22.Ominous Awakening

259 AC, King’s Landing

The Young Princess 

Dim light slipped through the curtains, the sort that comes when it’s still day outside but the sky is cloudy. The waking world was not much better than the Dream. Her limbs had thinned and were now heavy and slow to obey, though her mind was surprisingly clear. 

Something had also changed in the air, but it was too subtle for Rhaella to pinpoint.

Moments after she stirred awake, Pycelle swept into the room, fussing over her and muttering under his breath. The feeling of weakness was not surprising, since she had been abed for eleven days, according to the Grand Maester. 

Only once Pycelle was certain she was hale and healthy and that her wits were whole did he allow her visitors. “I’m not quite certain what malady took hold of you, but it’s best you rest in bed for another three days,” he said sternly. The Grand Maester gave her one last look full of pity and left the room before she had the chance to inquire what had happened.

Her heart sank. 

The silence grated on her nerves. Worse, nobody came the first day, aside from the serving maid with a platter of steaming, rich stew and some warm, crusty bread. She spoke little, avoiding her gaze, as if afraid Rhaella would chastise her. Or that she would erupt in a fit of rage. Rhaella felt a pang of irritation. Where was the fear coming from? She had never raised her voice with the servants before, as it was improper to behave so uncouthly as a princess. Was this a new maid?

She swallowed her irritation.

“Summon Ser Gerold,” Rhaella rasped, her voice roughened by days without use. 

“The king has called all remaining white cloaks to his side, princesses,” the maid said with her head bowed deeply. “It’s guard Daren sitting outside. Should I call him in?”

Rhaella sagged back into her bed. “No need.”

Remaining kingsguard.

Now, she was certain. The tragedy must have been greater than she had thought, but it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. It had been wildfire that had killed her raven, and even though it was brief, she knew how dangerous that jade flame had been. They burned fast, and burned deep, and burned more than flesh. Looking at the handmaid that seemed to be a mix of gloomy and scared, Rhaella didn’t know what to think. She didn’t know what to feel either, though she knew something was wrong. 

Closing her eyes, she focused on clearing her mind of the rising clutter and calming the agitation stirring in her breast. Anger would not help her now. They dreaded speaking to her of what had happened, but Rhaella did not need their words or permission to find out, nor did she need to leave her quarters.

She slipped into the mind of one of her ravens and flew down into the Red Keep to listen to courtiers speaking in hushed tones. The courtiers had visibly dwindled, while the guards had swollen in number, and that alone didn’t bode well. The more she heard, the more numb she grew.

“…Blackfyre’s doing…”

“…Great tragedy…”

“…Too many dead, even the Baratheon heir and the Martell princess…”

“…Both sons of the king and even his wife and daughter were taken by the jade demon…”

“…His Grace went mad with grief, they say…”

“…Prince Aerys crippled…”

It was the talk of the Red Keep. Rhaella refused to believe it, flying over the Red Keep’s curtain walls and diving into the city. She heard much the same in the squares and the markets, if rougher in speech, and the inns were no different. Then she wheeled out of the city and into the tourney ground, where a great crater of charred ground blackened the surroundings, just in the place where the royal box should have been.

She circled above it once, twice, thrice, but the view of devastation beneath her wings did not change. This was no dream, nor was it a lie. 

No wonder they weren’t in a hurry to tell her. 

She returned to the Red Keep, heart heavy. Once she spotted her brother’s windows hung open, she dove down to perch on the sill. 

He lay on the bed with the covers shrugged aside. His face was unkempt as he stared at the ceiling with empty eyes. His torso looked fine, but his legs, wrapped all in bandages… ended just above his knees.

Rhaella croaked in horror—and surprise, and a pair of angry purple eyes were immediately fixed on her.

“Get out, you mangy bird,” her brother swore.

Her mind returned to her own body, and her vision began to swim. 

“Brother… Mother… Father… Uncle… Grandmother,” she uttered, weeping miserably in the silence of her quarters. She might have grown distant from her mother in the last year, yet Rhaella still loved her in her own way. She never wished Shaera to come to harm, nor her Father, Uncle, or any of her kinsmen. She never wished her brother to end up like this, either. 

