7.Scheming in the Night

258 AC

The Young Princess

Keep the weirwood close.

Rhaella fiddled with her hairpin. Shaped like a dragon’s wing, it shone like polished bone under the lamplight and was warm in her fingers, but did little to ease the tightness in her chest. 

Ser Rolland gave her a curt nod and slid the door open.

The Hand’s audience chamber was surprisingly cool. It was the most likely place her father could be found when not in court or a small council meeting. Crimson Myrish rugs lined the floor, ornate wall hangings, and a golden-tinted round window that gave it all a sense of intimacy. Rose incense burned in the corner, driving the stench of the city out but making her just as nauseous.

Behind the desk was Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen, the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, the Hand of the King, and her father, neck-deep in rolls of parchment.

He looked frail, almost thinner than Rhaella was; the silver curls reaching his shoulder looked brittle, framing a face as pale as chalk.

“Rhaella,” he said, voice soft, not lifting his eyes from the scroll on his desk. “Do you need something?”

“I…” the words hitched in her throat. She could still feel a phantom of the pain of crunching bones in her chest. “I had a new dream. A vivid dream.”

Jaehaerys lifted his head, his large purple eyes blinking at her.

“Come sit,” he motioned to the high-backed seat cushioned with black velvet across him, “and tell me.”

Rhaella cautiously eased herself into the seat. He had not dismissed her as she had feared. This was the first time she would speak alone with her father, discounting the two white cloaks standing vigil at the doorway. He had always been sickly or too busy aiding the king to run the realm, and raising a daughter was the duty of a mother. The words she meant to say had been easy in the quiet of her own room, but now…

“Would you like some wine?” Jaehaerys gave her an encouraging smile. “Perhaps a dry red from Dorne, the golden vintage of the Arbour, or the light blackberry wine of the Velvet Hills?”

“…Blackberry,” she said in a small voice. Her father took out a silver pitcher from the cabinet behind him. Pulling the cork, he poured a dark crimson into a Myrish glass cup and pushed it across the desk. 

Rhaella hesitantly put the cup to her lips and took a sip. It had a sweet, luscious taste that tingled down her throat and eased her nerves. 

“…I dreamed of two figures prowling through the docks at night,” she said at last, her voice cracking. “They were plotting against our family, talking of the murders as if it were their doing. Including Septon Manton’s murder.”

“How peculiar,” her father murmured, rubbing his chin. “Rather specific for a dream. Alas, half the court is plotting something against our family, one way or the other, and the other half wants something from us. I’m afraid I can hardly do a thing—unless you dreamed up the names or appearances of these plotters of yours?”

Cheeks burning, Rhaella lowered her head. “They were wrapped in long dark cloaks, speaking of no names,” she whispered.

“Dreams are rarely useful.” Jaehaerys let out a long sigh. “Our House had dreamers aplenty after our ancestor Daenys, but it did us no good. Most were harmed in pursuit of the very same vague dreams, and the rest were confused or driven to the point of madness. Aerion Brightflame dreamed himself a dragon trapped in the body of a man, dreamed of breathing fire, and when he drank a cup of wildfire, thinking it would make him a dragon. You know how that ended.”

Prince Aerion had died screaming, burning from the inside out.

“But Grandfather claimed grand-uncle Aerion had been driven mad by his own arrogance.” 

Her father reached out, placing a pale hand on her shoulder. “He was a dreamer, too, believing in what he had seen in his sleep, and it led him to his demise. Do not fret over heart-twisting dreams or murderers—such dastardly things are not for a young princess to dwell upon.”

Even the young, naive princess herself has entered the Great Game.

The words were seared in her mind, fresh with the pain of death.

“But the cloaked figures mentioned me,” she said almost desperately. “What if the murderer comes after me next?”

“He will have to get through Ser Gerold.” Her father inclined his head towards the silent kingsguard by the door. “I assure you, no harm shall ever come to you in the Red Keep, little Rhae.”

No harm? Rhaella didn’t know whether to laugh or to scream. ‘What if the harm came from Aerys?’ she wanted to ask. ‘Or from Mother? What would I do when even the white cloaks close their eyes to my plight?’ 

Rhaella clenched her jaw, biting the tip of her tongue. Her father would dismiss that, too. Her mother’s deeds were a discipline, and Aerys… it would be unthinkable. She herself would have never believed it if she had not seen what she had seen. 

