117 AC, Driftmark
Rhaenyra Targaryen was certain there was never a time she came to Driftmark when she wasn't nauseous. It always reared its ugly head at the worst possible moment and today, of all days, she felt her stomach rolling and rumbling right at the moment when her Uncle Daemon was supposed to take his final fight.
She knew he would win.
He almost always did – excluding, of course, the time Ser Criston Cole beat him. It was something he liked to forget, but Rhaenyra still thought of it often.
If only Daemon had won, she might never have considered Ser Criston for a position in the Kingsguard. How different life might have been, how much easier it would be to walk around the Keep without worrying that he was haunting her past and present and future, if her uncle had made one different move.
A better timed parry.
Another step to the right.
To the left.
One little thing was all it needed and she would have been saved from the near constant headache that was Ser Criston Cole. To think, there had been a time that she was charmed by him – taken in by the way his dark hair curled and his even darker eyes raked over her like she was the most beautiful woman in the world. For a brief moment, she had felt it.
She had wanted to keep feeling it, every single night and day if she could. The way he slipped inside her and touched a part of her that was pure fire made her feel invincible.
But that had all turned to ashes and now she was left with his hateful stares everywhere she went. She was only truly free of him when she was safely ensconced in her quarters, wrapped up in her cocoon of blankets and staring down at the pure joy that was her two sons.
Two sons that, if things had been different, might have had Dornish features instead.
"Princess?" Rhaenyra kept walking, feeling her stomach turning more and more with each step she took. She trusted Ser Harwin to rush to catch up to her, his metal armor clinking with his rapid steps. "Are you well?"
The moment his hand touched the small of her back, all formalities were dropped between them and she turned to face him. His arm snaked the rest of the way, pulling her close so that they were hip to hip. He was only this bold when he was sure there were no prying eyes, but there was still a certain hesitation until she moved the rest of the way and placed a series of quick kisses on his neck and the underside of his chin.
"You left the tourney before Prince Daemon had his final bought."
"Something did not agree with me."
If there was one thing that Rhaenyra appreciated about Ser Harwin above all else, it was how she was certain he would still love her regardless of how messy life got. He was not in the room for the birth of their sons, but he arrived shortly after. Covered in blood and slick with sweat and tears, he still pulled her close and laid kisses on her brow.
He still loved her.
"You will likely not miss much," Harwin said. "He has sailed through the rest of his competitors with ease."
"Likely so. I will be sure to offer him my congratulations on the morrow." Rhaenyra leaned closer to him, feeling a bit of her unease leaving her the longer she spent in his presence.
He quieted her nerves.
Like a balm that soothed the worst of her burns.
What would it be like to love him out in the open? To proudly proclaim her children as his and his alone?
She would never know, of course, so she had to settle for loving him in the dark. And she loved him well and loved him as fully as she could and would continue to do so as long as she lived. But she also knew that she could never really give him all of her, not when a piece of her belonged to someone else.
"Come to my room?" She asked, lowering her voice just a little bit further despite how offended she was that she even needed to.
If she had been born a man, it would not have mattered.
If she had been born a man, she never would have needed to engage with the charade of a marriage at all.
"Of course." He inclined his head, dark eyes dancing over her face.
And just like that, the last bits of her nausea left her and different sort of unease settled deep in her stomach. Her face flushed.
The clinking of armor around the corner forced the pair apart. Harwin cleared his throat and straightened himself, the perfect mask of professionalism. Rhaenyra bit her lip to keep from giving it all away and turned her head to the right. She folded her hands together in front of her stomach – the persistent size of which still deeply upset her – and whittled her emotions down to nothing.
She would smile at the Knight rounding the corner.
Give him a princess's courtesy.
And then she would pull Ser Harwin into her room and strip him down and rid herself of the rest of her unease for once and for all.
The Knight in question staggered towards them, tripping over his own feet. Even from ten paces away, Rhaenyra could smell the deeply entrenched cloud of alcohol. The man who was too drunk for his bought and whose place Daemon took.
"This must be Ser Grilfort, the drunk," She whispered, pleased at the small smile she managed to pull from Harwin.