Perhaps the gods had a love for dark irony—she doubted Aerys would ever again look kindly upon wildfire. Perhaps he wouldn’t look at it at all after the pyromancers had been exiled.

Soon, she fiercely wiped her tears with the cotton covers. She couldn’t afford that weakness anymore.

This… was a disaster far worse than Summerhal. The tragedy alone was harrowing, but once Rhaella had calmed down somewhat, her mind turned to the implications. From what she gathered earlier, nobody quite knew how the attack happened, only that it did, and this time it was not the king playing with wildfire in the royal box, nor a terrible mishap arising from the attempt to hatch dragons. This was something far darker, far more sinister, done with the sole purpose of removing the House of the Dragon. Even her cousin Steffon had perished, and the ruling Princess of Dorne died under the king’s protection. Even a fool would know the Iron Throne’s relationship with Sunspear and Storm’s End would grow distant… if not outright hostile. 

No wonder her grandfather had yet to visit her. His burden in this was the greatest, as was his grief.

Eyes rimmed with red, it took Rhaella hours until she could calm enough to slip her mind into one of her beasts and explore what had happened further. Quite a few in the city were worried Blackfyre would soon arrive at the helm of a great fleet to assault the city. Merchants were shouting themselves hoarse to sell the last of their wares, though few passersby even spared them a glance. The children playing through the squares and alleyways were nowhere to be seen, and a number of families had gathered at the city gates, waiting for a permit to leave.

As she roamed through the ramparts and the rooftops and the tree branches, she noticed something odd. The gloom and tension that had taken hold of the city had spread to every corner of the Red Keep. Many were grieving and fretful, but there was something more to the Targaryen household guard. They stood straighter, their gazes were sharper, and their movements brisker. Even the steps of a select few patrolling the ramparts had a certainty and purpose that had been absent before. 

Rhaella paused to observe them more closely as the shadows lengthened, trying to figure out exactly what was different in those men. It was not the weariness of those expecting an attack at a moment’s notice, but a new sense of pride that had not been there before.

The closer she looked, the more baffled she felt. These were her grandfather’s most trusted men, second only to the kingsguard in skill and loyalty to the crown. It was those men who ought to have felt the most guilt and pressure when the royal family had suffered such an attack.

She recalled the contents of her dream, not that terrible fight with the dragon-turned-man, but the talk between Quaithe and Blackfyre. They had not spoken of any wildfire or tourneys, but of dragons and conquest, though she struggled to decide how real that talk had been. Dragons… the pride and pain of House Targaryen. It was dragons that allowed House Targaryen to rise so high, and it was the dragons that brought it low. 

If this witch—Quaithe—was to be believed, then her grandsire had hatched dragons. It was every Targaryen’s dream to have a dragon of their own, to soar through the sky on dragonback, and Rhaella was no different. She flew across the city, explored every small corner of the Red Keep where courtiers gathered in the open, yet not a single soul spoke of dragons. 

Had Quaithe lied? Or was what she had seen in the dream something… entirely different? 

The disappointment stung for a short moment, but not as deeply as she thought it would have. 

When the sun set, her mind grew weary, and Rhaella drifted into an uneasy sleep. For good or ill, she did not enter the Green Dream this time.

She already felt better the next morning and reached to pull the bell’s silken cord. The hurried footsteps of servants grew louder, and the door swung open as another maid Rhaella hadn’t seen before swept in. This one was shorter, younger, about Rhaella’s age, with a round, homely face. 

“Should I bring the morning meal, princess?” the maid called with trepidation. 

“Yes,” Rhaella allowed. “Draw me a hot bath and fetch someone to call for my ladies.”

The girl did an atrocious curtsy and fled out of the door as if Rhaella were some fiend.

The food came swiftly enough: a serving of scrambled eggs, cold meats, and apple pies. Her ladies only arrived once she had had her fill, though it was only the excited Joanna, this time accompanied by the solemn-faced Genna. 

