A/N So, I've done it again. Started another fic before I've finished the three I'm currently publishing and six I've been puttering away at for years that haven't yet seen the light of day. In my defence this is some much needed catharsis after reading what happens in the Dance of the Dragons. Oh my god! That family is dysfunctional. But what really came across is that pretty much all of it stems from Viscerys' appalling decision making.
This is an unapologetic fix it fic (as most of mine are). This is unbeta'd so any and all mistakes and definitely mine ?. Happy reading.
Chapter 1: Of Dragons and Dreaming
Rhaenyra is twelve when the dreams start.
As is often the way they begin suddenly, one night she has the ordinary dreams of a young girl and the next she is bathed in fire and blood, she feels the bite of steel sinking into her flesh and the stink of death surrounding her. She sees the fall of those she holds dear and so much destruction it makes her cry. Worst of all though is the sight of the once close-knit dragon clan killing each other as rider sets dragon against dragon.
She wakes to the pale light of early dawn, shaking and with a pillow sticky from her tears, terrified and sickened by what she has witnessed. At first, Rhaenyra thinks they are nothing but fever dreams; the last vestiges of the illness she has just recovered from, but then they continue.
The dreams scare her, with each night new horrors seem to unfold, but always she knows that this is what her father fears most – civil war – and she is at its heart. How it came to be she doesn't know, but what she does know with a sickening certainty is that this is the future that awaits her family. Confused and uncertain, Rhaenyra retreats into silence. Never the most vocal or boisterous child and preoccupied with their eternal quest for a male heir, her parents fail to notice, their attention as usual on her mother's latest pregnancy and the forthcoming birth.
It's a Measter who explains quite by accident that Rhaenyra isn't going mad. Maester Sedrum is old, dull and possessed of a wheezing voice that is tedious to pay attention too. He is also an expert – arguably the expert – on the Targaryen family. It's been his life's work to piece together her family's brutal and blood drenched history and it's in one of her lessons that she learns about the true dreams those of her bloodline sometimes have. The Maester puts it down to the favour of the Seven, but Rhaenyra wonders. It doesn't feel like a favour to know at twelve that doom awaits you, or that it will be your beloved mother's death that is the first herald of it.
Now terrified beyond measure, Rhaenyra waits anxiously for the birth of her much awaited brother, convinced this will be the one that leads to her mother's bloody death. It isn't. It is indeed a boy, but he is stillborn, small and blue and more resembling a doll than a baby.
Her Father is silent and grave as he often is, repeating softly, 'next time it will be a living boy', while her mother weeps and grieves yet another lost child.
For fourteen blessed months after the dreams seem to stop and Rhaenyra breathes more easily… then quite suddenly they start again.
The night they come back is the one before her parents announce her mother's latest pregnancy. Even before she is summoned to their room for the momentous news she knew, her dreams had shown her: a swollen belly cut open, her mother's lifeless figure on a blood drenched bed and then another shadowy figure standing with their hand upon her father's arm.
It's a warning and a prophecy in one and it terrifies her. She tries once after her parents' proud announcement to tell her mother about her dreams. Aemma listens carefully, a soothing hand running through Rhaenyra's hair, only to then shush her worries and dismiss her dreams as a young girl's fears. "They are nothing, my love," the Queen says to her, "I am well, as is your soon to be brother. I have survived childbed many times and this one will be no different."
She wants to believe her mother's words, wants to believe the comfort of the lie with all her heart, and yet she knows even as she watches Aemma leave that night the lie for what it is. The countdown has started in earnest now. She knows it like she knows that Syrax is hers, like she knows the sun will rise in the east, like she knows that the sand in the hourglass of fate is running out.
Despite Aemma's comforting assurances that this pregnancy will be like all the others, she has barely begun to show and yet already her mother seems frailer. Her father, the King, doesn't notice, overjoyed at his wife's pregnancy and the prospect of finally having a son. He is even more distant during those months, a phantom figure Rhaenyra hears more of than she sees. Her weekly dinners with both her parents cease as her mother's ill health worsens, keeping her more often than not to her apartment and the company of her ladies and Viserys with her.