Jaehaerys cleared his throat. “The elusive killer will be caught sooner or later, and hang like the brigand he is. What worries me far more is this Maelys Blackfyre and his collection of misfits—sellswords, pirates, and even an apple gone bad from the Reach, each leading their own band.”

They would be defeated before they ever set foot in Westeros, Rhaella knew—her father’s design.

“Are they truly that dangerous?” she asked in a small voice. 

“Word came from Lys yesterday.” Her father ran a pale, tired hand through his face. “The Disputed Lands have fallen into the hands of the so-called Nine.”

“Surely the three Daughters would not just stand and watch?”

A joyless, raspy chuckle rolled from her father’s chest. “Most of those nine were sellswords and sellsails and merchants from Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr, or in their employ. Now that they had betrayed their former masters, calling themselves kings and sweeping through the remaining forces in the Disputed Lands, the Daughters are powerless to muster a swift resistance, though not for a lack of trying.”

He took out a big roll of parchment from the drawers of his desk and sprawled it across the many parchments, unveiling the Stepstones and the southwestern end of Essos before her. 

“The Conclave of Tyrosh is trying to buy out a peace, the Lyseni Magisters are fervently building more warships, while the Myrish seduced a Khal by the name of Hoggo with twenty thousand screamers at his back with promises of gold and loot, but Maelys and the Golden Company alone broke them in battle just last moon.” 

“Nine self-styled kings with only one realm,” Rhaella pointed out. “Such a shaky alliance can’t last forever.”

“Perhaps,” her father said with an indolent tone. “But the realm’s future can never rest on what-ifs. Over sixty thousand men, spread across nine hosts. What if they master the Disputed Lands that are even more fertile than the Reach? What if they fold Tyrosh, Myr, and Lys under their banners, and swallow the Stepstones?”

They had done most of that, and yet you would defeat them anyway.

Rhaella left her father’s audience chamber disappointed but not surprised. She had suspected her efforts would be futile and rightly so.

Perhaps she could have said it was a raven-dream, but skinchangers were considered cursed and evil by the Seven-Pointed Star. It would get her in too much trouble, Rhaella knew. 

“Those who dabbled with sorcery walk in the darkness and get twisted by it,” her grandfather had told them years ago when Aerys had asked if he should try to learn magic and become a sorcerer-prince. “Brynden Rivers meant well at the start, but the road to the seven hells is paved with good intentions. He slew his brothers and nephews without shedding a tear. They were traitors, yes, but still his kinsmen and somewhere along the way, he grew dark and twisted, breaking the laws of gods and men without blinking an eye. Shiera Seastar was less known for her sorcery, for it was subtler, but no less sinister—she had delved deeper into the dark arts than Bloodraven ever did.” 

And here Rhaella stood, a dreamer and a skinwalker in training, dancing with death and darkness in more ways than one. 

Luncheon followed, and the afternoon saw Rhaella in the training yard with Melony, watching the squires train—most were wrapped in thick padded jacks and clinking mailshirts. They found refuge from the scalding sun beneath the shade of a lone elm at the yard’s edge. The air was heavy with grunts and the dull clangour of swords and spears. 

“Your brother isn’t trying too hard,” said Melony. Her blue eyes were fixed on Aerys as he spent more time laughing along with Steffon, while playfully shoving and poking at each other with the wooden swords. In contrast, a stone-faced Tywin was trading heavy blows with a Celtigar squire with a dogged determination that Rhaella often saw in contestants in a tourney. 

“Aerys is lacklustre in swordfighting,” Rhaella murmured. “Says he doesn’t have much of a talent for it, so there’s no point wasting his time. He’s far better with a lance and loves riding horses, but grandfather would not let him enter the lists.” 

Melony tilted her head. “But I haven’t seen him ahorse even once, unless he ventures into the city below.”

Because Aerys had deemed riding maidens far more interesting.

“He lost interest,” she said instead. “My brother’s mind is rather scattered, and few things can hold his attention for long, and horses are not amongst them.”

Soon, Ser Willem Darry, the master–at-arms and a bull of a man, spotted the two boys playing trounce. Face darker than a stormy cloud, he marched their way, drawing the sword from his belt. Picking it by the tapering blade with a dark gauntlet, he swung the hilt like a bludgeon, whacking their helmets.

Steffon had the decency to look ashamed, but Aerys merely scoffed, murmured something under his nose, and stormed out of the yard, tossing aside his helmet and wooden sword. 