“We’re so gladdened to see you awake again,” the blonde maiden beamed, rushing to her side. “That old crook said you might never wake!”

“The Grand Maester isn’t that old,” Genna muttered as she eased herself into one of the chairs and gave a pointed look to her excited cousin. “Nor is he a crook, at least no more than any other maester is.”

“I’m glad to see you all well. Where are the other two?” Rhaella asked softly.

Joanna’s smile wilted.

“Melony returned to Lys,” she whispered, averting her eyes. “Or so they say. I never quite saw her leave. Ehm… what do you remember?”

A small sense of relief bubbled inside her at the absence of Melony. Even though she had been her confidante, her bedmaid, and her teacher, the princess struggled to trust her the way she trusted Joanna. 

“Not much,” Rhaella said coolly. “But I’ve already heard of the wildfire and the demise of those in the royal box. I’m glad to see the two of you well. What of Branda?”

“She’s… recuperating.” Joanna’s voice grew low, thick with emotion. “She covered me with her body when we left the royal box to join you. Her back and right arm are badly burned…”

Rhaella rose, pulled on her travel cloak and rushed to Branda’s chamber, ignoring the protests of her guards and ladies. Her joints protested at the suddenness of her movement, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Ser Gerold was absent, but Rhaella was not left as unprotected as she thought. The moment she stepped out of the room, she was flanked by three silent men-at-arms, all clad in cold, gleaming steel from head to toe. She paid them no heed—a princess was long used to being shadowed by guards.

Branda’s room was just the floor below her.

The heavy smell of poultice and herbs struck her the moment she tugged the door open. The guards silently stood by the entrance as Rhaella stepped inside.

She found the Stark maiden already awake, though half her face was wrapped in herb-soaked bandages, and her whole neck was bound in linen. 

“Princess.” Branda’s voice was hoarse. “I would rise, but moving is a tad too painful right now, so pardon me for the rudeness.”

“How are you?” Rhaella asked.

Branda tried to smile, but it looked more like a stiff grimace with half her face hidden.

“Faring far better than those who remained in the royal box,” she rasped. “Though I’m afraid I’ll be harder-pressed to find a handsome lord or a knight for a husband.”

“Now is not a time for jests,” Joanna said sourly, slipping through the door. 

“You don’t have to feel guilty,” the dark-haired maiden let out a drawn-out sigh. “If I hadn’t moved, we would have both been burned; that way, it was only me.”

Joanna sniffled. ”I just wish nothing had happened…”

Rhaella drew the teary-eyed girl into her embrace, though just as much to comfort herself. Joanna gripped her back tight, refusing to let go.

“We all wish it hadn’t happened,” Genna said glumly. Surely enough, her good sister had followed, but not as hurriedly. “Curse those grasping Blackfyres!”

“So you believe Maelys is behind the wildfire attack?” Rhaella asked sharply. No true culprit had ever been found at Summerhal, and in the end, the whole thing had been concluded a terrible mishap.

Genna scoffed. “Who else? The king himself confirmed it. If the whole royal family had perished in the royal box, it would be a Blackfyre coming to the throne legitimately or a Great Council. But to gather the Great Council would give that devilish bastard the time to attack… or even press his claim.” 

“No Blackfyre would ever dare set foot in Westeros for a Great Council after Aenys,” Branda added. “Not without a great army, if they have their wits left about them.”

Their talk quickly died off after that, the weight of loss still hanging over their heads. Genna and Joanna had lost no kin that day, but some of their friends and acquaintances were gone, and then there was Aerys, who was now… crippled. Her brother, not yet a man grown, now next in line for the Iron Throne and a cripple. For a proud soul like him, this was a fate worse than death. Perhaps of the royal family, Rhaella had been the luckiest, along with her grandfather and cousin Maegor, who had remained unharmed—aside from the beating that he had received by the other squires. Everyone else was dead… aside from her aunt in Storm’s End and grand-aunt in Tarth, but they were both distant faces that she struggled to remember.

