2.Dreams of Frost

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The Betrayed Lord Commander

Longclaw stabbed at the ice, aiming for the chest of the Cold One.

TING!

A shrill sound tore through the air, as terrible as the wailing of a dying beast. Jon’s wrists rattled at the recoil, and he almost dropped his sword. 

Cracks spreading like a spiderweb had appeared where he had struck, but the ice was still whole. The snowy ice underneath was too slippery. With such uneasy footing, it was hard to exert his full strength.

Yet he gritted his teeth, clasped the hilt with both hands, and stabbed, putting all his weight into the lunge.

CRACK!

Longclaw’s tip sank deeper into the hard, crystalline barrier. The spiderweb cracks widened, swiftly spreading further, as the cracking sound echoed in the clearing like a gong. 

The ice and the Other inside crumbled into a thousand pieces, turning into pristine glacial water that drained at the bottom of the clearing. 

Jon gasped for breath, pained wheezes slipping from his mouth along with a misty breath. His body felt tired and weak. His hands had borne the brunt of the strike and now trembled. Gods, he was tired. The exhaustion wasn’t merely physical but mental, too. The fate of the Night’s Watch rested on his shoulders, even though his sworn brothers had betrayed him. He had spent so much time training, thinking, and plotting for the slightest way for the Order to rise again. What did it get him?

Daggers in the dark. Daggers to his belly, daggers to his back. 

It was the bastard’s letter, he knew. It had killed him as surely as any sword. It had killed him for his folly. The love for a sister against his duty had pulled him in a different direction, and they had torn him apart.

‘Love is the death of duty, the bane of honour. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. It is our great glory and our great tragedy.’

Aemon had warned him, then. He had warned him. Kill the boy, Jon Snow.

Now, he had no honour, not even duty, and the love was gone too. He had failed. Arya… had never been there. Perhaps she was dead. Jon had become as good as an oathbreaker in the eyes of the Night’s Watch, the very brothers he was supposed to lead. How would the Wall fare without him?

He was tired. Was this a punishment from the gods?

Jon wanted to lie down and sleep. The cold made him drowsy, creeping into his flesh as if his garments and cloak were not there. It would be easy just to close his eyes and let go, even if he knew this would be a sleep he would never wake from. The snow would cover him like a quilt of white—a funeral shroud best suited for a Snow. It was quiet here, too. There were worse places to die. Worse ways to die. 

Then, his eyes flicked back to the big shard of ice where the eerie yet beautiful creatures slumbered inside. 

Perhaps this was not a punishment but a boon. A chance at redemption. A chance to set things right. He was already dead by betrayal, and the cold would take him soon.

“I—” The cold choked the words in his throat. It already felt raw with pain, with the chill in the air. Frost was already forming over his cloak and limbs, and his hands began to tremble. Jon gritted his teeth with a hiss and slapped his face with all his strength. The force made him taste iron on his tongue, and he saw stars.

“I—” the word wrenched out of his throat with a pained hiss, but he did not stop. “I a-am the s-s-sword in t-the d-darkness!” 

The words were feeble as they echoed in the cold, but they gave him strength he did not think he had. Teeth gritted, Jon lunged at the next shard, piercing it in one go.

Crack!

It broke, crumbling into a thousand shards, melting into cool, crystalline water beneath his gaze. His wrists jolted with pain again, but he paid them no heed. This time, Jon’s gaze traced the water down to the bottom of the clearing, where the melted water pooled around a rock. It was a misshapen, oily-looking thing, the colour of coal. No, it seemed darker, blacker, as if it was drinking upon the light coming from the seven-coloured curtain above. 

His breath was coming in ragged, pained wheezes. His hands felt stiff. It didn’t matter. He moved to the next translucent piece of ice.

“I…” It was too cold. His tongue felt heavy, laden with frost, and his mouth and face burned from the cold. It didn’t matter. 

I am the watcher on the walls…

Jon lunged, stabbing his sword with all his weight again.

Crack!

His body felt sluggish and weak. His legs felt like lead, his hands hurt, and even squeezing his gloved fingers around Longclaw was becoming a struggle. Jon wanted to sleep.