Rhaenyra is allowed to see Aemma for a quarter of an hour each day – of her father she sees even less. It's a solitary life, a lonely life, and in it she turns to two others: Alicent, her childhood friend, and her Uncle Daemon, and she clings to both with the ferocity of a dragon.
There's a secret about dragons which few know. To the people of Westeros, dragons are these fearsome creatures born from blood and sorcery, they are seen as demons, as objects of fear. A Maester told her once that dragons are feared because they have no loyalty, they will kill kith and kin without remorse, that their unrelenting appetites mean they are always hungry for conquest, death and destruction.
He was wrong. On all accounts.
Dragons aren't what the common folk think. They aren't what that ignorant Maester believed either. Dragons are fiercely protective over what is theirs, yes, but it isn't just territory and resources they protect. They are creatures of family, of loyalty and love. It's why a dragon usually bonds with only one rider at a time – only seeking another if their rider is dead. The common folk believe that the dragons in the pit are only kept from killing each other because they are forever kept in chains.
They couldn't be more wrong. The dragons there are all family, they live as any family does. There is the occasional squabble, but otherwise they live in harmony. Rhaenyra should know. She's been tending to the dragons since she was old enough to walk.
Dragon whisperer the handlers call her, for unlike others of her blood she can approach any dragon without fear. Though Syrax is hers and her alone, the others – even Caraxes, her uncle's cantankerous dragon – will allow her to handle and fly with them.
There's a reason she's the youngest dragon rider in the history of her family. But even her beloved dragons cannot help with the despondency that overcomes her as the weeks stretch into months and her mother's pregnancy progresses.
The dreams get worse. Every night it seems she sees things no fourteen-year-old should be witness too. She witnesses death after death, flame and fire, a storm so great that it decimates House Targaryen, leaving only a rotting stump where once there had been a flourishing tree.
Of all her family, only Daemon knows about her dreams. He found her crying in the Godswood some months after they had started and would not leave her be until she told him what was troubling the Realms Delight.
"Come now, little Dragon," he had soothed, "these are only glimpses of what might be. At present we are the only two heirs to the Iron Throne and I will cut out my heart before I cause you harm."
The words had comforted her then, but now as she sees more and more of what could be they fill her with dread – sees him and Caraxes fall screaming into an inferno – and knows his vow is a death sentence if her mother dies and the phantom figure assumes the Queen's crown.
~*o0o*~
Her worries only grow when her mother enters her official confinement. They get to the point where her Septa notices and reports her concerns to her mother. Aemma summons her the next morning.
Her mother has always been pale, but her skin now is pallid and almost grey, her eyes sunken and dull compared to their normally healthy shine. She looks exhausted as she shifts listlessly amongst her mound of pillows.
"Come here, my love," she says, lifting a thin hand to grasp Rhaenyra's own. Her grip is weak and even her voice sounds drained and insubstantial, as if she's floating away before Rhaenyra's very eyes.
"Tell me what is troubling you," her mother entreats her, gesturing for her to sit.
For a moment Rhaenyra considers telling her, but her mother's beloved features are so tired and her discomfort so apparent that she cannot bring herself to add to her burdens. This pregnancy has been the hardest on her mother, and each day seems to etch new lines and add new problems for the Maesters to worry about.
Her mother, bless her, seems to know anyway. Telling her gently that she isn't to worry about her, that this is the battlefield of a woman – to grow and birth children for her husband. This close to Aemma, she can smell the strange sickly-sweet scent that seems to hang around her. It paints a discordant note in Rhaenyra's mind, so different from the comfort of her mother's usual perfume.
Then the nosebleed starts. With only a few weeks until her sibling is due, Rhaenyra has seen even less of her mother than before – often being turned away at the door by one of the Queen's ladies with the message that her lady mother is resting – so she hasn't seen for herself this latest symptom of pregnancy.
It's a heavy bleed, staining various linens and Aemma's dress bright red in a matter of moments. In her horror and alarm some of the blood gets onto Rhaenyra's sleeve as she rushes to assist her mother. It's the only help she's allowed to offer though, as with scarcely a by your leave she's hustled out of her mother's chambers by two of her more officious ladies.