Rhaella felt grimy all over from days of sleep and retreated to her quarters to get that hot bath. 

“The king… has yet to hold court since that day,” Genna leaned in to whisper before they parted. “He has changed more than half the servants in Maegor’s holdfast, dismissed a third of the gold cloaks, and exiled all the Pyromancers to the Gift. My brother tried to arrange an audience, but His Grace refuses to see any guests, petitioners, or even lords, only meeting with what is left of the small council.”

That explained all the new faces amongst the servants… and their clumsiness.

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Rhaella. “But do not get your hopes up. My grandfather has never listened to a young princess like me.”

She took a hot soak that made her feel far better than she should have. With some struggle, the new serving girls helped her pull on her favourite pink gown, which now felt looser than before, and botched a fishtail braid. Rhaella chose to wear her hair loose instead. 

Her foray to the royal apartments was in vain. “His Grace has spent the last few nights in the Tower of the Hand,” said Ser Derreck Bole, the man in charge of the defences of Maegor Holdfast. 

The moment she stepped out of Maegor’s Holdfast, she felt many eyes settled on her. Some were filled with surprise and suspicion, but most looked at her with open pity. Rhaella ignored them all.

Her attempt to enter the Tower of the Hand was met with a polite rebuff, too. It was Ser Rolland Darklyn standing guard at the double door, along with four more men-at-arms. “The king has forbidden entry to the Tower of the Hand, and you are no exception, Princess.”

Swallowing her frustration, Rhaella turned her footsteps back to Maegor’s Holdfast. She had no eyes inside the Tower of the Hand, and the windows and shutters were all sealed shut, leaving her with two options—slip into the skin of the cat that lived there, or sneak in through the secret passageways.

Just as she returned to her quarters, she found the head washerwoman waiting by the door, along with a stone-faced guardsman. “Might I have a moment of your time, princess?”

“Is something the matter, Anelle?”

The plump woman hesitated for a long moment, eyes darting at the three guardsmen behind her, all three of them resting their hands on their sword hilts.

Rhaella stifled a sigh. “Come in, then.”

For good or ill, the guards didn’t dare follow.

When they both came inside, Anelle leaned in to whisper, “Your former maid, Alyssa, begged for a meeting.”

That was a name Rhaella hadn’t heard in a long while.

“I will not accept her back into my service,” Rhaella said, massaging her temples. “Why’d you ever bring such a trifling matter to me?”

“Usually, I wouldn’t entertain her, princess, but I don’t think it was a matter of service.” The woman wrung her fingers nervously. “The poor girl looked terrible. She found me three days past outside the Red Keep and begged me to arrange an audience with you, weeping bitterly.” 

“Meeting her will not hurt,” Rhaella said after a moment of thought. Truth be told, she dared not venture into the gloomy city alone right now. “Best invite her to the kitchens.”

Alyssa looked like half a corpse. Her eyes were dark and sunken, her face gaunt and bony, and her once-pretty hair looked like old straw. She would have looked like a beggar if not for the clean gown of wool and linen. Her footsteps were uneven, and she desperately clutched two small wraps in her bosom, both having the faint smell of rot. 

“Get justice for me, princess, I beg of you!”

Alyssa prostrated herself before her, and Rhaella already felt lost. 

‘I can barely fend for myself, let alone get justice for others,’ the princess thought bitterly. 

“Tell me what ails you first,” she said instead, motioning to the chair beside her.

Alyssa rose with some effort and slumped on the chair.

“I…” Her eyes darkened with hatred. “Those damned beasts killed my children.”

“Why not go to the gold cloaks?” Rhaella cocked her head. “Those men are meant to uphold the order in the city and are skilled in dealing with murder and skullduggery.”

“It’s the gold cloaks and the king’s men that killed my babe,” Alyssa spat viciously.

Before Rhaella could say anything further, she placed the two bundles on the table and gently unwrapped them, and the stench of rot rose.

The princess gasped.