But his good humor did not extend any further and as the Knight continued to approach them, Harwin put his hand on the pommel of his sword. He sized the other man up and down, the warmth of his dark eyes giving way to ferocity.
"Halt, Ser," Harwin called, inching his sword out of his scabbard. Rhaenyra laid a soft hand on his arm, shaking her head.
A Knight was hardly a concern in such friendly halls, a drunk one even less so. He had already so shamed himself in front of King and Court, she thought it best to not contribute to his misery.
The Knight continued to stumble forward, teetering forward and backwards before he gave up on the notion of walking altogether and collapsed to the ground, face down. He laid still for a moment, chest barely moving beneath his breast plate, before he let out an almighty wail of pain and flipped over.
He clawed at his own neck.
Harwin pushed her back and unsheathed his sword.
Rhaenyra rolled her eyes and ducked around his arm. A drunk man too deep into his cups to realize his front end to his back was not threat to her and she did not consider herself the type to let a man suffer in front of her when something could be done. She gathered up her skirts and bent down at the Knights side. She heard Harwin begin to protest and she immediately shot him a warning look.
Another look and he was kneeling on the other side of the man.
A third had him pulling off his helm and throwing it aside.
The Knight continued to claw at his neck, wailing and moaning even louder, rubbing the skin raw.
"Rhaenyra, do-" She cut Harwin off with a raised hand, ignoring him entirely as she began to unbuckle the man's plate armor. It was a pleasing pale silver adorned with green filigree.
A Hightower relation of some sort.
Her lips twisted into a scowl.
Those infernal twats. She could never seem to escape them.
Still, she moved to yank the breastplate off but reeled back, hissing as the metal burned her skin.
She gathered up her dress and moved to the metal again, worry giving way to fear. She managed to pull it off and toss it to the side, barely missing Harwin by a tick. The heat of the breastplate spread down through the layers of the man's clothes. The man gasped when she finally pulled his quilted ridding coat back, revealing an expanse of bright red skin.
Harwin leaned forward, forgetting his sword for a moment as the pair of them stared at the man's upper chest.
For a moment she thought that it was possible that he sat too close to the fire. In a drunkards mind that could cause panic. In a Hightower's mind that could cause fear.
But then the skin began to split, blood bursting out and streaming down his chest. The split spread, moving up towards his neck. Rhaenyra reared back, mouth dropping open as the man finally stopped wailing and he fell still.
Blood pooled beneath him.
Soaking her dress.
Staining his Hightower green a deadly red.
Ser Harwin pulled her away before she could see more, pushing her into the nearest room and locking the door. She collapsed back against it, hands sticky and mind racing. Whatever unease she had felt earlier reappeared, worse than ever, and she knew that she was likely to feel ill for the rest of the night. But it was better than the alternative.
Better to be ill than dead.
Better to be a Targaryen than a Hightower.
And above all else, it was better to be coated in blood than drowning in it.
Of that, Rhaenyra was certain.
Alicent Hightower hated Tourneys.
She had ever since she attended her very first one and she hated them still. Brutal, disgusting things that turned men into beasts and beasts into monsters. She had heard tale of the old days of Valyria, when the Targaryens would fight on dragon back. If dragon or rider died, they simply replaced them.
They had more care for the dragons today.
Marginally, by her estimation, but still.
They accepted the need to use horses and swords instead of dragons and fire, but they never cared for it. She could see it in their eyes, all of them – her husband, Daemon, Rhaenyra – and knew that unseating someone would never be enough for them. The old blood ran thick and deep and even a few hundred years in Westeros was not enough to diminish its pull.
So the dragons saddled their horses and donned their ceremonial armor and danced in the pageantry.
But they seethed in resentment at such base displays.
And when they lost, they took their anger out on those closest to them for weeks to come.
Alicent was lucky in that regard. For all that Viserys was a dragon in other ways, he lacked the desire – and ability – to saddle a horse and ride. But he liked to watch and when she managed to draw his attention away from the carnage beneath their feet for any length of time, she saw the same spark of bloodlust in his eyes that all Targaryens had.