Left alone in the corridor with the cloying smell of her mother's blood still in her nostrils, Rhaenyra feels her anger mount.
With a scowl, she turns on her heel and storms towards the dragon pit, determined to fly until her fears and thoughts are left as far away as the Red Keep.
At least the dragons are always happy to see her.
~*o0o*~
Her trip to the pit begins the same as every one before. She can hear the excited calls of the resident dragons long before she enters the pit, their shrieks and whistles increasing in volume and frequency the closer she moves to them. Dragons always know when a Targaryen is close by.
At first all seems normal, but then the hissing begins. It starts low, an ominous whisper that rises in volume with every step Rhaenyra takes into the cavernous pit.
Alarmed, the handlers rush to try and calm – or at least control – their charges, but to no avail. The hissing becomes a growling roar, and the dragons leap forward – scattering men and bones in their wake as they surround Rhaenyra. The cry that goes up is panicked as the handlers and guards start shouting for the Princess, desperate to ascertain her wellbeing.
For Rhaenyra, she's only vaguely aware of these cries and the sound of footsteps echoing in the cavern as heavy boots rush away. All her attention, all her focus, is on the seven resident dragons crowding around her. Never in all her years coming to this place has she seen the dragons so upset. Syrax lets out a low warbling trill, her barbed tailed slicing dangerously through the air as it twitches in agitation. Caraxes, one of the largest of the dragons present, is emitting a dark, dangerous sounding growl, his nostrils flaring, Meleys likewise seems to be scenting the air, but it's Vhagar who brings a stab of fear to her heart for the first time in her life. The enormous dragon's nose is pressed so close to her that his breath buffets her with each exhale, but it's his bright green eyes that make her keep still – they are fixed upon her, or rather, she realises, upon her arm.
She glances down and slowly turns her wrist. Vhagar moves with her, his giant tongue flicking out to lap against her sleeve before withdrawing with a low whine. The dragons are distressed, moving about in restless agitation, and then Rhaenyra spots it, the dark brown splodge that's stained the pretty yellow silk of her sleeve.
Her mother's blood.
That's what has upset the dragons. Her mother's blood.
And yet it makes no sense. These are dragons, they eat their prey live – whether that is a farm animal or any unfortunate human who may have angered the dragon or their rider – they are used to blood. Caraxes and Vhagar in particular are experienced in battle, so why would they be bothered by a tiny spot of blood. Yet the truth is inescapable. Something about this one drop has caused this unusual behaviour.
And then she remembers her dreams and the strange sickly-sweet scent that seems to envelop her mother recently. The answer that comes to her makes her shudder and her heart contract in horror.
Poison.
That is the inescapable conclusion. Poison. Someone is poisoning her mother, the Queen, and through her, her newest sibling. It makes her blood burn hot in her veins, a dragon's anger licking at her insides. Calmly she reaches out to rest a soothing hand on Vhagar's massive head.
"Shhh," she soothes him and the others in their mother tongue, "Be still, I understand. Be calm my darlings."
Vhagar settles under her calming actions, the other dragons following his lead. The calm is of a short duration, however, as no sooner have the dragons started to relax than a cacophony of noise erupts as the King's Guard rushes into the pit, promptly undoing all that she's achieved.
Alarmed, Vhagar roars; rearing up on his back legs with wings extended in a show of his might and dominance to the intruders. Within seconds his display is joined by Caraxes and two others while the three remaining dragons swarm towards her, surrounding Rhaenyra in a protective circle, giant heads gently pressing comfortingly against her.
Over the flapping of wings and threatening rumbles, the princess can just make out the sound of her name being called by her father, and the voices of the guard telling the King to stay back, that the beasts are deranged.
It's a stalemate.
Even the full might of the King's Guard is no match for seven dragons, as her father well know; so they cannot hope to extricate her by force. Equally, with the dragons so riled and agitated by the armed strangers in their home, there is little hope of Rhaenyra being able to calm the situation to the point where she will be able to leave.