Her cousin had seen them and strolled over with his helm under his elbow, giving them a jovial greeting.

“I thought a prince of the blood would have more forbearance,” Melony said, voice alight with amusement.

“His pride can get in the way,” said Steffon with a rueful chuckle. “Though, today, it’s impatience.”

“Impatience?” Rhaella echoed. “There’s no court in the afternoon, nor any tasks that Father or Grandfather have entrusted him with as of late.”

“He’s in a rush to visit the royal sept,” was the light reply. 

Melony fiddled with her ruby bracelet. “I didn’t take Prince Aerys to be a godly man.” 

“He’s no more godly than most men,” came Tywin’s breathless voice from the side. Sweat was dripping down his golden curls, and his whole padded surcoat was damp and crumpled, a stark contrast to Steffon’s even breathing and pristine arming doublet. “It’s not the gods he means to visit, but a young novice septa with amber eyes and fair hair.”

“They could be praying together.” Steffon’s words were stilted, and he averted his eyes. “Perhaps even studying the Seven-Pointed Star.”

“My mother would be delighted to hear of it,” said Rhaella with a tight smile. “Perhaps you can volunteer to inform her of the matter?”

“Ah, I’m afraid I’m otherwise engaged.” Her cousin coughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ser Willem has punished me to shine all the boots in the armoury.”

Words said, Steffon fled towards Ser Willem Darry as if his feet were on fire. 

Rhaella pressed her lips together. Her brother’s dalliances should have been of no concern to her, but he was doing so while they were betrothed. If word got out, it would tarnish her good name. But her good name was already tarnished.

For a long moment, the princess was tempted to go to her mother and tattle, but then she remembered. Aerys stood up for her when no one else did. Sighing, she pushed the matter out of her mind. 

‘Let him have his pleasure,’ she thought. ‘My brother’s lust shall be my deliverance.’

But only if she played her hand well. There would be a single chance, and the slightest misstep would see their parents intervene, forcing Rhaella’s marriage early to quell any rumours or backlash.

Tywin cleared his throat loudly, gathering her attention. “Princess Rhaella,” he said. “My sister is arriving within a sennight.”

“Genna, was it?”

“Yes.” Something dark and dangerous flashed through his green eyes. “I entrust Genna to you. She has two and a half years until her majority.” Two and a half years until her marriage to a Frey.

Bowing lightly, Tywin excused himself.

“What an intense boy,” Melony tittered as she watched the young lion’s back. “His gaze cuts like a knife. He’d be far more comely if he smiled, though.”

“He has a chip on his shoulder,” said Rhaella softly. “His lord father is a meek man who is more eager to please others than to rule, and Tywin craves to win back every scrap of respect his sire is losing and then some.”

And he would succeed, only to grow into a monster of a man.

Melony’s smile turned sly. “And what might that have to do with his sister?”

“Everything. The poor girl has been promised to a son of an upstart toll-taker in the Riverlands at seven, and his father exiled Tywin to the royal court for daring to object.” 

“How… unfortunate.” Melony’s voice lowered to a whisper as she leaned in. “Though it sounded like there was something… else to Lady Genna’s arrival here.”

Rhaella glanced at Ser Gerold’s armoured figure standing three steps behind her like a white statue. 

“Nothing,” she said flatly. “I was just eager for more companions my age, and Tywin wanted his sister to see court before she’s chained to the Frey’s son.”

She liked Melony, but she had not forgotten. The Lyseni maiden was here on the behest of her grandfather, and everything Rhaella did or said would end up in his ear, one way or another. In that, she was no different from Ser Gerold. 

Perhaps Rhaella would have been more trusting if Melony had not disappeared for hours on some days to ‘pray’. 

Whitedream had not come to her sleep yet. Or perhaps he had, and Rhaella could not remember. A part of her was glad—nightmares of that older queen shrieking in pain no longer haunted her sleep. 

The summer sun grew fiercer in the following days. Courtiers hid along the alcoves or in the thin shadows of walls and trees. But even the hewn granite and pink sandstone blocks that made up most of the Red Keep were warm to the touch, offering little respite.

Not even a wisp of white or grey could be spotted in the sky, and only the slightest breeze from the Narrow Sea managed to dispel the heat for a fleeting moment. Even the night air was dreadfully hot and humid. 