It was in those rare moments that she truly feared her husband.
But it was always fleeting and when the Tourney was over he retreated back into himself and was content to pass his time in his room, toiling over his model and ignoring his children not named Rhaenyra.
A hush passed over the crowd.
She had been too caught up in her own thoughts to even notice who entered the ring, but she could now see that it was Daemon instead of the Knight from her own house.
She could also see that he was losing.
It would not be becoming of her to smile at that fact.
But whatever pleasure she might feel quickly evaporated when he collapsed into the dirt, clutching the top of his chest. His opponent pulled off his helmet and the crowd reacted accordingly, gasping and pointing when Laena Velaryon revealed her pretty face in full. Daemon continued to pull at his armor, swatting as Laena bent down to help him.
Alicent stood up, moving towards the railing that kept the Royal family separated from the rest of the Tourney guests.
"Alicent, take the children to their rooms."
Her father's hand landed heavy on her shoulder, just as his words landed heavy on her mind.
He should have no right to order her away.
She was the Queen.
His Queen.
And yet he still did all the same.
And she would follow his orders.
Like she always had and likely always would.
His hand squeezed her shoulder a little harder, the warning as clear in the gesture as if he said it aloud again. She tucked her hands into her sleeves, fingers finding fingers. She worried at a bit of skin, picking and pulling and needling until she felt the first prick of pain. She dug her nail in until the pain was bordering on unbearable.
But she kept digging, marring the smooth pale skin.
It would likely scab.
If she was luckier still, it would leave a scar.
A little blemish on her perfect skin.
A little bit of power stolen from her father that should have never been his to claim.
She turned away from the chaos below and beckoned her children to follow her, ignoring the way Aegon argued. Her father might be her keeper still – still, still, still, so many years into her marriage – but she would not suffer the insolence of her children on top of it all. She held out her hand to pull Helaena with her, making sure that her father saw the raw skin as she passed him by.
But his gaze was already beyond her.
And whatever impact she might have hoped to have, whatever power she might have gained, was lost in the chaos of the fight below.
Small was not an adequate enough word to describe how she felt, but it was she could muster as she ducked her head and made her leave. Small in comparison to dragons, smaller when put next to her father, and smallest still when she thought about the place she held in her husband's heart.
If she could will it so, she would make sure she never felt so small again. But those were thoughts for another time and now all she longed for was the privacy of her room and a bit of freedom from the constant presence of Targaryens and Hightowers alike.
Maybe, if the Seven were kind, Daemon would choke on his own blood and rid her of the trouble.
But she had never been so lucky.
Alicent Hightower hated Tourneys.
If the power was hers, she would ban them altogether.
Of that, Alicent was certain.
"Queer markings, my Prince." Laena Velaryon breathed, bending low over Daemon to speak to him so that no one else would hear her, although she hardly thought he would either.
He was a bit preoccupied.
Understandably so. It was not every day that one was saved from certain death by a bit clever magic and some skill with a knife. Whose skill, exactly, it remained to be seen, but Laena was as certain as her blood was salty, that those markings were of Runestone and nowhere else.
Laena turned around, eyes scanning the crowd for a touch of bronze.
She knew she would not see her friend's face; Rhea Royce was two years gone, but it was not too much to hope that she would see her daughters face instead.
She longed to see the girl that her mother had paid such a heavy price for.
In the confines of a smelly shack, with three witches dressed in red, white, and green, Rhea and her had sought a solution to her great and terrible want.
For want of a child - a daughter - Rhea Royce had been prepared to do the unspeakable.
Leana had to tell herself all these years that it had been worth it, even when Rhea retreated in on herself and behind her bronze and stone.
Word reached Driftmark before the Royal party and Laena, too preoccupied with finding new and creative ways to delay marriage, only heard a bit of news before she promptly disappeared. The view from the world was better on dragonback and there was no danger of an unwanted proposal so many thousands of feet up in the air. But even she had to return to earth eventually, and when she landed she was greeted with the news that not only had Prince Daemon deigned them worthy of his presence, but also the presence of his daughter.