His gaze went through the clearing, and his heart sank. There were too many ice shards. At least a hundred remained, and he already felt tired after three, and the cold was too much. It was too fierce. His bare throat and eyelids felt stiff and heavy with frost, as if they were about to freeze.

His whole body was about to turn into an icicle, he knew. Only Longclaw seemed unaffected by the chill; the dark ripples across the length of the blade glistened as if alive. The hint of ice water on the blade did not seem to freeze, merely dripping down.

His hands and legs were already shaking, and even his muscles trembled underneath the layers of fur, leather, and wool as if trying to shake off the cold. But the cold was everywhere, unshakeable, slowly but surely seeping into wool, flesh, and bone. 

Jon took another step forward, cursing inwardly as he gripped Longclaw’s hilt harder. His hands stopped trembling, but his legs didn’t. Move. Move!

I am the flame that burns against the cold!

His intentions were pure and clear, but reality was cruel.

When Longclaw struck again, it glanced off the ice, failing to pierce through it and reach the heart of the slumbering Other. The recoil almost made him drop the sword, and the tinging echo lingered in the air, dazing his mind further. Gods, he was tired.

Too tired. All he wanted to do was close his eyes and sleep, and the idea was becoming more tempting as frost bound his face and seared his skin like a flame. There was no escape from the cold, he knew deep in his heart.

Regardless of how he struggled, this would be his tomb in the end.

Jon wrenched the sword out.

But his body was too tired, and the snow and ice underneath were too slippery. 

When he slid, his body was too stiff from the chill, and he tumbled down to the bottom of the basin. Jon splashed in the crystalline water. It was cold, so cold it burned as if he had fallen into liquid frost. He gasped for air, but burning cold entered his mouth, seeping into his lungs and belly.

The Desperate Princess

Rhaella shivered. It was so cold, she started shaking like a lone leaf in a storm. This was a dream, she could tell by the blurry visage around her. But the chill was real, seeping into her very mind within mere seconds.

She reached to pull the hems of her cloak tighter, and the chill lessened to a degree she could tolerate. 

Wait, a cloak?

Her cloak… was crimson, but not made out of fabric. Five-pronged leaves, the colour of freshly drawn blood, had been woven together, flowing over her shoulders like a sinister waterfall of crimson. The sight itself chilled her blood more than the cold. Weirwood leaves.

There was a presence in the air. Something cold and malignant made her soul tremble, as if she were peering into the abyss. Rhaella felt small, then. Insignificant, like a little gnat that could be trampled by a giant in a heartbeat.

But the presence seemed to disdain her, as if she were not even worth paying attention to. Then, it withdrew, as if returning to slumber.

Cautiously, Rhaella did the only thing she could do here. Looking around. It was a basin bound in ice and snow, and down at the very bottom, she saw a drake fallen in a crystalline lake, struggling as if the waters were trying to devour it. Frost was creeping across scales. They were darker than ink, yet when she peered closer, dark blue glistened at their edges as a sapphire under the sun. 

It struggled and struggled, but to no avail, and Rhaella felt pity. She knew how terrible this cold was, and this was a terrible way to end.

‘You can help it,’ a voice echoed. It was a young, throaty voice full of inexplicable charm.

“Who?” Rhaella asked, turning around.

But there was nobody behind her.

‘You won’t see me, no matter how hard you look,’ the voice echoed, words laced with faint amusement. ‘I am not really here.’

Rhaella looked around, but truly did not see anyone.

‘Quickly,’ the voice urged. ‘I cannot linger here for long unnoticed.’

Her gaze settled on the drake fallen in the water. Now, only its tail twitched, and frost had almost covered it fully. The sight made her heart ache.

“What do I do?” she asked.

‘Give it a weirwood—’

The voice came to a screeching halt. A thousand beetles crawled up Rhaella’s spine as the eerie presence from earlier returned, then went over the clearing. Then, it was gone as suddenly as it appeared. Yet, the voice she heard did not return either.

Quaking in her boots, she fearfully glanced at the drake. Gods, she wanted nothing more than to run away. But… then the drake would die. 