It's her uncle, of course, who jumps into the middle of the fray without thought or fear while her father stands indecisive on the side-lines while he considers the best course of action. It feels like an omen of sorts, like a metaphor for the differences between the two brothers. One a man of action, fearless and proud, the other a man of family and learning, who strives so hard to maintain the hard-won peace. Two sides of the dragon: warrior and family.
"Are you well, Little Dragon," Daemon askes, voice pitched low in the soothing tone of high Valyrian. The words might be addressed to her, but his attention is fixed on the seven large beasts surrounding them. The dragons which had calmed with her gentle words and touches are once more restless and growling angrily, unsettled by the presence of more men in their home. Even Caraxes, her uncle's own dragon, is hissing his displeasure, his eyes fixed on Daemon like he's a threat. It takes some moments, but at last the dragons calm, accepting the presence of another Targaryen rider.
"They're protecting you," Daemon breathed, sounding both surprised and admiring. "By the Gods, we had feared the worst when the handlers interrupted the Small Council meeting – my thanks, by the way, for making a tedious session far more interesting – that we feared the worst. But they are protecting you."
Rhaenyra can only nod as she gently strokes Caraxes' nose. "They have found something, Uncle," she explains softly, lifting her arm so that the splash of brown is visible. Daemon frowns. "Blood?" He queries, as confused as she had initially been.
"Aye. I think it is poisoned."
"It isn't yours?"
"No. My lady mother's."
"The Fuckers!" Daemon exclaims, shock making him far more coarse than he usually is in his young niece's presence.
"It's the only explanation I can think of," Rhaenyra confides softly, hesitating for only a moment before adding. "My dreams have become worse of late as well." She dares not say more now, not with the King's Guard pressing closer as they try to get to her, not when she has no idea who she can trust.
Daemon hisses, his outrage and fury clear. "I will find whoever did this and rip their bowels out through their mouth," he declares in the common tongue, and Rhaenyra has no doubt that he will. She's not a fool. She knows what is whispered about Daemon, about his temper and brutality. But she also knows that there is no-one so loyal to family as her uncle either, especially where she and her mother are concerned.
The guards endeavours, while noble and well intentioned, also have an agitating effect on the dragons she and Daemon have only just calmed down. The growling increases, and with it the panic from the watchers outside.
With an annoyed huff, Daemon at last looks away from her to see what the commotion is. It doesn't please him. "The fucking idiots!" he grumbles under his breath. "It's like they want to be eaten." Louder, he shouts for the guards to back off, that he has the princess with him but they cannot leave until the dragons are calmed.
The guards retreat, and with a final stroke to Vhagar's mighty nose and a kiss for Syrax, Rhaenyra steps past the dragons.
~*o0o*~
Telling her father is no easy thing. Visery's happiness and relief at seeing his daughter not just alive but unharmed earns her a tight embrace and the King's unwavering attention for the space of a few minutes. Until, that is, Otto Hightower interjects, his oily voice sending shivers down her spine. Now that the crisis has been resolved, the Hand wants the King to resume the Small Council meeting while the princess is examined by a Maester for any injury she might have sustained while cornered by the beasts.
It's difficult for Rhaenyra to tell what angers her more: Otto Hightower calling her beloved dragons "beasts", the way he casually dismisses her from her father's attention, or the inference that she might be too stupid to know if she was harmed or not by the events of the morning. Either way, his interference infuriates her.
Daemon isn't impressed either if the way his jaw and fists are clenched are any indication.
With every breath she takes, Rhaenyra can feel the opportunity slipping away as her father's attention is drawn increasingly back to matters of state. There is no time left to vacillate. She must tell him. Every moment she delays might be the moment that costs her mother her life.
It takes more courage than she expects to ask Viserys if she can talk with him and her voice trembles when she speaks. It's not that she thinks her father will be unkind, because he's not. Distant he might be, but never unkind. The problem is whether he will believe her. Her mother hadn't and she fears that her father will take the same line. Behind her, she feels Daemon place a hand on her shoulder, the contact reassuring and reaffirming.