Ophaella Targaryen she was called.
A strange name.
One of Rhea's own making.
Laena scanned the crown again, fingers dancing over Daemon's skin as she continued to search for the daughter.
As she continued to search for the hands that carved the runes that saved his life.
And the hands that had taken the life of another.
"Stop moving," She commanded, pressing her knee to his stomach to keep him from getting up. He let out a puff of air, scowling up at her with enough ferocity to melt the flesh off her face. Still she pressed him down further, leaning over him entirely to whisper in his ear. "Do not scream."
Laena pulled a knife from her boot and hid it beneath her hair as she lifted it up.
She sliced it across his chest, digging down deep enough to draw blood and split muscle, but not enough to cause any permanent damage.
He would thank her for it later.
If he cared to keep his daughter safe, he would never speak of it at all.
"Ophaella, wait!"
Laena tucked her knife back in her boot and leaned back, searching the crowd again to find the child.
A pair of white haired children raced towards her, the boy grasping at the back of the girl as they pushed past the barrier and out onto the pitch.
Laena leaned back even more and fought the overwhelming urge to throw out her arms and grab the girl.
She did not know she existed.
She did not know how much she loved her.
She did not know how much she had kept secret to keep her safe.
All she saw was the woman with the knife and the way her father crumpled to the ground.
Ophaella skidded to the ground next to Daemon and wrapped her arms around his neck, yanking at him despite the blood now soaking his chest. The boy dropped down to the ground beside them, how own worry directed at the girl rather than Daemon.
"Father?" Ophaella asked, pulling back only enough to look at his face before she surged forward to hug him again.
Strange.
Laena had heard many things about Daemon Targaryen, not a great many of which were kind or flattering, but none of them indicated that he had any sort of fondness for children. She knew of his love for his niece, but that was of the twisted sort, the sort that only made sense to Targaryens, and it had simmered over the years.
Or so she had been told.
Laenor was a vicious gossip when he was drunk.
"I am fine," Daemon said, pushing his daughter back so that he could sit up. Ophaella continued to watch him, expression scrunched and brow tense with worry. The longer she stared, however, the more she relaxed. The boy – one of the King's newest sons, Laena presumed – did as well, their little bodies matched in posture.
Laena opened her mouth.
"If you are going to offer apologies, save them. They are unnecessary," Daemon said, pulling his gaze away from his daughter to look at Laena. He raised his pale eyebrows, a spark of something making her stomach squirm.
"No. I was not."
"Oh?"
"I was going to say that we need to talk."
"About why you disguised yourself as a man and tried to kill the King's brother? Yes, yes we do." Daemon heaved himself up a little higher.
"No," Laena said again, very well aware of the way people from both their houses would soon descend. When they did, the moment would be lost. "I was not. You need to destroy that armor before anyone else sees it."
The four of them all look at the discarded breastplate.
The runes seemed to practically glow.
Daemon narrowed his eyes and turned back to look at Laena.
"What could you possibly know of it?"
"More than you will ever know. Destroy the armor and play the part of the wounded loser. You are well versed in that, I am sure. We will speak more of this in private."
Laena stepped back just as they were surrounded on all sides. The King's boy shimmied around to Daemon's other side and grabbed the breast plate. He turned it towards himself, hiding it from everyone else just at the right time. No one would notice a little boy when the Rogue Prince lay bleeding at their feet.
No one would notice a little girl with a knife.
Not as long as Laena still lived.
She had made promises to Rhea just as Rhea had made promises of her own.
Blood for blood.
Life for life.
Ophaella Targaryen would not meet the same fate.
Of that, Laena was certain.
108 AC, Gulltown
"This is not wise, Rhea," Laena called, running to keep up with her as she weaved her way through the crowded streets of Gulltown. Rhea was certain there was a great many things that could be called unwise.
Her father never wanting for sons.
Her mother taking up with the stable hand.
Her uncle attempting to climb the highest peak in the Vale.
The Royces were a catalogue of unwise ventures, but Rhea was certain that her upcoming marriage to Daemon Targaryen was the worst of them all. It had been brokered behind closed doors, without say from neither her nor Daemon. They were chattel to their family, pieces to trade and sell to enhance their power.