What lay before her wasn’t quite human, but two odd carcasses with the snout of a dragon for a nose, small bat-like leathery wings that sloughed off the bone, and the torso and limbs of a baby. Both were exactly the same, with their little faces covered in scales arranged in the same pattern as if they were twins. No, they were definitely twins. 

As eerie and grotesque as the sight before her was, she had seen something similar before, a drawing of a lifeless, misshapen infant in Mushroom’s testimony. She had thought it something written for the stunted fool’s sordid amusement, much like his other accounts, but now…

“They were born like this, already dead and rotting,” Alyssa sniffled, eyes watering as she stared wide-eyed at the bundles, reaching out to caress. “But five days past, I felt them move and kick.”

“How’d the gold cloaks kill them then?” Rhaella asked, trying to push down the bile rising in her throat. 

“I…” Alyssa began to sob, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Rhaella, still grimacing at the stench, pulled her former handmaid into an embrace. The woman stiffened for a long moment, and then she buried her face in Rhaella’s shoulder.

Sighing, the princess mouthed to Anella, “Bring me a cup of warm honeyed milk.”

The plump serving woman slipped out with surprising subtlety and returned just as quietly. A while passed before Alyssa came back to herself, jerking away from her embrace, her tearful face mortified.

“Thousand pardons, princess,” she croaked out. “I didn’t mean to…”

Rhaella waved off her concern. “Don’t dwell on it. Why don’t you have a warm cup first, and tell me what happened?”

Alyssa drained the milk in one breath, and it seemed to give her courage. “Those beasts dragged two other women and me to some dark manse. Both of them were young and pretty with bellies as swollen as mine. They gave us some sweet concoction, and we fell asleep. Once we woke, the manse was empty. Next I woke, I gave birth like this—and the midwife told me she met two more cursed cases like mine that day.”

Rhaella’s hair stood on end. 

Sorcery. This could only be sorcery, and the worst part was that the distraught young woman had yet to lie even once. Or perhaps she was a better liar than all the courtiers in King’s Landing, and Rhaella somehow failed to spot it. 

“Are… are you certain it was the gold cloaks and the king’s men who did it?”

“The king’s men wore heavy travel cloaks, covering all heraldry,” Alyssa murmured, reaching out to caress the scaly cheek of her infant. “But I recognised two of them from my time in the Red Keep. You must get justice for me, princess…”

“I will bring this matter to the king,” Rhaella promised. ‘But it remains to be seen whether Grandfather would do anything about it. Perhaps… he was even involved.’   

Rhaella’s insides had twisted into a cold, dreadful knot, and she wasn’t certain if it was the bodies, the stink of rot, the talk of sorcery, or all of them.

It wasn’t long before Alyssa began to weep again as she cradled the two tiny bodies. Tears still streaming, she bowed deeply and left. 

At the side of the chamber, Anella’s face had gone as pale as chalk, and she looked as if she wanted to disappear into the ground. 

“You saw and heard nothing today,” Rhaella said, her tone cold and cutting. 

The washerwoman bobbed her head like a squirrel and fled the room. The princess wasn’t worried about Anella spreading what she had seen here, but giving a warning would not hurt. The royal family did not need more scandals, especially not now. 

‘Grandfather, is this the justice and fairness you so dearly sought?’

Rhaella rose from her seat, but the memory of those two, half-rotted forms flashed in her mind, and she heaved over and voided the contents of her stomach.

After returning to her quarters and a change of garments, she considered her next move. The promises were fresh in her mind, but even without them, she needed to see the king. Perhaps it was a mistake, she told herself. Perhaps the king did not know of this.

Her grandfather… couldn’t hide forever. It boded ill for the kingdom, and it boded even worse for the House of the Dragon. She could venture into the secret passages of the Red Keep and sneak inside the Tower of the Hand, but that was not without risk. The guardsmen were all vigilant and too swift to reach for their swords, and the three men who acted as her sworn swords were not as easy to shake off as Ser Gerold. Rhaella could try skinchanging, stealing a glance at the happenstances inside, but a part of her felt a premonition of danger when she cast out her mind. After the wildfire, she dared not risk it again. Only one option was left to her.

