10.Unforeseen Consequences

258 AC, the Red Keep

The Young Princess

Her brother had wedded Genna three days past, in a rather hasty ceremony. Many lords were invited, but the swiftness of the event saw only the Crownlords and the Stormlords arrive, with Lord Blackwood and Darry from the Riverlands and Lord Casswell of Bitterbridge—the sole Reachlord for the event. Grand Aunt Daella had been invited from Tarth, but no raven ever returned, nor did the sails of quartered crescent and a sun grace the docks. 

It had to be the worst wedding a prince ever had, for even the Lyseni had gifted a grand ceremony to Viserys II when matching him with Larra Rogare. The food and the bards were overflowing, the gifts to the newlyweds were generous, but it all felt stiff.  Stony expressions, frowns, and calm masks dominated the faces of the royal family, and even Rhaella struggled to force a smile on her face.

She had scarcely enjoyed the ceremony—the High Septon was glancing her way far too often, as if she were some wild beast about to attack. It was another hot day, and the procession passing through the city had her gag with the stench of four hundred thousand souls. Rhaella should have gotten long used to it, but the stench felt particularly thick that day, and no amount of perfumed curtains and veils could chase it away. Or perhaps it was the reek of decay in everything the Conqueror’s City that was twisted and wrong from the lowliest beggar in Fleabottom to the sleaziest courtier in the Red Keep. 

“Look at the bright side,” Steffon had said to Tywin during the wedding feast. “Now you get to be real brothers with Aerys, and that makes the two of us kin.”  

No traces of joy could be found on Tywin’s face as he stared blankly at his cup of Arbour gold. 

Then came the dancing, and Rhaella had been invited to a dance by far too many knights and lordlings to count—even Ser Bonifer Hasty. But his smile was not as bright as she remembered, and she turned him down all the same, endeavouring to dance with her sire and grandsire—though both were stiff in their stride, and regarded her with disappointment. Tywin didn’t invite her for a dance this time, but Steffon did, and his easy laughter made the evening more bearable for a time.

Genna’s soft smile that never left her face had dispelled the gloom from the Red Keep for a while, though it grew stiffer each next dawn.

Rhaella had succeeded, but triumph rang hollow in her chest. Freedom tasted sweet for a time, but then, her joy soured. Tywin’s sister would be queen with time, but had the princess doomed the golden-haired maiden to a lifetime of suffering?

Perhaps Aerys would treat her gentler. Genna was already older than Rhaella would have been when she gave birth, so perhaps her health would not turn for the worse. Still, the knowledge was like a tense knot in her belly, refusing to untangle. But it was all out of her hands now.

Worse was the uncertainty, looming over her like a shadow. The future she knew was gone, and now she felt lost. Nothing would be half as bad as enduring Aerys, but her hand could still be given out in marriage. Rhaella… did not want to leave the Red Keep. Not now, not ever. But it was only a matter of time—a princess was a valuable prize, after all. Rhaella wanted nothing more than to help her kin, but she was powerless. She would be powerless if her hand were given out as a reward or an alliance to some lord, sending her far away from the Red Keep. Such was the fate for women of noble birth, and princesses were not exempt.

There were no talks of such arrangements yet, but she knew her sire and grandsire kept the idea close to their mind. 

There was one way she could escape that fate, an idea whispered by Whitedream in her sleep.

‘Embrace sorcery, and do so out in the open,’ he had advised. ‘Let the whole court see and whisper of your dark powers. Few men would be eager to wed a witch, no matter how pretty.’

It was easier said than done, though. Rhaella’s fledgling ability was not enough to fool a child, let alone the whole court. And her skinchanging could not be revealed, not when it was her sharpest blade against plotters and schemers who eyed the House of the Dragon. She had not forgotten those cloaked figures at the dock, those murderers who wanted to do away with her grandfather. They were lying low for now, but that did not mean they wouldn’t strike when the opportunity arose. 

Such a threat could not go unchecked. Perhaps it was those schemers who had played a role in the Tragedy of Summerhall. Rhaella could not let that come to pass. As much as her family could be mean and impossibly stubborn, she loved them too much to let them meet a fiery end in a green inferno. Alas, her grandsire stubbornly clung to the idea of hatching dragons, and his mind would not budge on this.

