Work Text:
106 AC
Corlys had said they could call for a new council. It's the time. They have the means, and the connections. She is a grown woman with two children, a sweet boy and a beautiful girl, married to a wealthy man who has an impressive legacy. Everyone would agree she is the best choice for the stability of the kingdom, he says.
Rhaenyra is just a child without a mother or father to stand for her, goes unsaid.
She thinks of her father more than ever. Aemon Targaryen was a different man, he was devoted to his wife, never blaming her for her multiple miscarriages or engaging in affairs, despite the protest of many.
Other men would have scorned their heir as a girl or merely ignored her, leaving her to the care of their wives. He had never made her feel lesser, he had shown her how to tame a dragon, and how to navigate politics. He had given her flowers and dresses. Hugs and comfort. Attended every nightmare and listened to every dream. He had given all of the love he had.
"My little girl." He would whisper into her hair every time before planting a soft kiss.
If he had been alive, Rhaenys would have been Queen, she never doubted her father or his will. Her grandmother could see that, Jaehaerys could not, he could not see anything past her sex, her womanhood.
She had lost her father and had lost every dream he had for her.
She does not remember the day she lost him, or the days that passed. She was given too many things to calm down her nerves, out of fear of losing the babe. Flashes of memory come to her. Her mother's face red and angry, lunging at her uncle and grandfather, her throat hoarse out of her own screams. Her grandmother crumpling on the floor.
Her uncle, the smell of death clinging to him, was trying to stare at her, yet he could not. Fearful, guilty, restrained. Rhaenys had her father's pale purple eyes, and Baelon could not deal with the memory of one of his greatest losses.
The brave, they called him, had become a broken man.
Baelon loved Aemon. Baelon had loved her as if she were his child. He had guided her towards meelys, had given her the last piece of his wife. Yet when the time came, he had come for her crown and had defied his brother's will.
Rhaenys could not sleep, not with her old wounds opening up on her chest, splitting her open until she had to painfully stitch herself back together, as ragged as she could. Just like she had done with every loss that life had given to her.
The stranger had become a permanent passenger on the ship of her life.
"Viserys is dead" She whispered to herself.
She had wished him dead many times in her life, starting from her youth. When he had taken her doll and had broken it by accident, or when he had clumsily stepped on her feet while practicing dancing. When the realm had called and had stated their will for having them as their future king, she had wished him dead.
She never meant any of that, she reminded herself, not even the times she hurt the most.
She still remembers standing over her toes to peek over his crib, or drying his tears when her aunt had passed. In her mind, sometimes Viserys was still a young child to care for, she had no true brothers, so in a way he and Daemon became hers. To steal pastries together, to fly in the sky, and to spend their days vexing their teachers.
The stranger had touched one of her kin again. According to Corlys, Viserys had been galloping steadily against a deer, but had no chance against the animal that had hidden itself in the forest. When the men had dismounted to take a breath, Viserys had been laughing their exhaustion away when he had doubled down in pain and clutched his chest.
Quick he had gone like his father before him. According to the maester, he had a significantly smaller heart than usual and it could not keep up.
He was king for only three years, and has left behind a devastated bethrothed and a young daughter with the weight of the seven kingdoms on her bony shoulders.
A daughter that Rhaenys has had not the bravery to face out of fear of seeing her own face staring back at her.
She wonders briefly if time is not a straight line, but a circle in which events repeat themselves time after time, with just as few sprinkles that change. For now, she takes the place her uncle took before her, older, and with grief weighing down her shoulders.
The charge at Rhaenyra's chambers is a handsome young man, whom she recognizes as the king's guard that Viserys had taken after Rhaenyra had become besotted with him. He solemnly opens the door for her and announces her.
"Princess Rhaenys,"
Lady Alicent Hightower greets her, bowing demurely. Daughter of the hand, young, pretty, and with a family line that ensures healthy children. She was just a month away from being the Seven Kingdoms' new queen, now she is a young lady with a dead betrothed and a title that never was.
She wonders if the spirit of Maegor is laughing at her. Another could be Queen of the Hightower.
"Lady Alicent."
Rhaenyra does not turn toward her. Her cousin resembles the beloved dolls of her childhood, all dressed up in a fluffy dress with a frozen face. A part of her would have felt miffed at the disregard of her presence, yet it is better than when she took a vase and threw it at her uncle's head.
"Rhaenyra, the princess is here." Alicent softly chides the child who insists on staring directly at the window.
"It's alright, Lady Alicent. If you could give us a moment please."
In another life, Rhaenys would bow to her, and take her leave at her command. In this one, Alicent is just another lady of the court below the hierarchy.
"Rhaenyra," she calls out. "Have you eaten?"
She nods.
Rhaenys can not help but clench her hands, a nervous tick her grandmother had tried to shove out of her, and one that she had not done in a long time. Not since her father had fallen.
What could she say? Am I sorry? There was nothing that could help the poor child. Rhaenys had her golden years surrounded by aunts, and cherished by her parents before the stranger claimed most of her family. She knew of loss much later, when at least she could claim some maturity of the spirit.
