Chapter Text
How long since the world ended?
Rhaenyra hid beneath her blankets for so long the sun must have risen, fallen, and withered away into nothingness. Shadows stretched across her chambers, and in the gloom she heard the servants ghost past, soft-footed, careful as thieves, stealing nothing but glimpses of her sorrow. Not one dared disturb her. Who would dare command a queen-in-the-making to rise, while the memory of the previous queen’s screams still poisoned the air?
She curled tighter, shutting her eyes, desperate to choke out the thrumming echoes: the shrill bark of pain, the unforgiving taste of blood that haunted stone and beam alike. But worst was the laughter, gentle and worn thin by too many sleepless nights, lost to silence now, and too quickly.
Where was Alicent?
A pang. Rhaenyra’s mouth went dry. The Hightower girl, her friend, her sister was nowhere and had not come, not once, nor sent word. Was she huddled in the sept, clutching her prayers tighter than friends? No one loved the Seven as Alicent did, not even Queen Aemma, resting in her shroud.
A knock, cruel and sharp, cracked through the catacomb hush of grief and yanked Rhaenyra from her spiral, and her heart raged at whoever dared trespass on her mourning. Another, then the hurried whisper and shuffling of a servant opening the door. Good, she thought soullessly, and tried to burrow deeper.
Heavy, impatient boots crossed the floor, stopping at the foot of her bed. Before fear could settle, the covers were yanked away, cold air clawed at her skin. She blinked against the dark and found Daemon looming, pale and almost spectral in the muted light. Anger fought with concern on his face, his mouth a settled line, his usual venom curdled by…was it hesitance?
“Up. Your father requires you,” Daemon muttered, noticeably gentler than usual. Rhaenyra glared, dragging the blanket over herself again. “Little dragon,” he sighed, one rough hand brushing her brow, “I know you’d rather dream yourself dead, but duty waits.”
Her voice cracked: “I want Alicent. Bring her, Daemon. Please.”
She expected acquiescence; she expected his familiar retreat. But his hand stilled, cold and certain on her forehead. “That’s why I’m here, child. Your little servant’s been found…someplace rather interesting. Your father thinks you should be spared and kept ignorant. I don’t agree. Come to the council. You’ll want to hear what’s said.”
Then, to the servants, softer but with the old imperiousness, “Dress her. The blue Arryn gown, the one her mother favored.”
The servants moved quickly, brisk and silent, like a congregation performing a mourning rite. One—young, lips pressed white—guided the rest with flashes of anger she struggled to hide. When finished, Daemon was let in to inspect her: a judge before a sacrificial altar. “Good,” he pronounced. “Very good.”
Rhaenyra barely noticed the soft ivory, the dusk-blue folds—only the constraint at her ribs. Daemon nodded at the servant. “Leave her hair down.”
He marched her through shadowed corridors, their progress marked by the hush and scatter of gossip. “Poor little princess. Lost her mother, now this…” Some voices trembled with pity. Others, hunger.
“Wasn’t Daemon banished?” a servant dared mutter.
She eyed her uncle. “Were you banished already, Kepas?”
Daemon’s mouth twisted, self-mocking. “Yes. Best you hear my sins from me—for your father tells stories. I…may have called your little brother ‘heir for a day.’ Your father raged. Someone on the council whispered it in his ear.”
“Otto,” Rhaenyra spat, and something hollowed out behind her breastbone. Daemon’s hand lingered on her shoulder, unyielding despite her protest. “It wasn’t malice,” he murmured. “Just the truth your mother always saw. We all mourn in our own way.”
The council room waited, immense and chill. Daemon beckoned her to stand behind him, among the candelabras and echoing marble. Before she could draw breath, cries shattered the chamber. Viserys stormed in, Otto trailing, and behind them, ghostlike in an ill-fitting gown, was Alicent. Something splintered loose in Rhaenyra, dread hissing through her veins as fascination rooted her feet.
Lords gathered, their voices sharp as knives. “A harlot, in Queen Aemma’s shadow? We should be in mourning!” Lord Beesbury cried.
Viserys waved them off, desperate. “My son will not be named a bastard—”
“He is, my king,” said Lord Strong, grave as a tombstone. “Wed this girl during Aemma’s funeral procession? The Vale has long memories.”
Lord Corlys shouted, shaking with fury. “You’d name that wretch queen? My Laena’s blood is pure Valyrian! But you, you lay with your servant in the dying days of your wife—”
Daemon’s voice curled like smoke. “A pious woman, Otto? More like a loose one.”
Viserys rounded on Daemon, purple with rage. “You were—”
He silenced at the sight of Rhaenyra: bloodless, fists trembling, not so much a girl as a sleep-starved specter. Alicent, catching her gaze, seemed to shrivel into shadow.
Otto, voice steel, called, “Arrest him.” The whitecloak did not move.
Rhaenyra tsked, the soft sound slicing the tension. Otto blustered, the king stared only at his daughter.
“All those nights in prayer must have been very enlightening, lady Alicent,” Rhaenyra mocked, her voice ragged.
“It’s not—” Viserys began, but Daemon cut him off, venomous, “Is there a bastard in her belly or not? Funny. You made one before I did.”
“Enough!” Viserys’ tone was barely more than a rasp. He fixed his eyes on Rhaenyra, searching for mercy. “I must marry her, child. I,I, your brother…”
Rhaenyra’s laugh was broken glass. “My brother is dead. My mother died screaming. And you banished my uncle for speaking the truth? For a whore?”
Otto interceded: “The line of succession—”
“Must be trueborn! Not born from sin!” Rhaenyra howled, tears and spit and heartbreak tearing free. “You slept with my maid! Did you ever love us, father? Did you love—” Her words drowned in sobs. Hands reached for her but she battered them away. “I’ll never forgive you. I curse you, Alicent. I damn you and the child, no dragon will ever rise from your line. You’ll suffer as my mother suffered. The realm will know.”
Chaos erupted, screams, denials, bodies scrabbling for order as she was dragged from the room, hot with shame, fury, despair.
In the corridor, servants shrank from her, eyes wide with silent, guilty witness. Someone, Daemon or Rhaenys, a steady flame at her side, carried her, pressed a kiss to her brow, whispered, “Calm, child. The city will feast on this for moons.”
Daemon snorted. “Let it.”
Rhaenyra fought for breath, the rage in her blood echoed by Syrax’s answering roar from the pit below.
Finally they lowered her into bed, drew the curtains close, tucked blankets round her trembling form. Rhaenys called for a maid. Daemon offered hollow comfort. Rhaenyra could not speak, not even to whisper why. Outside, the sun was a bloodstain crawling across the floor, and voices murmured of dragons, disgrace, and doom.
Daemon’s voice, muffled: “Think he’ll really do it? Marry her?”
Rhaenys, cold as winter hissed, “He’s a fool. Always was, even as a boy.”
“And still, our king,” came Corlys’ rumble as he edged his brood inside. Laenor watched Rhaenyra with haunted eyes; Laena pushed past Daemon and burrowed under blankets, pressing against her cousin’s side.
“I’m sorry,” Laena whispered, and Rhaenyra dissolved at last, not fighting the flood.