"There is no time, princess," Otto answers for her father. "We were in the middle of an urgent matter when we received the news of your," he pauses to look around the dragon pit as if searching for an appropriate word, "mishap. Perhaps in a few days your good father might-"
"Be silent," Daemon snarls at the Hand, interrupting him. "The princess has had a difficult morning; it is only natural that she should need time with her parents, and given my good sister's condition it is only right that my brother should be the one to provide it."
"But the Dornish issue-" Otto Hightower starts to argue before he is once again cut off mid-sentence, this time by her father's unusually decisive, "it can wait until this afternoon, Otto. My daughter needs me." And with that he takes her arm, gently leading back towards her rooms, Daemon following quietly behind.
~*o0o*~
Rhaenyra is quiet on the walk back to her rooms, desperately trying to work out how to explain what she has discovered. How exactly does one go about telling your father, the King, that someone is poisoning your pregnant mother?
It's question she still doesn't know the answer to when they reach the doors to her chambers.
Apparently unperturbed by her silence, her father has kept up a steady flow of meaningless chatter and observations the entire time, although it's clear from the frequent little side glances that he's worried about her.
But how to tell him. This feels like its too big a problem for her fourteen years and yet it is on her shoulders that the responsibility rests.
She takes in a long, shuddering breath and then another. Her hands start to tremble enough that even her usually oblivious father notices.
It's her uncle who again provides the reassurance she so desperately needs. "Courage, little dragon," Daemon whispers to her in their mother tongue while Viserys is distracted pouring the wine he has fetched to 'soothe her nerves'. Quite frankly she needs it, and she takes a long, decidedly unladylike gulp when the glass is pressed into her hands.
"Drink that, my dear," her father says, somewhat redundantly given that she's already drunk half the contents, adding a paternal pat on her shoulder for good measure. "You've had quite a scare. We all have. Though I can't imagine what caused the dragons to react as they did. Still, it's all over now." He smiles at her, bright with relief.
This is the opening she needs, and with courage bolstered by the wine and Daemon's steady presence, she says in a strong, firm voice, "I do, Father. I know what upset the dragons."
Viserys pauses and places his glass on the table to study his daughter thoughtfully, "you do?" and the audible doubt in his voice makes her bristle.
"Yes." Her response is immediate and unequivocal. The doubt makes her brash as resentment crawls beneath her skin. She turns her arm to show the dark brown stain on the sunny yellow of her sleeve. "They were reacting to this."
Her father leans forward to inspect the stain. "I'm sorry, my dear," he says, turning this way and that, "but I'm at a loss. You think seven dragons were upset by a smudge?"
"It's blood, brother," Daemon says, in a tone of barely concealed vexation. Her uncle has never been a patient man. "Your wife's blood."
At this Viserys frowns again, but then the money drops and he lets go of her sleeve as if repulsed.
"I believe it's poisoned, Father," Rhaenyra says bravely, steeling herself for more doubt, denial and prevarication.
A heavy silence falls as she and Viserys stare at each other. Silence is a favourite tactic of her father's for dealing with things that do not please him and one Rhaenyra knows well. Usually, a few minutes of such intent quiet scrutiny would see her drop her eyes and apologise for whatever had caused their disagreement, this time is different though. This time her mother's life and the well-being of their realm is at stake and so she holds her nerve as she seeks to win this battle of wills; drawing confidence from her uncle's presence and the certainty that she is right.
The simple truth is that her father abhors confrontation and unpleasantness. He would rather retreat to his books and his models than face the implications of the Queen's condition: that if there is a poisoning there must also by necessity be a poisoner.
The staring continues for several endless minutes, but then Viserys drops his gaze, fingers massaging his temples as he sighs, "Rhaenyra," patting her shoulder in what he probably thinks is a reassuring way. "Come now, I know you worry, but your mother will be fine. She has the very best Maesters seeing to her care, they would know if she was in danger. This fear you have over poison is just a facet of your natural anxiety. I will have a Maester bring you something that will help calm your nerves."