Even for Rhaella, a princess of the blood, it was hard to meet the king in private, though stubbornness had her succeed last evening, and she had begged an audience in his solar.

“Dragons are what raised our House so high,” he had said curtly when she tried to dissuade him again. “Without them, the House of the Dragon is a pale shadow of what it once was.”

“It’s dragons that saw our House fall this low, too,” Rhaella had shot back. “The Dance and the obsession with dragons saw them all perish. I implore you to reconsider, grandfather. This will not end well—many kings pursued dragons blindly and suffered for it.”

Aegon slumped in his chair. “Perhaps you are right,” he murmured. Then, his voice grew firmer. “But I don’t have a choice but to try. You are too young to see it, but House Targaryen has never been so weak as it is under my reign. Half the highlords are loyal to the Iron Throne merely in words, and the other half needs us but would still love to see us brought down. The royal authority dwindles by the year, and yet another Blackfyre is rising, eager to lay claim to my throne. I need something more than petty alliances and sworn swords. I need something that would cow the ambitious and cast down the greedy. I need dragons, Rhaella.”

She wanted to warn him of the wildfire, but she had done so once, and it had fallen on deaf ears. In the end, Rhaella had left with a stiff curtsy, words swallowed back.

The king and queen, her parents and her uncle—they would not heed her. They never did. Her words were no better than wind. The only one who listened… was Aerys. But her brother had not spoken to her since the birthday feast. The betrayal in his eyes when he realised… cut her deep. Aerys hated betrayal the most, and what she had done that day was a plain betrayal of those who had the eyes to see it. And her brother was sharp enough when he wanted.

It would be a long while until he forgave her… perhaps he never would. That cut deeper than she dared to admit.

Her hands fiddled with her dagger’s hilt. The Conqueror’s dagger, though her brother had ordered the blade infused with pink and the hilt changed from dragonbone to varnished weirwood. Rhaella hated that she loved the dagger. It was as great a dagger as one could ever get, with its dragonsteel edge that was sharper than any normal blade, and it would never dull or rust or break. She knew not how to use it, but that didn’t stop her from carrying it everywhere.

The dagger on her girdle won her many frowns from the courtiers, though Rhaella couldn’t say if it were because a princess carried steel in court, or because such an important dagger had been ‘wrecked’ by her brother, as Ser Gerold said. Her mother’s frown was the deepest she had seen, but she made no move to chastise her.

Even though Rhaella misliked violence, learning to wield it would be prudent. It felt too much of a waste to have such a weapon and not the skill to wield it. Unlike swords and maces, daggers were light, easy enough to wield even for a maiden.

Alas, none in the Red Keep dared to do it without royal leave, and neither her father nor grandfather would ever agree to such a thing. Whitedream refused to teach her, too. “It’s a waste of time,” he had said. “Our lessons are dreadfully short as it is, and the greendreams and skinchanging are far more dangerous than any dagger could ever be, no matter how sharp.”

The days passed in a blur, and Tywin’s wedding slowly approached. The heir of Casterly Rock had been even gloomier as of late. Rhaella couldn’t say if it were the presence of his lord father, who was laughing and drinking each time she saw him, and had brought his lowborn mistress with him to court or the impending marriage to a Frey. As rich and powerful as the Freys were, their lineage was thin, and their history thinner. 

Before long, the Frey procession came with great fanfare. Walder Frey escorted his daughter with a great retinue of thirty knights and a hundred outriders, hiring drummers and bards to herald their way through the city. Emmon, his second son, was absent—probably because he was too ashamed to see his former betrothed married to a prince, but the first, third, fourth, and fifth sons were here, smiling widely. Walder had more—or would have far more, but his brood had yet to swell to the outrageous size it would have been at that tourney in Lannisport.

Some would claim that more sons would make House Frey stronger. Rhaella thought otherwise. Walder Frey’s callousness saw him change wives as soon as the old one expired, treating noble women no better than a womb to be bred until it broke. Death saw the maiden house of the wife estranged, and sons of different mothers rarely got along. Lord Frey was on his third wife now, and soon a fourth and a fifth and a sixth would follow, and the princess had a suspicion some of their deaths were not a mishap in the birthing bed. Once or twice, perhaps could be a coincidence, but any further…

“One would think they have come victorious from some great battle,” her grandmother sneered as the Lord of the Crossing rode into the Red Keep. “Walder Frey has always been a grasping weasel, and now, his daughter will be the future Lady of Casterly Rock, and a good sister to the queen.”

