert Baratheon?
Stannis releases her arms, and Rhaenys gracefully steps forward to position herself at Robert's side. The septon begins the ceremony.
In truth, Rhaenys finds her recollection of the ceremony to be hazy, the details slipping through her grasp like fine sand. Yet amidst the fog of her memory, there remains one indelible imprint—the vows she utters.
"Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. I am his, from this day, till the end of my days," she intones, the words leaving a bitter aftertaste, an unmistakable sense of wrongness. They feel like a betrayal of her true desires, a surrender of her autonomy. Is this how her mother felt when she too swore her own vows within these sacred walls? Elia Martell, wedded for a crown rather than love, had experienced a different path. Love had come later, a gradual bloom. Her mother had loved Rhaegar but even now Rhaenys is not sure if he loved her back. She thinks that he never did. He never loved her mother and he never loved her, for how could you abandon those you love without a second thought?
Amidst the ceremony, she distantly hears Robert Baratheon repeat the same vows, the echoes of his voice merging with her own. Yet, she contemplates how long it will take for him to shatter those very vows. Curiosity intertwines with indifference, and she finds herself detached from his fidelity or lack thereof. Within her, a spark of resilience ignites. She carries his child, an emblem of her own strength. Should he become a hindrance, an obstacle to her well-being, she knows she possesses the means to have him dealt with. Though her circle of allies may be limited, it does not mean that she lacks them entirely.
The ceremony ends with a shared kiss between the Targaryen and the Baratheon.
Seated at the lavish feast, Rhaenys finds herself amidst a swirl of festivities. Her newly-wedded husband, Robert, is already deep into the throes of his drunkenness. His insatiable thirst for wine comes as no surprise to Rhaenys, who observes how he eagerly consumes each cup presented before him. A few drinks in, she overhears Jon Arryn, seated at the same table, cautioning Robert to moderate his drinking. Dismissing the warning with a dismissive wave, the king commands a servant girl to bring him more of the renowned Dornish wine. The poor girl scurries off to fulfill his demand, hastily fetching a bottle to satisfy his insatiable thirst.
Unlike her inebriated husband, Rhaenys has barely indulged in a single cup of wine. The taste of the Dornish vintage, perhaps due to her pregnancy, unsettles her stomach, leaving her feeling unwell. She attributes her restraint to the unborn babe nestled within her.
Throughout the night, Rhaenys has been diligently fulfilling her role as the hostess, greeting and conversing with the assembled guests. However, being thrust into the center of attention has always been an arduous task for her. The collective gaze directed at her triggers a sense of unease and trepidation, yet she remains adept at concealing her true emotions. Her face remains a mask, flawlessly crafted to hide any cracks or imperfections, a skill she has honed over the years through countless practice.
The bedding ceremony had been just as bad as she had anticipated. Thought she does not remember which of those old cunts had called for the ceremony, she wishes she did so that she would have their head on a spike.
But at last, it didn't matter who had called the bedding ceremony, for she barely had time to process the words before a swarm of men ran to her. The men of the court quickly surrounded her and began to rip her gown apart with such haste that Rhaenys could not do anything but let the crowd of lords guide her to her destination.
Soon she was pushed into the kings quarters, she could still feel their slimy hands groping her. She closed her eyes briefly and let out a sigh. Rhaenys turned her attention to the room in front of her. The bed was large, dark blue silk was draped on the bed making the bed seem even more inviting but Rhaenys could not think of any place she wanted to be in less. Her husband soon followed her in and a giggling brood of highborn ladies could be heard outside the doors of the chamber
His dark cloak and linen tunic were gone and one of his boots seemed to be lost as well. He looked to be in worse shape than her. She was still somewhat modestly covered, not for long though, she thinks bitterly.
Her lord husband wasted no time in disrobing, hastily discarding his garments as if driven by an animalistic urgency. Rhaenys felt his large hands tug and pull at her own attire, until she stood exposed before him, stripped of any pretense or coverings. In a swift motion, he guided her onto the bed, his weight pressing upon her and climbed on top of her; much like how a hound would mount his bitch. This thought brought her a wave of despair and desperation. Rhaenys didn't want to be mounted like a dog. No, she wanted something sweet like the songs she's heard. A love worthy of song.