Mind set in stone, Rhaella marched to the Tower of the Hand at dusk, once again flanked by the three men-at-arms. Courtiers and ladies were still shuffling about the outer yard, and quite a few cast curious glances her way. But none dared to approach.

This time, it was Ser Tom Costayne—also known as Old Tom—in charge of the sentries outside.

“The king still does not wish to meet anyone, princess,” the old knight said, spreading his arms in helplessness. “Please return to your quarters.”

“Then I’ll wait here until he does,” Rhaella said simply. Without a care in the world, she lifted her skirts and sat down on the ground, legs crossed, closing her eyes. The cold, hard flagstone drank the warmth from her butt, chafed against her joints, but she had suffered worse. 

She did not need to see to notice the frustration or the uneasy shifting of their weight from one leg to the other. Though she did slip her mind into the raven below, attempting a new trick—merely seeing through the eyes of a beast, while controlling her own body.

It was hard at first, but Rhaella got the hang of it… mostly.

The passing servants were looking at her with confusion, then hurried about their day, but the courtiers were in no such rush. They outright pointed at her, talking in hushed whispers. Rhaella’s ears caught, ‘mad with grief’, and ‘gone astray’ and similar phrases, but paid them little heed.

Old Tom took a sharp breath after a long moment. “Do you not care about propriety or your good image, princess?”

It took all of her effort to speak instead of cawing through the crow’s beak.

“Good image?” Rhaella’s mouth twitched. “Does not the court whisper behind my back how Princess Rhaella has become a wild, unruly thing, a heathen maiden dabbling in dark arts and praying to the sinister demons hiding in the trees?”

That struck the old man speechless.

Even the three guards that shadowed her looked frustrated. Strong warriors they might be, but it was easy to stump them with problems that could not be cut down… like a stubborn princess. The attention of the nearby courtiers only swelled by the minute, and the more uneasy the white cloak grew.

“As stubborn as a mule,” Old Tom muttered sourly. Rhaella did not move, nor did she speak further, no matter how much he tried to persuade her. 

She knew that these proud warriors would not dare to lay a hand on a princess of the blood, especially not out in the open for half the court to see.

“…I’ll let His Grace know,” he said at last.

The double doors creaked open, and the man disappeared inside. After a few long minutes, he rushed out with a heavy sigh.

“The king will see you, princess,” he wheezed out.

Rhaella cracked her eyes open, leaving the raven’s mind. Once she shook off the plunging loss of the bird’s senses, she rose back on her feet and took a moment to steady herself. “Thank you, Old Tom,” she beamed.  

The inside of the Tower of the Hand was even quieter than the rest of the Red Keep. The guardsmen were more alert, and even the servants were sparse and jumpy.

She followed the white cloak through the small hall and into the audience chamber in the gallery behind.

Ser Duncan the Tall stood guard outside, looming above the next tallest man by nearly a full head—and more than two heads over herself. But the kind old knight seemed weary now, looking as if he had aged half a decade since she had last laid eyes on him. He gave her a curt nod and pushed the varnished ebony door open.

Inside greeted her the smell of incense and something she couldn’t quite pin. Her grandfather stood with his back to her, his whole attention on a portrait of Betha Blackwood, though her hair was luscious black, and her face was that of a young woman, smooth and free of wrinkles.

The king’s long hair was left unkempt, flowing down his back like a curtain of pale silver draping over garments of pitch black. With inky black boots, black gloves, and a black cloak, Rhaella would have mistaken him for a man of the Night’s Watch if not for the three-headed dragon stitched with crimson upon the cloak.

The door behind her sealed shut as Duncan left, and the silence grew heavy as the king did not turn. He did not move or even twitch a finger, standing still like a statue, face still set on the painting. There were no words of consolation, no cries or sorrow, just an oppressive quiet that demanded to be filled. 

“Grandfather,” Rhaella spoke first, gathering her skirts for a curtsy.

After another long moment of silence, he finally stirred. “If you had been born a boy, I’d make you a crown prince for what you pulled tonight.”