Give it a weirwood… what? A leaf? The whole cloak?

But the pitiful sight before her reminded Rhaella of her own struggle. In truth, the drake was no different from herself, but her prison was a thing made by men, not the fury of nature, but no less escapable. 

Rhaella descended to the bottom of the basin, let go of the hems of her weirwood cloak, and unhesitantly unlatched it from her shoulders. The cold returned with a vengeance, but she did not hesitate, draping the crimson leaves over the drake.

Harrenhal

Rhaella woke up feeling dizzy. 

She knew the dream was over, for the chill was gone now, and the heat of summer had returned. Her bed was stuffed with something warm, wrapped in many layers of padded cloth. 

Her body felt weak, as if her strength had been drained away. Perhaps it had. 

“You scared everyone, little Rhae,” said an old, ageing voice.

Rhaella cracked her eyes open and found the world shaky. After blinking a few times, it all came together.

Her grandmother, Betha Blackwood, wife of King Aegon the Unlikely and the queen of the realm, stood beside her bed. Her black hair was peppered with grey, and her face had begun to wrinkle as she neared sixty, but it still held the stern beauty she had possessed in her youth. Rhaella had seen portraits of her youth when she had married Aegon, and they had looked so happy on the canvas, soft smiles dancing about their faces. But those days seemed to have long passed—the princess had never seen them so smiling and unburdened.

Even now, Betha’s dark eyes were filled with worry.

“What—what happened?”

A shadow of displeasure passed over her grandmother’s face, but then it was gone so quickly Rhaella might as well have imagined it. 

“You did something in the godswood,” Betha said softly. Her eyes grew harsh then, but the princess could tell the ire was not aimed at her. “Something very foolish and twice as dangerous. Ser Rolland brought you back with a bleeding hand, all feverish, and we all feared you’d never wake again.”

“I… what?”

Her grandmother reached out, gently picking her hand. It was bandaged with white linen, and the scent of herbs and poultices tickled her nose.

“Do you know how dangerous it is to court the Old Gods?” the queen said, her voice growing cold. “The Old Gods are harsh, unforgiving, much like the wrath of nature itself. They care little for humans and the affairs of men.”

Rhaella’s mouth turned dry. ‘I wanted to see the future,’ she wanted to say. ‘I wanted to… avoid a lifetime of misery.’

“I know,” she said instead, her courage faltering at Betha’s stern visage. “Forgive me, grandmother.”

Her grandmother’s lips twitched, and she reached out a hand to stroke Rhaella’s cheek. 

“Your grandfather was furious,” she murmured. “Not at you, of course. Aegon finally remembered he wore a crown. Despite your parents’ protest, he ordered the dwarf woman beheaded, and the godswood overturned to find your dragon egg.”

Rhaella’s veins turned to ice. She was the cause of this, with her deadly curiosity. Ah, ah, she had killed an innocent woman.

As if reading her mind, her grandmother continued, “The old thing did not die, of course. She disappeared into thin air, and the whole castle has been searching for her for ten days. The dwarf woman has been declared an outlaw and a thief, and the bounty on her head is over thirty thousand dragons.”

“Ten days?” Rhaella echoed numbly. Had she been asleep for so long?

“Yes.” Betha’s eyes grew distant. “They have not yet found your egg, too, as if thinking they could retrieve what was willingly given to the gods. I barely managed to save the heart tree—your grandfather had his mind set on cutting it down and digging out all the roots. In the end, he only agreed to dig out the roots at the side where the egg was lost, and half the godswood had been dug through. Lord Whent is furious, but he knows better than to complain. And then, there was the ice.” 

Her grandmother withdrew her hand and made a sign to ward off evil. “It’s in the midst of summer, so hot you can choose a stone at noon and scramble an egg on it for lunch. Yet, your body was covered by ice so cold that you scared even the maester senseless. For eight days, they heated stones, rolled them in linen and cotton, and put them in your bed to keep you warm. Your mother would have gone mad with worry if the maester didn’t assure you were in good health, merely too tired to wake.”

So that’s why her bed felt so warm.

Wait, the ice… she remembered the cold. It was supposed to be just a dream. Rhaella felt her hair stand on end, and she balled her hands into fists to stop them from shaking.