Rhea would tolerate him long enough to get what she wanted.
Then they would live their own lives.
Him on dragonback and her surrounded by stone.
She would build a life for her and her daughter, stone by stone, until they were safely protected from the world and shielded from all its dangers.
"How did you even find this witch?" Laena asked, finally catching up with her. She looped their arms together and leaned in closer. She was taller by nearly a foot and had filled out in recent months. She looked like a woman ready for marriage, but she would have none of that and would just as soon feed herself to her own dragon than submit to a man.
Rhea used to think of herself in much the same way.
But she had seen a little glimmer of something.
Felt a little heartbeat as she looked to the future when she read the stones.
And she would have it.
She would have her daughter.
"I paid very handsomely for this meeting," Rhea said, dodging a man carrying an overflowing basket of fish. "And if you do not shut your mouth you will scare her off."
Laena glowered at her but she continued to walk with her. Their friendship was a fast one, but it was no less profound for that fact, and Rhea counted her as close as a sister. After the death of her sister in the birthing bed, it was only Laena and her dragon that she could stand to be around. It was only Laena and the freedom from expectations that she offered that Rhea could look towards and not want to be ill.
They approached the tavern at the end of the dock and paused outside the doors.
"You are certain?"
"Yes." Rhea hardly believed it, now that she was saying it out loud. But she had come this far and she had already paid so much, she could not very well turn back.
"Then I am with you, little stoneheart."
Rhea elbowed her and they shared one more smile before they opened the door and stepped inside the tavern.
It was uncomfortably warm, considering the time of year, and Rhea instantly moved to remove her bronze threaded cloak. Laena kept her own on, eyeing the near empty room with calculating eyes. Her hand moved down, searching for the knife she kept in her boot.
"You have nothing to fear from me, Laena Velaryon."
They both froze.
Rooted in place by their own shock, they huddled together as the woman dressed in red emerged from one of the little alcoves.
"How do you…"
"You did not pay me to answer your questions, Lady Royce."
Rhea blushed, feeling her own inexperience with such serious transactions beginning to show. She felt Laena grab her hand and squeeze it tight.
She was with her.
As she had been from the moment they met.
"Then you know what I want."
Two more women stepped out from the alcove, each dressed head to toe in their own color. Green for the one with dark hair and pale skin, white for the one with eyes that looked like she had already seen too much of the world. They stayed back, content for the time being to watch.
"I do. I fear, however, that you do not."
The Red Woman stepped forward, holding out her arms. She was breathtaking up close. Ethereal and haunting all at once and if Rhea had not been so singularly focused, she might have been taken in by her sheer beauty.
"I do. I know that what I want costs more than a few pieces of gold."
"She is not prepared, Melisan-"
"Silence, Alys." The woman in green scowled, clearly offended by being cut off. "She will pay or she will not. The choice is hers."
"I will pay." Rhea stepped forward, ignoring Laena as she tried to pull her back. "I will pay."
"What you want calls for more than just one." The Woman in Red spoke clearly, moving to circle Rhea. "Seven."
"What?"
"Seven is the price. Give me Seven and I will give you a daughter."
"Rhea..."
"Hush, Laena."
Rhea turned back to the woman, jaw tightening. "I will give you Seven."
"Then it is done." The Woman in Red smiled, holding out her hand for Rhea to take. "You will have seven years. If I do not get what is owed to me-"
"You will."
"Arrogant cunt."
"I told you to be quiet, Alys Rivers. Speak again, and I will have your tongue as well," The Woman in Red snapped, turning to look at the other woman. "Be warned, Rhea Royce. You fail to give me what is owed and I will be forced to take it myself. Seven for one. One for Seven."
"Seven for one. One for Seven."
She would pay it. She would. What was seven, really, when compared to the only one that mattered? What were seven unknown heartbeats when compared to the little one that had only started to grow stronger?
Seven for one and one for seven.
She would pay her price and her daughter would never know.
Of that, Rhea was certain.