It's like spitting in a dragon's eye. Clearly has father has decided to dismiss her concerns as those of a silly child. "Have you looked at Mother recently," she demands angrily, blinking away tears of frustration and fear, "truly looked at her? How can you say that she is well."
That does make Viserys pause, his expression growing troubled before it clears and he repeats the assurance that the Maesters would have told him if there was anything amiss, though there is less certainty in his voice than before.
Desperate, Rhaenyra pushes further than she otherwise would. "If you don't believe me, take a sample of her blood to the dragon pit. Then you will see that I am right."
It's at this moment that Daemon steps in. He has been unusually quiet, but clearly his patience is at its end. "Would it really be that much trouble to do as your daughter asks?" He stated softly, watching his brother carefully.
"I should have known you would take her part in this," her father remarks sounding both tired and amused.
Daemon shrugs, completely unrepentant in the face of his brother's gentle reprimand. "In such matters I believe it is better to be safe than sorry. Rhaenyra will not be settled until she knows that her mother is well. The easiest way to do this is to prove that it was not your good wife's blood which so agitated the dragons." Here he pauses to clasp her father's arm, his expression unusually serious. "We were lucky this morning," he continues, shooting a significant glance at his niece. "With the dragons so riled, it could easily have had another outcome."
The impact of her uncle's words is instantaneous as her father pales, his eyes darting over her as if to reassure himself that she is truly uninjured and well. "At the very least we must understand what caused the dragons to react in such a way. They were acting to protect the princess this time, that does not mean that next time we will be so fortunate."
The message clearly hits her father, as he nods resignedly. Turning to her, he presses her hand and when he speaks his tone is once more gentle. "Is this what you wish, Rhaenyra?" he asks, studying her.
Rhaenyra draws in a deep breath and squeezes her father's hand as she rallies her resolution. "It is," she says firmly.
"Then so be it," Viserys agrees. "I will go now and test this theory myself. The sooner we can confirm that it was not your mother's blood that caused this morning's upset the better. Daemon, you will accompany me," he instructs after he drops a kiss onto his daughter's cheek.
Her uncle's bow in response is slightly mocking, but for once it passes unnoticed by the King who is consumed by his thoughts.
~*o0o*~
It is an easy task to procure a piece of clothing with his wife's blood on it, for no sooner has he entered her chambers than she is struck by another profuse nose bleed. In all the chaos that follows, it's the work of a moment for Viserys to tuck one of the blood stained rags into a pocket before he's asked, politely, to leave by one of the ladies tending to his poor Aemma.
Daemon is waiting for him outside the door to the Queen's rooms, a worried frown marring his handsome features. "That was quick," he remarks upon his brother's return. Not three minutes have passed since Viserys entered his wife's chambers and yet here he is, once again in the corridor outside with his brother.
In answer, the King just pats his pocket. "My poor Aemma," he sighs, "though I do not think Rhaenyra is correct, I can see why she is worried. This pregnancy has been the hardest yet. I just hope the gods see fit to make it worthwhile."
Less than a quarter of an hour later, Viserys' world as he knows it goes to hell in a handbasket and he regrets his confident dismissal of his daughter's concerns.
~*o0o*~
The walk to the pit feels much shorter to the beleaguered King than the desperate, panic driven, rush from only a few hours before. Secure in his belief that all is well, Viserys agrees with his brother's plan that Daemon should go first. The events of the morning have ruled out both brothers as being the source of the dragons disquiet; by entering separately though they can better test whether it is the Queen's blood the dragons are reacting too.
Daemon's entrance is unremarkable. There is the familiar gentle hisses of welcome as dragons greet one of their riders, and Viserys feels his confidence increase. Surely this morning was merely an aberration, a one off. There is no cause for concern here – although he may suggest that Rhaenyra no longer visits the pit alone.
Still mulling this thought over, the King enters the cavern. He has barely stepped foot inside however, when chaos descends and Meleys charges straight at him. It's only his brother's quick thinking and faster reflexes which save him from being trampled by four tonnes of angry dragon.