‘Dreams are as dangerous as the shadows on the wall. They can kill.’

The dwarf woman’s words echoed in her head like a death knell.

“I told him it was too early for a betrothal,” her grandmother continued, a hint of anger sneaking into her voice. “You know, Aegon had always been against the incest in the royal family. There’s no need without the dragons, he often said. It was better to make alliances instead.”

But then his children defied him. Rhaella knew how that tale ended. Everyone in the seven kingdoms did.

“Then, why did he allow the betrothal between me and Aerys?”

Something cold flickered in her grandmother’s gaze. Faint disapproval. 

“Because your parents and uncle already offended the highlords of the realm,” was the wry reply. “No matter how odd and repulsive, I find brothers taking their sisters for wives. Seeing it happen to my own children drove me into a fit of rage that words cannot describe, even if it has been the way for centuries in the House of the Dragon. The arrow has been let loose, and now the only means that could get the reluctant bannermen in line are dragons.”

So it was not merely the words of a woodswitch that had spurned the birth of this union. But why did her grandmother avoid her gaze? 

“Dragons are not so easily hatched,” Rhaella said. “If it were so simple, they would have returned long before I was born.”

Betha let out a fond chuckle. “You’ve grown sharper, little Rhae.”

She was not sharp or smart, Rhaella knew. All those visions were too vivid in her mind, the scenes of her terrible future seared into her memory like a brand. She could close her eyes and see her brother’s terrible visage as he cackled madly and ordered people to fiery deaths. She could still hear her own screams.

“Now.” Her grandmother cleared her throat. “What drove you to do all that? Your brother Aerys, for all of his youthful fancy, is not terrible and has as much choice in this matter as you do. He came to visit you here twice a day without fail, genuinely concerned for you.”

‘He’s not terrible yet,’ Rhaella wanted to yell, her frustrations rising again. ‘If you could see what I have seen…’

“I… I’m afraid,” she sobbed out. “I don’t want to wed yet. Not Aerys. Can I… can I just marry someone else?”

Betha sighed.

“Your father is set on this match,” she said. “With the plans of dragons hatching, all of them must be in the family.”

“But you don’t approve?” Rhaella asked hopefully.

Betha Blackwood laughed. It was a bitter, joyless sound.

“My approval has little to do with the matter.” The queen closed her eyes. “It’s already announced. Your grandfather reluctantly gave his tacit approval as it aligns with his plans, and your parents are in full agreement with your marriage. Worse, the royal family already looks weak in the eyes of the realm and cannot afford another scandal.”

“I…” the words choked in her throat. Was her union with Aerys inevitable? Even her grandmother, a queen for over two decades, was powerless to stop it. Was Rhaella fated to suffer?

“It won’t be so bad,” Betha comforted, her voice growing soft as she patted Rhaella’s arm. “While nobility rarely marries for love, such luxuries are nigh impossible for royalty. Duty is what matters, and it shall make you a queen, much like me.”

Yet Betha had married for love. Her union with Aegon Targaryen had carried no political considerations, facilitated solely by the affection of the two. The fourth son of a fourth son, nobody had blinked an eye at a Blackwood match, for Aegon was too far from the Iron Throne at the time.

Yet he became a king regardless. Aegon the Unlikely, many called him.

It wasn’t fair. 

Nothing in this world was fair, she knew. But Rhaella did not want to be Aerys’s wife. She did not want to be queen.

“I… I’m afraid,” she said, her voice quivering. “I fear they’ll wed me as soon as I flower.”

“A maiden flowered is half a woman,” her grandmother said. “Many maidens flower at four and ten. Five and ten, even.”

“What if I flower next moon?” the princess asked shakily. “I dreamed of it. I dreamed my moonblood would come before the year turns. I’m still two and ten.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve had dreams and nightmares for years before my moonblood came. Many girls do, and it’s not that scary.”

Rhaella’s heart broke a little.

Dismissed. Her terrible future had just been dismissed as a nightmare. But perhaps it was a nightmare. She desperately wanted it to be a night terror that would pass. But dreams could be real, like a terrible frost taking hold of her in the midst of summer, the princess knew. They were all too real. 