Lord Frey was an old, chinless man with balding grey hair and beady eyes, but strutted around the Red Keep like a peacock in his doublet of silver and grey. His daughter Perriane was a fidgety maiden with a coltish body and chestnut hair. She was comelier than her brothers and fathers—something inherited by her Royce mother, no doubt. But even the Royce connection was no saving grace, for Walder’s first wife had come from a destitute, landless branch of the Royces, with any connection to the Lords of Runestone long withered.

A part of Rhaella suspected the great Frey retinue was to ensure no mishaps happened on the road to King’s Landing. Judging by Tywin’s deepening scowl, it had worked. This was not Lord Tywin Lannister, who had all the brutes and brigands of the Westerlands at his command and inspired fear in the hearts of many, but half a powerless cupbearer and a young squire in the Red Keep. 

Though none seemed to be taking it worse than Joanna, which was surprising since she had scarcely talked with Tywin more than a handful of times since her arrival at the Red Keep. Since his wedding had been announced, the Lannister heir had kept his distance, not sparing his young cousin a single glance, and Rhaella was the one to console her late at night. 

“Not all things are meant to be,” the princess whispered, stroking Joanna’s golden hair. “Tywin is a harsh man. Once you grow older, I will find you a worthy match, some great lord or a handsome knight that is brave and gentle and strong.”

Joanna only brushed her tears, nodded, and hugged her tight to sleep, but it brought no peace to Rhaella. For all of his flaws, Tywin would have loved Joanna as his wife. He would have loved her more than anything in the world. Even though the princess knew the young Lannister maiden for less than two months, she still felt a deep closeness to the girl. Perhaps it was the sweet friendship she had witnessed in the future, or because Joanna felt like the younger sister she never had. That only made the knot in her chest tighten. 

It was all her doing. Rhaella did it for herself, but now others would suffer in her stead. 

‘I will find Joanna a great match, no matter what it takes,’ she promised herself. But even that promise rang hollow. Who would be a greater match than the Lord of Casterly Rock?

The heir of Winterfell? The Arryn lord, who was twice widowed and still childless? Loreza’s eldest son?

None of them would be eager to wed the daughter of a Lannister knight, no matter how pretty and the rest of the Highlords and their heirs were all spoken for or too young.

After an hour of staring in the darkness while Joanna clutched her tight and refused to let go, Rhaella at last eased. Sleep took her as she was palming the weirwood hairpin her brother had gifted. 

Whitedream waited for her by an old oak amidst a shadowy glade, a heavy frown settled over his pale face. 

“You should discard that futile guilt and rejoice instead,” he said. “Success is something to be celebrated, and the fate of others does not lie on your shoulders alone.”

Rhaella’s throat tightened. “I… it would be easier to master my greensight.”

“The raw talent is untamable without a heart tree.” Whitedream cocked his head. “And a heart tree is not enough. Come to the Isle of Faces, and I shall guide you as it was meant to be.”

But that was not how it was meant to be. Rhaella was meant to become her brother’s wife and queen, as was the custom in the House of the Dragon.

“I am a princess of the blood,” she whispered instead. “I cannot leave the Red Keep as I wish, let alone wander across the realm—you know this.”

He regarded her with a vexed look. “And that is why you are not ready to delve into the greensight.” He motioned his hand to a mossy stone beside him. “Come sit, and let us continue where we last left off.”

Rhaella made no move to obey. “…I have another question.” 

“You always do,” Whitedream said, narrowing his eyes. “Ask away, then, but know I might not deign to answer, should it have nothing to do with my teachings.”

“Do you, per chance, know who is plotting against my grandfather?” she asked boldly, not faltering under his green eyes.

“Those who plot against kings are too many to count,” he said with a dry smile. “And I know you speak for the man who killed your raven. But I care not for the affairs of the royal court—you shouldn’t, either. If you wish to unveil that particular mystery, sharpening your skills will serve you far better. Now come, sit by my side and clear your mind properly.”

She had hoped… her teacher would offer her aid, no matter how small. Perhaps she was asking for too much, but the blunt refusal still made her sad.