"What?" he can't help but gasp incredulously from the safety of the small corridor, as seven infuriated roars almost shatter his eardrums.
The look Daemon directs at him is both sardonic and full of dark humour. "Believe your daughter now, brother?" he asks, one pale eyebrow raised mockingly at his older sibling.
Shakily, Viserys pulls the blood stained rag from his pocket, staring at it in confusion. "Perhaps they are still merely agitated from whatever upset them this morning," the King ventures uncertainly as Daemon huffs impatiently.
"Are you really that obtuse?" the younger man demands. "Very well, I will prove it to you then," and with that he snatches the offending garment and lobs it towards a large empty space on the opposite side to where the dragons have congregated. As one, seven large heads move, following the trajectory of the projectile. Within seconds the rag is surrounded by growling, visibly agitated creatures who take turns in sniffing it before letting out long, distressed sounding whistles.
With the dragons attention firmly fixed on the rag, Daemon proceeds to pull his unresisting brother once more into the pit. Though still agitated, there is no repeat of the terrifying behaviour Viserys had witnessed when he last entered the dragon's domain. Some stay with the rag, while the others come to greet them, letting out low whines and angry chuntering as they nudge their human kin.
"Rhaenyra was right," the shocked King breathes, his eyes wide as he stares vacantly around the cavern. "She was right, there is something wrong with my Aemma. Nothing else could explain…" he falls silent, mind shying away from the implications.
Poison? Such a thing is surely unthinkable. Who would wish to poison the Queen, especially when she was carrying the future heir of the Kingdom. No one with any sense would do such a thing. No one would risk either returning to when civil war ravaged Westeros or the threat of Daemon following him as King. It was… impossible, inconceivable, and yet the dragons behaviour is compelling evidence that something is indeed wrong with his beloved wife.
Either way he must speak to the Maesters and get to the bottom of this.
~*o0o*~
Aemma, when the King enters her rooms for third time that day, looks even worse than she had on the previous two visits. As she had not been expecting her husband, or any other visitors after her difficult morning, she had not taken the time to use the special powder provided by her Maester to cover the dark bruises around her eyes, or the rouge to bring colour to her otherwise colourless skin.
Without such preparation, Viserys finally sees what he should have noticed long before. The Queen looks dreadful. Pale and wretched, even as she summons a tremulous smile for him. Her hands are icy cold and trembling when he presses a lingering kiss to her knuckles, and he can feel the thready pulse that beats far too fast through her weak grip.
Now in her seventh month of pregnancy, his wife should be glowing as she has with every other child at this stage. The disparity brings his daughter's words rushing back. Poison.
Frantic now with worry, Viserys demands the immediate attendance of every Maester with any knowledge of medicine and poisons.
~*o0o*~
The wait for the Grand Maester is long and fraught. Aemma has no understanding of what is occurring, or why her husband is suddenly so concerned about the toll this last child is taking on her health. Her ladies are equally at a loss to explain why suddenly they are locked within the Queen's chambers by the King's brother, who has stationed himself as a guard at her door and will allow no one in or out. The King is little help either in explaining the strange turn their otherwise usual day has taken, only saying that he will tell them more once the Maesters are here and have examined his lady wife.
Their day only gets stranger after the Maesters arrive and begin to examine their mistress. For some twenty minutes there is only the usual quiet that comes with a medical examination; then pandemonium erupts.
Poison has been detected in the Queen's blood. Within seconds the news has spread to all within the Queen's chambers. The news is clearly expected, though, as shortly after, five of the Rogue Prince's most trusted guards appear to assist the Maesters with testing various items within the rooms.
The silence as the guards work is tense and disbelieving; and it only gets worse when the Hand arrives, out of breath and with a furious gleam in his eye as he demands to know why the guards he has assigned to Queen have been so unceremoniously dismissed, and by the King's brother no less.
The answer he receives is from the King himself. The Rogue Prince had been acting under the King's own orders to secure his lady wife's chambers as an assassination attempt had been made. Whatever else he might have told his Hand, though, is interrupted as a cry goes up. The poisoned item had been found.