“You don’t understand,” Rhaella bemoaned, clutching her head.

“Then, explain it to me,” the queen said patiently, folding her hands over her lap.

Delay. She needed at least to delay, hoping to find a way out in the future. 

“I’m afraid an early marriage will damage my womb,” the princess said desperately, groping for a way out in the dark. “Aemma Arryn wed Viserys Targaryen at ten and had terrible difficulty carrying a child to term. She died in the birthing bed.”

And so would Rhaella in the future if nothing changed. Rhaella had seen an older her, a queen losing too many babes. Aerys, in all of his paranoia, had guarded against poison and all threats, so the young princess did not think someone had bypassed her brother’s heavy suspicions. Unless someone mysteriously poisoned her with the same thing Aemma Arryn was poisoned with, the cause was different. 

“You’re two and ten, nearing three and ten soon,” Betha said. “Easily two years older than Queen Aemma when she married. Still, you’re not wrong. It’s quite young, and maesters say young wives are at greater peril in the birthing bed, both for the babe and the mother. And the damage would be done even if the woman grows older. But you can just take moon tea until you’re ready to carry a babe to term.”

Wasn’t moon tea itself dangerous if taken for long? Wouldn’t it just be quenching thirst with poison? 

Rhaella knew marrying too young was wrong, but didn’t think it would be this… bad. Would she suffer so greatly because her own parents and grandfather wanted to wed her off for expediency?

No, reason here would not work. She was not in a place where she could bargain. She had nothing to negotiate with. A princess was powerless, Rhaella knew. Her aunt Rhaelle had been dutiful, and she got sent off to Storm’s End to marry Lord Baratheon for it.

“Grandmother, can you help me delay it, at least until I’ve come of age?” Rhaella reached out, clutching the queen’s hand desperately. “I’m just… too afraid. I have never asked anything else of you. Just help me this once.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Betha Blackwood said, standing up. “Wedding on the day you become a woman grown is also considered auspicious, even if your brother is to be your husband. Fret not, convincing your grandfather won’t be too hard. But you must prepare yourself for this. A child’s fear can help you delay for now, but once you’ve grown, there will be no more delay. The duties of a wife and queen are never easy.”

Her grandmother left her room, and Rhaella slumped on the bed, feeling drained. Was that what the drake felt when struggling against the cold? It was not a victory yet, not until her grandfather agreed. Even if he did, it would not be a victory, merely a delay that would purchase her three more years.

She dreamed again. It was warm this time. She felt as light as a feather as her wings struck against the wind, and she soared through the sky.

Below was a great lake with an island shrouded in mist in the middle. The Gods Eye. 

She curiously peered into the mystical place but sensed a presence looking back at her and recoiled—

Rhaella awoke drenched in a cold sweat, seeing the familiar ceiling of her guest room. The wooden beams were pale, hewn out of weirwood and painted with varnish that failed to darken them.

Her heart was racing again, yet her mind felt distant, as if nothing in the world mattered. She tensed her back as if ready to flap her wings and fly away, but she was no longer a bird.

Gods, was she going mad?

The sluggishness of her mind was gone. Her body only felt weak and sweaty, with her nightshift sticking to her body like glue, and her belly growled to announce its displeasure at the lack of sustenance.

Rhaella pulled at the silken cord, and the bell rang. Before long, footsteps tumbled across the hallway outside as servants slipped in, bowing deeply.

“Draw me a bath,” she commanded. “And bring me something to eat.”

“The king expects you in the private dining room once you awake, princess,” one of the handmaids said fretfully.

They did not even give her time to rest.

“Nonsense,” an angry voice came from the door. Rhaella’s heart skipped a beat as she hastily threw her pale satin cloak over her shoulders. “My sister spent ten days in bed, and you want her to go out and about before she has recovered? I’ll speak to the king myself.”

There he was, at the door. Aerys. Her brother. Her future husband and her tormentor.

His face was sharp, and with a stern expression and a doublet of crimson silk slashed with black, he looked like every inch the future king.