Swallowing, the princess stepped forth to begin her lesson.

Her prowess in skinchanging had grown enough to slip her mind into a raven consciously. After the lesson, she scoured the docks and Fleabottom from above, but found not even a shadow of that figure. She expected the schemer to be cautious, but the disappointment lingered even after she woke. 

The next morning, Rhaella dawned without Alyssa, and when she pulled the silken cord, the old maid Helicent came here.

“Where’s Alyssa?” the princess asked.

“She’s ill again,” the head maid said, shaking her head. “Foolish lass.” 

A frown settled over her face. This had to be the fourth time she had fallen sick this month.

As soon as Rhaella was clothed, she went to find her handmaid in the servants’ wing.

And found her she did—retching in a bucket in her room. Rhaella’s nose curdled as a sour stench struck her.

“Princess.” The girl made a hasty curtsy, though her attempt at a smile looked more like a grimace instead. “A thousand pardons, I cannot serve—”

“I can see that,” Rhaella said wryly, glancing at the bucket. Suddenly, the disappointment of the head maid made sense. The princess had been told of the symptoms of that particular sickness in great detail, and it was not something that would go away swiftly. “You’re with child, aren’t you?”

Alyssa lowered her gaze. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Is it my brother’s?”

“I… I’m not sure,” she said in a small voice. “Prince Maegor accosted me a few more times over the weeks.”

From behind her, Ser Gerold let out a strangled cough that suspiciously sounded like a snort.

‘Why do you sound so guilty now when you were bursting with elation back then?’

“Why didn’t you take moon tea?” Rhaella asked instead. “Even the acolytes can brew it. Some tansy, mint, and wormwood, a spoon of honey, and a drop of pennyroyal would have avoided this. In fact, you will go right now and drink a cup.”

“Please no,” Alyssa fell to her knees, hands clasped. “I-I chose not to take it. I wanted a child of my own, a babe with silver hair and purple eyes. Moon tea scars the womb, and if I take it now, I might never have another.”

“I…” Rhaella opened her mouth and closed it twice, glancing at Ser Gerold warily. By noon, her sire and grandsire would know, and even if she wanted to help, it would be out of her hands. “The babe is Maegor’s.”

“But I’m not certain—”

“The babe is Maegor’s,” the princess repeated, sharper this time. Alyssa’s eyes widened, and she gave her a shaky nod. “I will arrange a small remuneration for your service, and you will be dismissed from the Red Keep. In return, you will not speak of the father ever again. You must swear it by the Seven.”

Within an hour, a sickly pale Alyssa had been sent out of the Red Keep, and she watched from the postern door as the handmaid disappeared into the twisty Shadowback Lane..

“That was unwise, princess,” Ser Gerold said flatly.

“…Would you pour moon tea down her throat if ordered?” Rhaella asked. “Would you force me to drink it if commanded?”

Those pale eyes regarded her from behind the helmet for a long moment. “Kingsguard are sworn to follow orders, not question them.”

Her shoulders slumped.

Why had she expected otherwise?

But the day passed, and another, and another, and her father did not know of Alyssa yet. Neither did her grandfather. 

The city soon swelled with knights and lords, eager to partake in the festivities. Some were here for the Feast Day of Our Father Above, but the bulk had come for Tywin’s wedding. Much to her grandfather’s displeasure and Lord Tytos’s delight, this ceremony drew more knights and lords than Aerys’s own could boast. The king was probably regretting his offer to host the ceremony here. Rhaella suspected the ceremony would be far grander if Lord Frey and Lannister did not fear it would outshine her brother’s wedding.

The greatest surprise was the presence of Northmen. They were a rare sight in King’s Landing, and at most, one could catch a glimpse of sailors from White Harbour, but this wedding had attracted a far greater prize. A Stark. It was not the line of Winterfell but wolves of a lesser pack—Rodrik Stark, the Wandering Wolf, with his wife, Arya Flint, and daughter.