But the warmth seeped into her bones and uplifted Rhaella’s mood, and she no longer felt the phantom pain in her chest. Five such nights passed.

Just as Rhaella thought she could reach Whitedream in her sleep, Melony tickled her awake. 

“That was unbecoming,” the princess bit, voice harsher than she intended. 

“Dawn came half an hour ago,” Melony said, though the corners of her lips twitched. “I tried to wake you earlier, but you would not move. I had the servants draw a hot bath for you.”

Surely enough, a large oaken tub in the corner of the room was steaming quietly. Sunlight was streaming in through the open shutter. Something was missing, though.

“Where’s Alyssa?”

“She has fallen ill,” came the cool reply. “A heavy headache, she claimed, and perhaps rightly so—her face was dreadfully pale and she had broken out in a cold sweat. Today, I’ll help you wash and dress, princess.”

Groaning, Rhaella rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sat up. Her limbs were sluggish, and the dull throb behind her temples made her grimace. As pleasant as the heat was, today, she wanted to spend the day in bed, curling up in the cotton covers. But doing so would invite a visit from her mother.

Clenching her jaw, she stood up, eyeing the steaming bath.

“Call the Grand Maester to give Alyssa a look,” Rhaella muttered, massaging her brow.

“The Conclave has yet to elect a new Grand Maester,” Melony said softly. “But I shall call one of the acolytes versed in healing instead.”

Rhaella tilted her head. Why had Ellendor’s death slipped from her mind, even though she had been the one to find him?

It didn’t matter. She just hoped the new Grand Maester lasted longer. After Melony helped her out of her nightshift, Rhaella sank into the steaming water all the way to the chin and sighed. The heat caressed her skin, chasing away the dull ache in her head and invigorating her limbs. The steam rose soft and fragrant—a soothing mix of Lyseni oils her handmaid had procured, no doubt.

“Anything new of interest in court?” she asked as Melony eagerly began to scrub her back.

“The servants mentioned a Martell ship docking late last night,” the maiden whispered. “One of your mother’s ladies.”

Rhaella brightened.

“Must be Loreza,” Rhaella said, closing her eyes. “She’s a woman kinder than most, and the ruling princess of Dorne.”

Kinder than her own mother, at least. But perhaps that kindness had been borne from loss—Loreza had seen two sons perish in the crib. Her eldest had lived well enough and was now Rhaella’s age. Her sole daughter, Elia, had come early and was a small, fragile thing barely clinging to life. Little Elia had yet to reach two, and the Stranger might soon take her still. And now, Loreza had another child, though Rhaella had no word of his well-being. Soon enough, she would find out.

Melony’s sharp fingers settled over her shoulders, untangling the knots Rhaella didn’t even know were there, one by one. Her hands were soft, and they felt good, too good, better than the crude touch of handmaids and servants.

“A ruling princess?” the maiden murmured with wonder. “Shouldn’t she learn to rule her lands in Sunspear instead of dwelling in the royal court?”

“Half a year she spends here, and the other half in Dorne,” Rhaella said. “Her younger brother, Ser Lewyn Martell, and consort, Ser Daren Ladybright, are able men who can keep the peace in her absence. Regardless, you’ll soon meet Loreza for yourself. I mean to join her for luncheon.”

The room lulled into silence. Once Rhaella was scrubbed clean, Melony summoned two more maids who fanned her dry while the Lyseni maiden brushed her hair until it became a river of liquid silver down her pale back. 

True to her promise, the first thing she did was find Princess Loreza, who was strolling through the lower yard. Loreza was a short, dusky-skinned woman in her early thirties with a warm smile, today clad in a flowing gown of orange sand-silk. She was huddled beneath a parasol of fine straw that shielded her from the biting sun.

Her smouldering dark eyes lit up as soon as she saw Rhaella. 

“My favourite princess!” she beamed. “Look how much you’ve grown. A year more, and I’d have to look up to you.”

Her new son was in good health, then.

“Lora,” Rhaella said, pushing down the urge to run forth like a child and hug the other woman. “It’s you who have become shorter.”

Loreza reached out and pinched her cheek with a giggle. “It seems your boldness has grown along with your height.” Her gaze settled on Melony. “And who is this lovely maiden?”

“Melony of Lys, Princess,” the blonde maiden said, gathering her skirts for a perfect curtsy. “I have heard much of you.”