“Go draw my sister a bath,” he said, dismissing the handmaids with a wave. “Should keep you clucking hens busy.”

The handmaids rushed out, faces flushed while stealing glances at Aerys Targaryen. 

“Brother,” Rhaella greeted, skittishly bowing her head as the two siblings were now alone in the room.

“Rhae,” Aerys returned, a soft smile returning to his face. He looked handsome, then. Dashing and nothing like the madman he would become. “Are you feeling well?”

Rhaella’s nervousness eased then. He was here, smiling genuinely. Her elder brother was still untouched by years of grief and rule and madness. The elder brother, who still acted like a brother. She couldn’t bring herself to hate him.

“Better than before,” the princess said at last. “Thank you for coming to see me.”

“If your brother doesn’t care for you, who will?” Aerys said, voice proud as he slapped his chest.

And gods, he was honest, which felt like a stab through her chest. He meant every word. His concern was genuine, and this was not some empty platitude thrown at court or a husband’s right taken with abandon. Even his gaze was clear. Rhaella knew Aerys could be a lecher, even before the vision, but he could be charming and courteous and the perfect brother when the situation called for it.

She wanted to cry then. Weep for the kind and dashing brother she loved, the brother who would be lost.

“Thank you,” the princess eked out weakly, no longer wary of her brother.

“Damn, you must really be upset,” Aerys murmured, his face darkening. “If I ever find that dwarf woman…”

“She didn’t do anything,” Rhaella said weakly. “Merely indulging my curiosity.”

Her brother regarded her coolly. “You lost your dragon egg and stabbed yourself. I really don’t know what Aunt Jenny thought of bringing that creature to court. Forget about dwarves and witches. You gave us all quite a fright with that little stunt of yours—stealing off to the godswood to kneel beneath the heart tree, whispering prayers to the old gods. You were brought up in the Light of the Seven and could recite half the Seven-Pointed Star for Septa Melona.”

Reciting the Seven-Pointed Star did nothing, Rhaella knew. It brought her no comfort, no respite, no help in a time of need. It helped her little when her own brother would turn his claws towards her. The Old Gods… they were scary. But they were real. Their power was tangible; she had felt it.

“Our grandmother is a Blackwood,” she said. “The Old Gods are our legacy as surely as the Seven. I just wanted to see—we don’t have a heart tree in the Red Keep. King Baelor had it chopped down and dug out the roots.”

Aerys snorted. “That he did. The Northmen ignored the Iron Throne for nearly half a century after Baelor the Befuddled, and the wolves were far from the only ones slighted. If not for King Viserys II’s stable hand, half the realm would have rebelled.”

An involuntary giggle escaped from her lips. Then, it died in her throat. ‘Half the realm would rebel the moment you push them, brother, and it will be our deaths.’

The bitter knowledge of the future left her reeling. She hated her curiosity back then, even if she would do it all over again. The regret of her actions was fleeting. Rhaella just wished… she just wished the future would have been kinder to her.

“Anyway, we’re now betrothed,” her brother said lightly. “It’s not exactly ideal, but we must do our duty.”

There was a stiffness in his words, and his jaw tightened so slightly that Rhaella wouldn’t have seen it if he didn’t know what to look for. Aerys wasn’t happy with it either, she realised.

“Yes, we must,” Rhaella Targaryen said weakly.

Aerys cleared his throat, looking somehow abashed. “Regardless, all that stuff of marriages and crowns is far away, so don’t fret over it. Grandfather has a lot more to live. Father is young, too, merely three and thirty. By the time we have to deal with royal affairs, we will have grandchildren of our own.”

This was her brother’s way of assuaging her fears. It would have been sweet if she had not known that Summerhall was drawing near, and with it came the death of half their family and the start of her torment…

But now, she had procured enough time to plan for herself. Rhaella now knew the future, and now she merely had to figure out how to shift it. Her mind still felt swollen and muddled.

“Can you get the servants to bring me a meal?” she said. “Something light for my belly.”

“I’ll get to it,” her brother promised, smiling. “I’ll go tell grandfather you’re still recovering and are too tired to be paraded in the hall.”