In all the commotion that followed such an announcement, it was unfortunate that no one saw the way Otto Hightower paled, nor the panic that flashed across his face.
~*o0o*~
The first Rhaenyra knows about the extraordinary events of that afternoon is when he uncle comes to get her from her rooms later than afternoon. "You did well, little dragon," he tells her as he escorts her to her mother's rooms. "I do not believe your father will be so quick to dismiss your concerns in the future."
It's the news she's been waiting for and it should gladden her heart, but all Rhaenyra can feel in that moment is acute anxiety for her mother's wellbeing. Has it been caught in time? Should she have spoken up about her worries earlier? Around and around the troubling thoughts chase through her mind, ramping up the panic that thrums through her blood.
The poison is a potent one, she learns from her uncle; as old as it is nasty. It is derived from the Jurda flower, a plant native to Dorn and seldom found within Westeros.
"The Grand Maester has every confidence that all will be well, my dear girl," her father tells her gently, squeezing her shoulder with paternal affection. "He thinks it has been caught in time, and that now we have found how it was being administered both your good mother and little brother will recover quickly."
It's the best news Rhaenyra could have hoped to hear and her heart sings with relief.
All will be well.
She clings to the words as she settles herself that night in her bed, confident that for once there will be no nightmares for her mother is saved and all will be well.
~*o0o*~
Except her father is wrong.
That night Rhaenyra dreams of fire and blood. She sees civil war spread across the land, and watches helplessly as those she loves die. Again she sees how it starts: her mother's body torn open, her brother dead and still in her arms. She sees her uncle's banishment, orchestrated by a faceless man in green who she feels she ought to recognise. She sees her grief spiral as her father takes another wife; a wife dressed in the same familiar green as the faceless man. She sees the birth of the future half-brother who's claim to the Iron Throne will throw the realm into civil war.
She wakes screaming – and knows that her father is wrong.
All is not well.
Her mother is not saved. Not yet.
~*o0o*~
In the morning she tells her father, but uncertain whether he will believe her she conceals her dreams, instead telling him that she overheard whispers in the servants corridor while walking that morning.
His response is swift and unusually decisive as he once more summons the Grand Maester.
~*o0o*~
It's a junior Maester who finally tells the King the truth. "We cannot save him, your Grace," the young man says urgently, "jurda poison is a potent concoction, although it is slow acting. The damage to the babe will already be great. My Master will not utter these words for fear of your anger, but for the sake of your lady wife, I will." He bows his head, eyes on the floor as he awaits the King's judgement.
"What do you mean?" Viserys demands, "The Grand Maester says that he has every confidence that he can save both my wife and our child."
The young man looks up, eyes solemn but firm in their resolve. "Then he is either a fool or a liar, your Grace," he answers honestly. "The poison is too far gone. Your child has been too long exposed. The only way to save him would be to cut the Queen open now and deliver him, but even if we did so he would not live a day. The poison has already done its deadly work."
Viserys pales as the news sinks in. His wife, his beloved Aemma. His heir. The words of the junior Maester continue to wash over him, only partly attending to them until a ray of hope is offered.
"Your Grace, we cannot save your child, but we may yet save your lady wife."
The junior Maester watches the King carefully after his announcement. The man looks haggard and as if he had aged ten years in the space of the conversation, his skin as pallid and grey as his wife's. "Aemma can be saved?" Viserys asks, desperation colouring his tone.
"We must give her the antidote," the Maester replies softly.
"There is an antidote?" The King says, eyes fogged with confusion. "Why have I not been told this? More to the point, why has the Grand Maester not yet administered it. He said the only cure was time."
The junior Maester meets his gaze unflinchingly, "The Grand Maester seeks to save your son, your Grace. He knows of the antidote, but he also knows that if the poison has not yet already done its dark work that this will. The elixir the Queen needs will end the life of the child."
"You say my son will not live?" The Maester nodded. "Then do what you must. Save my wife."
They say that the gods place dice with the lives of the Targaryen family. In one world the gods roll, and a queen is lost, in another Aemma survives. It changes everything.