“All good things, I hope?” Loreza asked with a cheeky smile. Her parasol was handed off to a servant. Then, as if she were still a child their age, she pushed between Rhaella and Melony and took them by the hand, eagerly pulling them to the outer courtyard. “I have brought the ripest Dornish plums and blood oranges just for you, little Rhae. But what were those dark rumours I heard of you starving yourself and dancing with dark arts?”

On Loreza’s other side, Melony visibly perked up.

“Nothing,” Rhaella said, her joy draining away. “I just had a few fretful dreams.”

“What dreams?” the Dornish princess pressed, giving her an encouraging smile.

“Would you tell Mother?”

Loreza’s smile faltered, and when it returned, there was a newfound stiffness to it. “Not if you don’t want me to.”

“Dreams can be dangerous,” Melony chimed in, her gaze growing distant. “Especially for those of your lineage, princess.”

“I dreamed of fire and death,” Rhaella said at last. “My own death.”

“That’s terrible!” Loreza looked ready to cry. “How did it happen?”

“Childbirth.” Despair, exhaustion, and anguish.

“I’ve dreamed of dying in the birthing bed, too,” the Dornish princess said, voice now subdued. “It’s a battle all women must face, though not as dangerous as you fear. Not with a capable maester—and the one serving at the Red Keep is the finest in the realm.”

“A pity Grand Maesters have been falling like flies as of late,” Melony said lightly. “The last one died while napping in the library. Though I have seen the funeral rites in Lys, most dead women meet their end with a mishap or disease rather than from childbirth.”

“My mother wanted me to wed moons ago,” Rhaella said coldly. “And if she had her way, I’d already be with child.”

Neither Loreza nor Melony offered a retort. They knew better than to speak ill of the royal family in the Red Keep, but the grimaces on their faces were plain to see.

Rhaella wanted children; she truly did. But not at two and ten.

“Your mother means well,” Loreza said at last, breaking the silence. “She’s just… overeager to see a grandchild.”

But her smile no longer reached her eyes.

Rhaella expected this, but the pang of disappointment still stung. Surely enough, she could rely on only herself. Perhaps Whitedream… if she could meet him again.

Loreza rambled on about her newborn son, Oberyn, who was fussy but fierce and as healthy as an ox, but Rhaella only listened with half an ear.

The next day, the princess was presented with two golden-haired maidens who could easily be mistaken for sisters.

“This is Genna Lannister,” her grandmother said, patting the shoulder of the taller maiden.

Tywin’s sister was Rhaella’s height, with golden curls and a shapely body that threatened to overflow from her crimson bodice. The princess had seen grown women with more slender chests, and even Melony would come short in comparison. 

“Well met, Princess Rhaella,” she said shyly, curtsying. 

“And this is Joanna Lannister.” Her grandmother nudged the younger, slimmer girl forward, half a head shorter than Genna and two years younger. Rhaella had seen the face of this maiden in her dreams before, though older. 

“Princess,” she muttered timidly and gave her a stiff curtsy. 

“These two will keep you company now,” said Betha, frowning at the young Joanna. “If you find them lacking, they can be sent back, though.”

The young girl shrank into herself, lowering her gaze.

Rhaella gave Joanna a reassuring smile. “No need for that, Grandmother. These two ladies please me greatly.”

Her grandmother’s face softened. “You should start thinking of your name day, then. A ball and a feast—I have already started looking for singers and dancers. Anyway, I’ll leave you to your new companions.”

Rhaella turned to the two lionesses, though they looked more like golden kittens instead.

“As you know, I am Princess Rhaella, and my companion here,” she inclined her head towards the third blonde, “is Melony of Lys. Now, let us stroll through the Red Keep while you tell me about yourselves.”

“I like watching tourneys and dancing,” Genna was the first to speak. “There’s something magical to the twirl of fine gowns and handsome warriors battering each other for glory or chasing down prey in some woodland.”

So not her future husband, then. Rhaella had caught a glimpse of the second Frey son at a tourney in Maidenpool, knocked off his horse at the first tilt. A knight Emmon Frey might have been, but there was nothing handsome in his brittle mop of hair and thin, unmanly frame.  

It took some time to coax Joanna’s words out of her small mouth, but the young maiden finally grew at ease as Tywin’s sister kept speaking and speaking.

“How are you not sweating in the heat?” Joanna blurted out as they were passing through the godswood. 