“Thank you,” Rhaella said, trying to hold back her tears.

Damn it. 

Damn it all!

Why couldn’t her Aerys… remain gentle like this forever?

“The old Whent Lord wishes us gone, I can tell.” Her brother’s face twisted into a snarl. “The fool’s line would still be landed knights if not for great-grandfather’s generosity back then. Half-peasants daring to act presumptuously before the royal family, ha!”

“It’s my fault.” Rhaella gave him a brittle smile. “I did ruin their wedding celebration with my actions.”

And her grandfather’s presence alone warded off all other guests that would have come.

Aerys let out a short chuckle. “It’s this giant half-ruin of a castle that is the problem. Anyway, I brought you a small gift for your recovery. I’ll speak with mother, father, and grandfather and tell them not to disturb you needlessly.”

He placed a small brocade satchel on her nightstand and left, giving her one final smile. Her eyes settled on the gift, and she felt curiosity gnaw in her belly. Or perhaps it was the hunger. She slowly reached out, untying the string, and something pale tumbled into her hands. A masterfully crafted hairpin, shaped like a dragon’s wing, with the tapering prong in the form of a slender dragon’s tail. It was bone white but warm to the touch—weirwood, most likely from one of the heart tree’s roots. With it was a brooch, carved into the likeness of the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, again in pale weirwood. 

Both were exactly to her liking. While they lacked the shine of gold and silver, the pale colour of weirwood brought out a cold beauty to the ornaments that were in no way inferior, and it matched her hair. Her brother could be scarily observant when he wished. 

Rhaella looked at the two gifts with mixed feelings for a whole minute before eventually taking them in. 

It was intricate work; whoever carved it was definitely a master.

The serving maids knocked on the door, announcing their presence and breaking Rhaella from her trance. They brought her the bath and a piping hot chicken stew laden with herbs and finely sliced vegetables. It easily melted in her mouth as she took her first bite, and for a short while, Rhaella forgot her worries. 

Once done with her meal and bath, the princess fell back to her bed and surrendered to the sweet allure of sleep.

She dreamed poorly again, dreaming of skies and clouds and a woman wailing in the distance, but the moment she woke, the dream slipped from her mind like water through a sieve. 

The next day, she felt well enough to stroll to the balcony, stretching her feet. The weather was overcast and smelled fresh like it always did after a night of rain. The arid heat in the air had finally dissipated, giving way to something more bearable. She felt something, a faint desire, a curiosity towards her south. Rhaella let her eyes wander until they were set on the misty mass in the middle of the Gods Eye lake and sighed. 

Then, she pushed the feeling to a corner of her mind and made to return to her rooms. Rhaella had had enough of magic and gods for now.

“Did you hear?” a maid whispered behind a corner.

Rhaella paused, looking worried.

“I hear many things,” was the droll reply. “What gossip did you hear this time?”

“I heard it from a royal knight,” a daintier voice said. “He said a new Blackfyre has taken charge of the Golden Company.”

“Heard it from a royal knight?” the second one snorted, more amused than disdainful. “More like you snuck into his bed.” 

‘What would happen will happen with or without her,’ Rhaella wryly thought, heading back to her room quietly. The rise and fall of Blackfyre was something long set in motion even before she was born.

Ser Rolland was not the one assigned to her today, but the stern-faced Ser Gerold Hightower, who spoke little and did even less. He was the most dangerous knight in the kingsguard after Ser Duncan, many said, and the princess believed it. Yet his sharp eyes never left Rhaella, as if afraid she would disappear or do something foolish if he looked away.

Her brother came to visit again, as did her grandmother, and even her cousin Steffon, who was looking guilty. “I promised to escort you that night, but—”

“It’s no fault of yours,” Rhaella assuaged. “Everything that happened was my choice. It’s I who should apologise for making you worry.”

Steffon had nodded and said nothing else, but the stubborn glint in his blue eyes told her this would not be the last of it. 

Her parents… her parents did not show their faces. They never came to see her. Were they feeling too guilty to face their daughter after the forced betrothal when they had married for love? 

Rhaella’s heart sank again. Duty, both her parents talked to her about duty and family, but what did they know of duty? What did they know of family?!