Breakfast took place in the Small Hall in the Tower of the Hand, where the guests were quick to offer her gifts. Most guests gave minor, even trifling gifts, bordering dangerously close to insult, as Lord Roger Reyne’s gift of a plain wooden cup, encrusted with a gilded laughing lion. Tywin’s face darkened like a stormy cloud, but he stiffly accepted the offering. Genna and Aerys presented a longsword of the finest Qohorik steel infused with gold so bright it glittered under the lamplight and a crimson shield blazoned with the lion of Lannister. Joanna timidly offered a golden lion-shaped brooch to Perriane and an embroidered shawl to Tywin. Rhaella gifted the soon-to-be-wed pair a lavish Myrish tapestry of a garden in bloom. 

Rodrick Stark’s gift was a queer one. His gait screamed reluctance as he walked to the groom’s table and offered an arrow. Its feathers were bright crimson, with a shaft dark as sin and hewn from ebony, crowned by a slender tip of dark, smoky metal. Rhaella had never seen an arrow of Valyrian steel before. Earrings, rings, chokers, diadems, swords, daggers, and even axes, but never an arrow.

The ballroom was smaller than the Small Hall, and with a hundred seats only the guests of higher importance could attend, though a quarter of them were taken by the Freys and the Lannisters. The walls were panelled with richly carved wood, and a silver mirror was hung from each sconce to reflect the light. Music carried from the gallery above, where bards and minstrels played harps, drums, and flutes with great fervour, but the melody failed to dispel the gloom in the crestfallen and only fed the chagrin of the gloating. 

Truth be told, a part of her hoped the marriage would be fruitful. It would lessen the tightness in her chest. But a glance at the future couple told her it was unlikely. While Perriane was shy and looked kind enough, she had done nothing to deserve Tywin’s coldness—her betrothed had not spared her a glance since the start of breakfast, nor spoken a single word. 

“He looks miserable,” Joanna whispered as she stabbed about her smoked trout. The fresh crusted bread and the apple-tart to the side were just as untouched—the golden-haired maiden had yet to place even a morsel of meat in her mouth. “It’s not fair.”

Melony let out an amused huff. “It’s not fair to the kind Perriane Frey either. She is in for a lifetime of cold, joyless duty where the very man who should protect her despises her very bones, and the young lion is merely experiencing what each maiden of noble birth will face. Love is a luxury few of high birth could afford—and when they do, it often ends with tragedy.”

Joanna’s mouth twisted. “But she gets to wed a highlord, while my cousin is saddled with… a daughter of an up-jumped toll-taker.”

“A powerful up-jumped toll-taker,” Rhaella said. “The Freys can muster more than three thousand men, as many as House Lannister’s most powerful bannermen.”

As cold as it sounded, a Frey marriage was more useful to Tywin than Joanna could ever be. Though Rhaella doubted the future Lannister lord would ever swallow his pride and turn to House Frey for assistance, or that the peevish Walder Frey would ever move unless asked.

Perhaps Tywin would come to love his Frey wife with time… 

To her great surprise, the Starks approached Rhaella after breakfast was done.

“May we beg a word, Princess Rhaella?”

Ser Gerold Hightower stepped to her side, eying the Wandering Wolf with caution, even though the man was unarmed. While dressed in a plain doublet of grey velvet, the Northerner was half a head taller than most and strongly built. His Flint wife was anything but, looking like half a child next to him with her short and slender frame, though her grey eyes had a sharpness Rhaella had rarely seen in a lady. She moved with predatory grace that even put her own mother to shame. 

“You may,” Rhaella said with a soft smile, though she was just as cautious as her white cloak. House Stark was the beginning of the end for the House of the Dragon, even though they would have been the greatest victim of Aerys’s madness… greater than herself.

“We have a gift for you, princess,” said Arya Flint with a deep, husky voice that was halfway suggestive.

“A gift?” Rhaella quirked a brow. “On what occasion?”

The Northern lady gave her a sheepish smile. “Your name-day. We meant to attend, but a terrible flash flood stranded us in the Velvet Hills for over a moon.” 

Rhaella studied the woman and found only earnestness in her eyes. Not long ago, she would have been greatly flattered by the attention. Not a soul would know if they failed to arrive and grant their gift, no matter how rude it would seem. But now, she was no longer the future queen, merely a princess ‘spurned’ by her own brother—a fact they would have found swiftly after coming to the Red Keep.

‘What are you after?’ Did they mean to court her in the name of the Stark heir?