Instead she got this.
Robert finished and laid beside her, one arm wrapped around her stomach. She does not know how long she laid there, the only sign of any time passing was the steady breath of Robert besides her. Rhaenys rested her own hand on top of Roberts, both their hands reset on top of her unborn babe. Our babe, she thinks sweetly.
It was not until the weight of sleep overwhelmed her that Rhaenys realized the profound silence that had enveloped them. Apart from the vows they had solemnly exchanged in the sept, no words had passed between her and her husband. Their union had been devoid of the intimate conversations and heartfelt connections she yearned for, leaving her to ponder the stark reality of their relationship.
—
The sound of children running was not uncommon in the free city of Pentos, in fact children seemed in abundance in the Bay of Pentos. Merchants were seldom ever not seen in the city. They sold silk, peppers and countless other objects that a man could only ever hope to have. But within this free city, there was something more valuable than anything a merchant could ever dream to have. Magisters and lords alike envied the likes of Illyrio Mopatis, for he had the blood of the dragon within the walls of that manse of his.
The hot sun beams reflected over the steel as Aegon and Visenya clashed their swords together. Visenya held her blade above Aegon in a brutish yet calculated manner, dripping in sweat with each motion. Arthur looked on proudly. A girl of only five-and-ten years yet she perfectly embodied her namesake. He wished he could make a similar statement regarding her elder brother.
"I yield, sister" Aegon chuckled sardonically as he threw his arms up in mockery.
"Aegon, take this seriously," Arthur admonished him. Aegon truly had promise but he had very little interest in the affairs of swordery. Unlike his brothers and sisters, he preferred to indulge in books. Like Elia and Rhaegar .
"Why? I have my sister to protect me" Aegon grinned cheekily, causing Visenya to scoff. Arthur sighed in frustration and was about to scold him further when he was cut off by one of Illyrio's servants.
The walk to Rhaegar's solar was quick. Leuro, the boy servant, had told Arthur that the Magister needed to speak with him and his prince urgently.
Arthur returned Rhaegar's smile. Although it was not the same dazzling grin that had reassured him years ago, it was nonetheless an uncommon yet appreciated sight. His prince had changed since the war. Gone was the gentle man who sang songs to the peasants. What he sees before him is a man with steel underneath him. The usurper's war had hardened Rhaegar.
"I come with terrible tidings," muttered Illyrio. Arthur had a strong disdain for the man. He always gave the impression of a well-meaning patron, but Arthur could see the greed and hunger circling behind his eyes.
Rhaegar looked at him curiously. "What is it then?"
Without uttering a word, Illyrio handed a note to Rhaegar. Arthur wasn't particularly curious about what resided in the letter until he saw the look in Rhaegar's eyes. He had not seen such a look since they heard about Elia. Rhaegar crumpled the paper in between his hands and flung it away furiously.
"Rhaegar!" Arthur looked shocked at his friend's uncharacteristic display of anger.
"That disgusting beast!" Rhaegar snarled. Arthur feared him. He would never admit this, but in that very moment Rhaegar seemed to be the very image of the late Mad King.
"Rhaegar, calm yourself" he pleaded desperately. "Who are you talking about? What does the letter say?"
"Robert Baratheon," he spat out like poison. "That swine intends to marry my daughter!"
Arthur felt an intense and overwhelming surge of revulsion and fury so strong, it made his heart clench painfully. Rhaenys? The last time he saw her, she was a small babe who raced erratically around the hallways and often pleaded with him to let her sit on his shoulders. How could Baratheon lust over her? He could not bear to think of the vile things his princess went through in that lair of traitors.
"I have waited long enough," Rhaegar spoke stoically. His face was eerily stony, yet his eyes betrayed him as they glimmered with an intense emotion, as though a storm was brewing within him. They were strongly reminiscent of the tumultuous waters surrounding the stronghold of House Baratheon. His purple eyes intensified to ink-black pools, appearing to swallow anyone in their vicinity.
"He took my throne, murdered my wife and now he wants to take my girl for himself. For that he shall answer for it"
Rhaegar strode out of the room, slamming the large wooden doors behind him. Arthur couldn't find it in himself to run after him in order to quell his rage. For he felt that same rage coursing in his blood.