Then, as her mood fell even lower, Ser Gerold’s silver-haired head peered through the door.

“The steward’s daughter is here, begging for a visit,” he said, his voice emotionless. With his pale blue eyes and nearly white hair, the Hightower knight could be mistaken for a Targaryen, but Rhaella knew better. The line of Hightower often had light hair that could be various shades of platinum—handsome enough to look at but without the delicate charm of those with Valyrian blood. 

“Let her in,” Rhaella said, taking a deep breath. A part of her wanted to do something, anything to keep her mind occupied, but another part whispered it would be futile. Her nerves were stretched too thin to do proper embroidery.

This time, Alyssa Terrick was far more subdued, probably because of the faint bruise marring her dimpled face.

“Your Grace, I apologise for leading you to the godswood,” she said, curtsying deeply.

“I wouldn’t have gone if I did not feel curious,” Rhaella said, frowning. “What happened to your face?”

Alyssa averted her eyes and mumbled, “I didn’t pay attention and walked into a closed door.”

Rhaella’s insides twisted as realisation sank in. The steward’s daughter was struck for implicating the princess. It could have been her own father, even Lord Whent himself, or… Aerys. Her brother was protective and would not hesitate to strike for her sake. He would not hesitate to strike her later, either.

It wasn’t fair. But if not for Alyssa’s curiosity, Rhaella would have never gone into the godswood. 

‘Curiosity killed the cat,’ her grandmother loved to say. ‘And hubris killed the dragon.’

“Regardless, I’m willing to serve you, Princess Rhaella,” Alyssa continued, mustering a brave smile. “As a common handmaid.”

Was she so desperate to cling to Aerys?

A common handmaid for a princess was more than a steward’s daughter who had lost her virtue could ever hope for. She would serve Rhaella in all the ways ladies-in-waiting would, but her duties would include cleaning, running lesser errands fit for lowborn servants, and following her every order without question, no matter what. But it was a better life than she could hope for now that her prospects were reduced to rich merchants and landless knights’ sons.

A plan started forming in Rhaella’s head. Alyssa could be useful, even if the previous events had struck down her ‘small ideas’ and she no longer dreamed of being a queen. Aerys had taken his pleasure and discarded her, as he had with many others. As he would many more.

“You can come with me to the Red Keep, then,” Rhaella said at last. “Pack your things and get ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”

Shifting fate. Rhaella knew too much about the future, and now, she felt a pang of greed. Desire. She wanted to shift fate. But just living better was not enough. Rhaella wanted more. Rhaella wanted the House of the Dragon to avoid tragedy so that her cousins, her uncle Duncan, and the rest of her kin could survive and rise.

But how could she save others when she couldn’t even save herself?

Could it be she had to tell someone about her vision?

Her grandfather… her grandfather was her best option. A king’s time was precious, as the whole court vied for his attention. But how could Rhaella tell him in a way that would make him believe? 

How could she get the king to listen to a twelve-year-old?

“Ser Gerold,” she asked after Alyssa had curtsied and left. “Would you believe me if I said I caught a glimpse of the future in my dreams?”

Ser Gerold Hightower’s stony face turned even stonier.

“I would advise you to keep your nose out of a nuisance like magic, princess,” he said, voice stern. “There’s no goodness or virtue in magic, and all who practice it are as dangerous as they are devious. Dark are the secrets of the arcane, and they have led many astray.”

Rhaella swallowed her retort as her nose crinkled and her vision swam. Her grandsire trusted magic little, either. Gods, she knew this would not be easy, but her shoulders felt too small to carry the burden of the House of the Dragon.

Author’s Endnote: And yet another chapter comes. Divergences will start slowly but surely. Just a heads up, Jon is currently seventeen, and Rhaella is merely twelve (and currently high on Old Gods’ coolaid), and I mean to write them as realistically as possible. Don’t expect some quick meet and greet and all that, both will have their own plot and story twisting and turning from each other.

And, of course, House Targaryen is a proper mess. 

Eldritch shenanigans are on the menu, and I have quite a lot of ideas about them. I did say this would be a dark/grim fic.