Rhaella smiled wryly. 

“If I had been born a boy, it’s hard to tell if my character would still be the same. The adversity and challenges a prince faces are far different from those of a princess.” Her voice cracked. “I was not born to rule, nor do I have the mind for it, and even if I had been a boy with the same character, the eldest son comes before the younger one.”

“Is that so?” The king’s voice was hoarse, surrendering no emotion. “And yet it was your father who was the crown prince, not your uncle.” 

Was her grandfather testing her?

“Uncle made a great mistake,” Rhaella said quietly, “and he paid for it willingly and openly. Aerys has yet to make any.”

Aegon let out a long, weary sigh. And yet, his next words made her blood freeze. “You would have made a fine queen.”

“I will not wed my brother!” she bit back, agitation stirring in her breast. “He already has a wife.”

“More’s the pity.” His voice grew deliberate. “But I can still put a crown on top of your head, and make you a queen in your own right.”

For a short moment, Rhaella was tempted. She could sit on that great iron chair that the Conqueror himself forged in the fires of Balerion and look down on the whole royal court and the realm itself. Gods, to say she was not tempted would be a lie. And yet… her grandsire had never been happy for it. In the visions of the future that would never be, it had never brought joy to her brother either, only grief and madness.

And yet… 

She allowed the excitement to drain away, pouring all of her emotions into the ravens outside.

“That’s folly greater than Viserys I,” Rhaella said coolly. “Even if you truly mean this, you will only pit a sister against a brother. After…” her voice choked. “Aerys ought to be the crown prince now.”

“He ought to be, and yet I hesitate to make that call. His spirit is broken as he lies abed, his legs crippled, and vultures gather around the House of the Dragon, eager to take a piece of flesh from its dying carcass. It’s better to have no crown prince than a broken wreck of a boy who will lower the Targaryen prestige—”

“He’s grieving—”

“We all are!” he exploded. “But a king cannot be ruled by his grief, and in this alone, he shows himself lacking. I would not care if his legs were charred away, as long as his spine stood straight, and his spirit did not waver. In this, you are far better than your foolish brother.”

‘But I have yet to lose my feet,’ Rhaella wanted to say, but held her tongue—she knew better than to gainsay the king. Her grandfather was angry, even if that anger was cold and razor-sharp.

“Well?” the king pressed.

“I…” Rhaella swallowed. “I refuse. I don’t want the realm to plunge into turmoil for a moment of weakness and greed.”

Her grandfather scoffed, finally turning to face her.

His eyes had grown hard and cold, like two gemstones; the wrinkles on his face had doubled, and his expression was carved from granite. 

“The realm is already in turmoil,” he said flatly. “And the upheaval shall only grow with Blackfyre growing his strength and eyeing my crown. I have already called the banners and commanded all the great houses to raise their men and attack Maelys the Monstrous and his ilk.”

She reeled. War. This meant war. 

“I can lead armies and fight battles no more than Aerys now can,” Rhaella said after a moment’s hesitation.

Aegon burst out in laughter, but it was a cold, harsh sound.

“You deny it cleverly enough, but I can see the desire in your eyes. You want the Iron Throne, as does every other Targaryen. Fire and ambition are in our blood, and you are no different.” His voice thickened with regret. “You are right. Making you an heir fixes nothing. Alas, alas—if only you had been born a boy.”

Rhaella lowered her head. There was nothing she could say to that.

“You wished to see me,” her grandfather continued, softer this time. “Speak your piece first.”

His face hardened again as Rhaelle recalled Alyssa’s tragedy, the fretful courtiers and the unease brewing inside the Red Keep. 

“The court will recover with time,” Aegon allowed, voice growing hollow. “As for that Alyssa woman and the other babes… just consider it their misfortune. I know not what happened myself, nor am I inclined to pursue the truth in this lest I regret it. Best not ask further. Consider me an inept king who failed to protect his own kin, a fool letting his own subjects suffer injustice.”

Rhaella’s chest tightened. 