Rhaella then noticed that the Lannister maidens looked like half-drowned kittens, their golden tresses clinging dark and damp about their temples. Beads of sweat traced slow paths down brow and neck, vanishing into the red sheen of their silken gowns.

Frowning, the princess glanced at her own dress of pink velvet. It was a comfortable piece, a gift from the royal tailor for her previous name day, and conspicuously dry.

Rhaella had often sweated in the sun before, though never half as much as the Lannister maids. When had she stopped?

“The blood of Old Valyria runs hot in her veins,” Melony was the one to answer with a knowing smile. Yet she was not sweating either, and instead seemed to bask in the sun’s warmth. “And in the heat, cotton is kinder on the skin than silk is.”

“But you’re dressed in silk without any issue,” Genna muttered with envy.

“That I am,” the Lyseni girl agreed. “But this is a trick that was taught to me by a red priest. I can teach you, should you wish, but it requires a prayer to R’hllor.”

Genna jerked away as if burned.

“Don’t mind Melony,” Rhaella said with a small laugh. “Let us go to my small parlour—it’s pleasantly cool there, and we can compare stitches.”

The next half an hour was spent toiling over shawls and scarves, though it felt far lighter to do it with maidens her age than her mother’s ladies. To their shame, Joanna’s embroidery was the most delicate and pretty, even though she was the youngest of the four. 

The following days grew more pleasant with her new companions, and for a moment, Rhaella felt that everything was right in the world. But she had not forgotten the dreams of her future or the grisly fate that awaited her. There was nothing she could do to change it, though. Not yet. 

At least the mysterious murderer had disappeared, as if he had seemingly given up. 

Peace returned to the Red Keep, and calm had settled along with the heat.

It was so tempting to just… go with the flow, let events happen as they will. To just pretend that the dreams were just that—dreams. But not only was her fate at peril, but that of her whole family. Even if her own parents and grandparents did not take her seriously, that meant the burden fell on her small shoulders. 

On the third day since the Lannister maidens arrived, her chance arrived. 

That evening, it was Genna’s turn to accompany Rhaella to sleep. 

As soon as the door closed, leaving Ser Gerold to keep vigil outside, the two changed into their nightshifts and slipped into the feather bed. Genna grew quite shy, despite her bold tongue. 

“Hey, Genna,” Rhaella whispered. “What do you think of your betrothal?”

Genna stiffened by her side.

“I hope he’s kind to me,” she said, voice clipped. 

The princess searched for her hand and found a balled fist between them. Gently, she grasped it.

“What if I could find you a better match? Better than a Frey?”

“…It would shame my father,” Genna whispered, closing her eyes. “It would shame my House to break faith, too.”

“He’s young and gallant,” Rhaella pressed, voice growing wicked. “He’s so handsome your insides will melt, and of far better station than any Frey could ever dream to be. You will become a proper lady with a castle of your own, too.” 

Seeing her companion make no move, the princess continued, voice laced with regret. “My apologies, that was unbecoming of me. Let us forget about—”

“Who is it?” Genna whispered fiercely, turning around to pin her with a pair of wide green eyes, alight with interest.

Rhaella stifled a smile. “I’m afraid you might disappoint your father. Perhaps even your betrothal.”

“They’ll live,” Tywin’s sister said with cool callousness, abandoning the previous pretence of filial piety. “Come now, princess. Don’t be so mean.”

“Before I tell you his name, you must answer a query of mine.”

“I shall do my best to answer,” Genna swore.

Rhaella took a deep breath. This was it. Once the words were said, there was no going back. If Genna betrayed her after, her chance would fly away. Even if the chance was small, it weighed on her heart.

She spoke softly, and Genna’s eyes widened more and more. 

They whispered in the dark for hours more, plotting and scheming betwixt the covers until sleep took them.

Rhaella blinked at the dragon prowling through the twisted treeline. She had dreamed of this dragon once and recognised his lean frame, though his scales now looked like dusted ice, grey and translucent and razor-sharp. The grey-blue bled into bright red towards the tip of his tail, where the weirwood cloak was tied into a crimson ribbon. 

She felt joy at the sight—if this dragon had escaped his cage, so could she.

…But why was it prowling on the ground? His dark, leathery wings remained tucked close to his body as he silently slipped through the trees. 

Why didn’t he just spread his wings and fly?

“It’s not that easy, princess,” Whitedream’s voice came beside her, as if he had read her mind. “To those who do not know how to fly, the sky will always seem forever out of reach.”