“Very well,” she said instead. The idea of being the Lady of Winterfell was not half as terrible as Rhaella thought it would be. She had already abandoned the Seven, and embracing the Old Gods would see her beloved by the Northmen. The seat of House Stark was said to be a great castle, second only to Harrenhal in size, where old magic made its very walls keep hot even in the fiercest of winters.

To her great surprise, the gift in question was a young royal wedge-tailed eagle from the high hills of the Axe.

“I can tell you have a fate for hawking,” Arya Flint said with a knowing smile as she placed a silver cage in Rhaella’s arms.

The eagle inside was smaller than a cat, with grey-brown plumage and a head crowned by black feathers. Golden eyes blinked at her, and a jolt ran down her spine, and the princess could sense the fledgling with her mind.

The edges of her lips twitched despite herself. “Your name shall be Vhagar,” she cooed at the eagle, and received a chirp.

“It’s no mean feat to tame a royal wedge-tailed eagle, princess,” Rodrik said gruffly. “All eagles are vicious beasts, and these can get territorial and vicious when grown, fearlessly attacking things thrice their size. Young as this one might look, it’s a stubborn thing that survived the long journey where four of her clutchmates perished.”

Vhagar was anything but vicious and stubborn, eagerly leaning her head in to brush against Rhaella’s fingers.

The princess reluctantly parted with her eagle, giving him to the falconer for training. 

Finding the Northern couple to her liking, Rhaella invited them into her wheelhouse.

They chatted on the way to the Great Sept for the ceremony, and the princess finally found out their goal. To her great dismay, she was not meant to be the next Lady Stark—that honour fell on their younger daughter Lyarra, who was already betrothed to Rickard Stark and staying in Winterfell. 

Rodrik, in a refreshing manner, had been blunt about their goal. “My dear Branda is already a woman, flowered and grown, and we mean to find her a proper match—she had been gloomy ever since Lyarra was betrothed. We hoped that…”

“I shall take her as my lady-in-waiting,” Rhaella promised quickly. “Though I’m surprised you have not approached Lady Genna with this instead.”

“I don’t like her,” Arya said, glancing about warily as if the wheelhouse had ears. Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Too ambitious, to steal another woman’s betrothed. I don’t want my daughter to fall into the quagmire of courtly games.”

“Quagmire?” The princess tasted the word in her mouth and found it fitting. “No soul in the Red Keep can avoid the affairs of the court, I’m afraid.”

“But you follow the Old Gods princess,” Rodrik Stark said simply, as if that explained everything.

Perhaps it did. It certainly explained why Rhaella had no memory of the Wandering Wolf or his daughter passing through King’s Landing before.

The notion sent Rhaella deep into thought. She had never thought much of the belief of the Old Gods—they had no priests, no ceremonies, no holy days, only worshipping the nameless gods of stream and stone, of forest and wind. Yet it seemed their power was still there, if far more subtle and elusive than what the Faith of the Seven loved to boast.

Rhaella felt like a cheat. She had not turned her prayers to the Old Gods, merely abandoned the Seven because they had abandoned her.

But perhaps… perhaps it would be prudent to worship them. They were harsh and cold and merciless like the very weirwood trees, but undoubtedly real—they had granted her request and allowed her to glimpse into her future and change it.

Tywin stepped into the Great Sept’s altar like a man walking to the scaffold. But he said his vows, if through a clenched jaw, and stiffly clasped the great golden lion of Lannister across Perianne Frey’s shoulders. The princess studied the crowd of guests, searching for clues of the murderous schemer. This was the perfect time to stir up trouble.

She found none—probably because the royal household guard had come in strong numbers, bolstered by Frey and Lannister men. 

Rhaella’s mood soured again when her brother did not spare her a single glance for the whole day, even when they sat at the same table, but she couldn’t muster the courage to start a talk.

She couldn’t muster the words to apologise either.

‘I’m sorry for setting you up, brother. I saw in my dreams that you would torment me greatly in the future, and I wished to avoid a lifetime of misery.’

As if that wouldn’t slight Aerys further. Branda had yet to join her and was sent to a lower table. Her mother had begrudgingly agreed to her new choice of a lady, but still refused to change the seating arrangements at the last moment.

“You named your eagle after the kinslayer’s dragon?” she asked, lips thinning in displeasure. 