“Then…” she hesitated for a long moment. “Was Blackfyre truly behind that wildfire?”

Aegon quirked a silver brow. “Only the crown prince… or princess is qualified to know it all. After all, this is the burden of the royal family. You are my granddaughter, yes, but your refusal to follow the ancestral tradition, for good or ill, has set you on a course away from the Red Keep.”

The retort died on her lips. He was right. This was not her burden to bear, not truly. She had chosen to push it all aside and wash herself clean from her predestined fate. And yet… could she truly let go of the House of the Dragon? 

“War looms over the horizon, and the Iron Throne has never been weaker,” Aegon said coolly. “I shall allow you to choose your future.”

“Truly?” Rhaella perked up.

“Do not rush to rejoice,” he said, a hint of bitterness creeping into his voice. “The options are not to my liking, nor would they be to yours, but needs must.”

She only nodded, well aware that the ability of choice alone was more than would have been afforded to her before.

“First,” the king said stonily. “You will go to Dorne and become the wife of Prince Doran Martell. Or, you will be betrothed to Lord Tyrell’s young heir and be sent to foster in Highgarden until he’s of age to wed.”

“Isn’t… Mace Tyrell a swaddling babe?” Rhaella asked, aghast. 

“Swaddling babes grow up sooner or later,” her grandfather said, mouth twisting. “But he’s already three, walking and talking. In a decade, you’d be three and twenty, and he—three and ten, a good time to wed, and the match would be considered proper by all sides. That, or you can be wed to the widowed Lord Arryn.”

For a moment, she considered the Lord of the Vale. Jon Arryn. A man nearly three times her age, and a childless widower. And yet, he had an impeccable reputation and was known for his chivalry. As high as honour. Her sons would be Lord of the Vale if she said the word now, and yet, Rhaella remembered that Arryn would wed a second wife, from a fertile house, and remain childless still. Odds were, the issue lay with the Falcon Lord. 

“Is there no chance for me to remain here, in King’s Landing?” she asked boldly. “Without usurping mine own brother.”

The king’s heavy gaze settled on her, all regal and full of authority, the same stern look that had made countless courtiers cower and petitioners stutter. It was a physical weight, making her feel like a small girl again. No, she was still a small girl, in truth, and yet, she lifted her head and straightened her spine, refusing to falter this time.

A smile tugged at her grandfather’s lips for a swift moment, and then it was gone just as quickly that she might as well have imagined it. 

“You may stay in King’s Landing until the rest of your life, if you swear your life to chastity,” the king allowed. “Never to wed, never to give birth to any children that can contest your brother’s line.”

Rhaella was aghast.

“…Or you can stay and wed a man of your own choice, too, and remain in court,” her grandfather continued. “Should he prove himself of sufficient pedigree, of course. But he must not be an heir or a spare to lordship.”

A love match? Rhaella would have jumped at the romantic idea once. But she was no longer foolish; love was poison to a princess. Both options… were acceptable. “What’s the price I must pay?”

“Come.” 

The king turned to a door leading to a twisting stairway. Another white cloak she did not recognise stood guard before a heavy oaken door. 

The door swung open, revealing a faint scent of smoke and roast meat, and she was greeted by a cacophony of shrill shrieks and squawks.

Rhaella followed after the king and could only stand there, stunned. 

The racket came from five little winged lizards, no bigger than a cat, all placed in five iron cages set five feet apart. All five of them were looking at her with shiny, gem-like eyes. 

“I… dragons?”

“Yes.” A genuine smile bloomed on her grandfather’s face for the first time today. But then it was gone as swiftly as it came. “A blessing and a disaster came hand in hand this time. Now, House Targaryen finally has dragons, but none to ride them to battle. You can only claim one if you become the crown princess… or remain unwed for life.”

Rhaella could only pinch herself. The jolt of pain in her forearm told her this was not a dream.

Author’s Endnote: That chapter was surprisingly hard to write. Rhaella’s PoV dragged on for longer than I intended, and I still didn’t cram everything I wished inside.