“You said you’d come in my dreams!”

“And here I am,” was the amused reply. “Besides, you didn’t keep that weirwood pin in your sleep, and I had to avoid that shadow-binder you sleep with—she almost sensed me last time.”

“But I sleep with no shadow-binders,” Rhaella said, baffled. “Just my ladies-in-waiting.”

Whitedream cocked an eyebrow. “Appearances can be deceiving. Surely the one in question is sharper than she seems and knows things she ought not to know.”

The words were like knives stabbing into her chest. “Surely… surely there is a mistake,” she said, desperation creeping into her chest. “Melony is four and ten, and…”

Whitedream’s body twisted, shuffling and churning, until an old, hunchback whitebeard stood beside her, smiling with a mouth full of crooked, yellow teeth.

“Charms to deceive the eyes and ears are easy to do.” His voice was hoary and parched like that of an old man. Even his breath was sour, like that of a greybeard. “They can hold for long if you know how to anchor them, too.”

All her doubts fled her, taking the warmth with them.

“But…” but it was Grandfather who had brought Melony here. Perhaps… perhaps he knew. Perhaps it was by design. 

But the knowledge did nothing to ease the knot in her stomach. Why? Why was nobody trusting her?

“Is she dangerous to me?” she rasped, voice jagged like a shard of broken glass. 

“Only if you stand in her way.” The old, haunched man rippled, and Whitedream’s young form stood before her again. He glanced at the drake prowling through the dark forest with a glint in his eyes. “Do you wish to retrieve your cloak?”

Rhaella’s gaze found the woven red leaves. It looked pretty tied to the drake’s tail.

“What does it do? Besides warding off the cold, I mean.”

“It’s not what it does, but what it means to you.” Whitedream cautiously looked around, as if afraid someone would jump from behind a dark tree to attack them. “The cloak was a portion of the fate you were granted for your sacrifice to the gods. Though it has lost its powers, it still belongs to you.”

“How did I give my fate to some dreamed-up dragon in my sleep?”

“I’m afraid the dragon is very much real, and the rules of the Dream are far more flexible than the waking world.”

“How about I find him, then?” Rhaella asked, tilting her head. “I could take him for a mount and soar through the sky, the first Targaryen to ride a dragon in a century.”

Just imagining it lit a fire in her belly. With a dragon under her command, none could control her. Not her mother, and certainly not her grandfather—

Whitedream roared in laughter. “I’m afraid this one can never fly or breathe fire, at least not in the way you want him to. But you could mount him all the same.”

More riddles. And a bawdy jape to go with them. And judging by the amusement dancing in those mossy eyes, no amount of prodding would earn her an explanation.

“Let him keep the cloak, then,” Rhaella said graciously, not rising to the bait. “It’s unseemly to take back a gift already given.”

The edge of Whitedream’s lips twitched. 

“If so, it’s time for our first lesson.” Then, joy drained from his face as he warily looked over his shoulder. “But we must first relocate. Thousand Eyes is too close and his master is old but still dangerous here, and the narrow-minded Singers dislike uninvited guests the most.”

A thousand questions swirled in her mind, but his fingers wrapped around her wrist, and Rhaella found the world spinning until they found themselves atop Harrenhal’s Kingspyre tower again. 

“What—”

“Our time is too short for empty talk and idle curiosities,” Whitedream said, voice growing stern. “Now, listen well and listen close. For both greendreams and skinchanging, you must first master your mind…”

Author’s Endnote: Rhaella is so hard to write, and so are character introductions. Virtually everyone in King’s Landing can be considered a canonical OC (as we only know names at most, and rarely characters), aside from maybe young Tywin Lannister, but we only see a much older version of him.

I have fanned out the cast slowly. But I think the most relevant characters on Rhaella’s side are introduced. I made Loreza Martell (Doran and Oberyn’s mom, I picked the popular fanon name because she had none in canon) to be Shaera’s lady-in-waiting, because she’s canonically at least in her late twenties/early thirties. It would be very weird for a married woman with three children to become a bedmaid for a 12-13-year-old princess (c’mon George!)

It’s going to be fun to peel skinchanging and greendreams little by little, but I’ll have to be extremely careful because ASOIAF magic in its core is meant to be ‘unknown’ or at least ‘unreliable’, and I intend to keep most of it in the same vein.