Rhaella met her gaze without flinching. “Queen Visenya’s dragon, mother. Aemond One-Eye only rode her for a mere decade, whereas the Conqueror’s sister soared the skies on her back for half a century.”

Even the sweetest Reach vintage felt too bitter to swallow that night, and Rhaella drained cup after cup of freshly squeezed apple juice. The evening feast saw the Great Hall overflowing with revelry, though this time none approached Rhaella for a dance. Even the swaggering Stevron Frey turned around when she glanced his way, and the usually smiling Steffon gave her an apologetic smile and did not approach either. Her own ladies-in-waiting avoided her gaze.

Midway, Joanna tugged at her sleeve. “Your face is scary, princess.”

Why was her voice quivering?

“You have a mean glare,” Melony added, mirth dancing across her blue eyes. Then, her eyes settled on one of the other tables. “At least someone is having a grand time.”

Rhaella followed her gaze and found her cousin Maegor, toasting the Frey lord and his sons with a smile wider than Walder Frey’s, eating like a man starved and drinking like a soul who hadn’t had a lick of drink in days.

As if sensing her gaze, he turned around and gave her a lecherous grin, wiggling his eyebrows.

“A shameless sot finds wine sweetest in the misfortune of his betters,” Rhaella said with a sneer, turning her attention back to the honeyed peaches. But no matter how she dipped them in honey, they were not sweet enough.

The call for a bedding came swiftly enough, and the princess remained seated firmly on her bench as she watched the crowd rise like a wave, taking up Tywin and Perriante, eager hands ripping their garments off.

Now was the perfect moment to excuse herself from the feast, and the sorrowful Joanna trailed after her. A part of it was her bladder that threatened to burst if not given a swift relief. She had drunk too much apple juice. A visit to the privy made her feel lighter, but not by much.

Joanna followed her everywhere like a lost lamb, even though it was not her turn to keep her company this night, and the princess had no heart to turn her away. Melony quickly came to Rhaella’s quarters before they were ready to sleep.

“The bed is large enough for the three of us,” the Lyseni maiden said with a coy smile. “Though you missed a great spectacle—Lord Frey had demanded to keep the door open, and Lord Lannister was swift to agree. The whole of House Frey slipped in to observe the newlyweds’ first coupling, watching them on as if they were beasts in a mummer’s show.”

The princess was unsurprised at Lord Frey’s audacity, but Joanna paled even further and fled the room.

“That was ill-spoken,” Rhaella said coldly. 

“I apologise.” Melony dipped her head, but her tone did not sound one whit regretful. “How about I make it up to you, Rhaella?”

Rhaella wanted nothing more than to sink into her soft feather bed and disappear for the night, but her body felt jittery and something… wiggled in the back of her mind.

“Do you know how to wield a dagger?”

“I do,” Melony said, fingers coiling across her ruby bracelet. “Though my skills might come short of a knight.”

Gods be good, Rhaella did not trust the Lyseni maiden at all. Whitedream said she was hiding her true self behind some sort of charm. But who could she trust? She would have trusted her kin once, but now…

If the glimpse into the future had taught her a thing, it was that all trust was fragile. Alliances could sunder at the wrong word, and friends would turn to enemies over the pettiest of things. Rhaella did not trust Whitedream either. His lessons were not the boon she had hoped they would be. Magic was not something to be rushed, but gods, Rhaella did not expect miracles; she only wished he had not been so surly each lesson, swifter to reprimand than her mother at her slightest mistake.

Gods, she was tired, even though she had scarcely done a thing but eat today. A dull ache pulsed in her head. Her shoulders were too small to bear the burden of the House of the Dragon. Some would say it was not her mantle to wear, for she would not inherit the Iron Throne, nor would her children.

But she refused to give up. 

“Teach me,” Rhaella said, clenching her jaw. “And not a word to anyone, or I will find a way to make your stay in the Red Keep miserable, even if it’s the last thing I will do.”

Author’s Endnote: Whew, that chapter was probably the hardest and the easiest to write. Took my sick, woozy head the whole three days to write, but somewhere towards the end, I finally had a revelation. Something just clicked, and writing Rhaella came far easier.

Weirdly enough, the Rhaella PoV was meant to be a short chapter before I move to Jon. But I realised… it wouldn’t do her justice, and I need to show more, especially since this might be the last Rhaella PoV for a while.