Rhaenyra is only nine.
"Your father…" she started, "was a good man."
Viserys was cowardly. Eager to please. Fond of sweet and ale. But he was good, and kind. He loved his family, and he loved her.
She still remembers the crestfallen look on her face when the realm proclaimed their king, how his hand trembled, and how Aemma's took hold of him, to ground him.
Gods, Aemma. Aemma who is no longer here to even shield her daughter.
"Where is he?" Rhaenyra asks, and Rhaenys stills.
"He is at his chambers," she replies honestly. "The silent sisters are with him."
"Can I see him?"
Ryman Redwyne stares with as much disapproval as he can muster at the sight of them, as he guards the chambers where Viserys lies. Rhaenys does not falter, head held high and arms in Rhaenyra.
"Princess, the sight-. A girl should not see her father in that condition." He tries to reason, his voice low so as not to be heard by Rhaenyra.
"It's her father, at the end of everything, he is still there," Rhaenys counters.
A part of her knows it's more than reasonable to turn back. Deny Rhaenyra this request. Perhaps she should have only kept the memory of the living and breathing Viserys.
Rhaenys does not remember the last time she saw her father. Had he fretted over her about the pregnancy? Had he smiled and soothed her worries? Did he hold her as if she were a little girl?
She remembers staring at the sea for days, waiting to hear Caraxes shrill roar, see the great red beast break the cloud, and run towards the clearing to wait for her. He would go down toward her and tell her it was a mistake, he had not died. They had told her all wrong. It was a bad dream, and she no longer needed to feel her chest caving in sorrow.
Rhaenyra does not need those hopes.
The man grumbles, yet he stands down and lets them in. His hand softly caresses Rhaenyra's hair in a paternal touch as she crosses the room.
The room is filled with the scent of the holy oils and bathed in the smoke of the incense. Three silent sisters sit around the room, their focus only on the moving bead on their hands. They are commandless for the preparation for Viserys' wake is paused at the moment.
They still have not heard from Daemon.
They will not burn Viserys without Dameon, that is one thing Rhaenys refuses to do, despite the protest of the council. Otto Hightower tried to propose to burn Viserys with a torch, but it was brought down by the others. Viserys was a dragon before anything, and he must be turned to ashes by another.
If Rhaenys will not call for Meelys fire, then they will hold for Daemon.
On the large bed, it's her cousin, or what remains of his earthly body. There is no viserys with his laughing eyes, and affable smile. The silent sisters have done an amazing job, the body is no longer that of a beloved father or a joyful cousin, it's just a corpse. The only sign of being one of the king, is the crown lying on the chest.
Rhaenyra lets go of her hands and hesitates for a moment to approach the body. She touches the wrapped arm and waits for something. Her father does not rise, just as Rhaenys father did not come for her.
She waits for the child to shake, to demand answers. She stays poised, waiting to hold her. Rhaenyra does not cry loudly, tears stream down her face, but she holds steady to the arm of her father, as she once did when he lived.
"Do-do I have to do it? Do I have to burn him?" Rhaenyra hiccups her way through the words.
"Do you want to?" She asks.
Did they ask of Rhaenys? Did she say no? Her head aches for memories, yet there is only her grandfather in her mind commanding Vermithor, and her father gone to ashes.
Rhaenyra denies, her body trembling.
"Then you won't. It will be your uncle then."
Lady Alicent is not waiting in Rhaenyras chambers. Rhaenyra understand for there is no longer a duty to care for Rhaenyra. There is only the Kingsguard whose eyes trail on Rhaenys as if she were an intruder, but his place is at the door, not taking in Rhaenyra in his arms. The servants instead welcome her with their familiar yet only dutiful hands, there is no true love in their touches as they prepare her to sleep.
Rhaenys should leave, she has children to tend to. A husband who will take her aside in haste to make plans. As she sees the maester's hand Rhaenyra a cup with sleeping draught. She once again walks the path of memories.
Her grandmother put her grief aside, for what is another son's loss in a sea of mourning, to go to her and tend her in her hour of need, holding her half-sister together in murmurs of retribution and birthrights. Across the keep, her grandfather sank in guilt and placed his last hopes on his remaining son. Lords approached her husband with condolences and promises of support in court. Members of the council pressed on her uncle Baelon with ambition.
They schemed, they fought, they pleaded, and all while Rhaenys felt as the world became dimmer around her.
They will do the same to Rhaenyra.
The girl lies on the bed, eyes puffy yet drifting toward the window. A maid stands on the wall, stiff but alert, not comforting her.
Rhaenys has other matters, yet there is something inside of her that commands her to sit next to the child. Rhaenyra does not turn towards her.
"I also have known loss, princess," the words spill from her with such ease, "my father, then much later my mother."
That makes her turn towards her. Rhaenyra's purple eyes, familiar eyes. The eyes of Baelon, of Gael, and even Jaehaerys. She wonders briefly if one of Rhaenyra's children will inherit Viserys.
"Loss, it's not an easy thing, you will carry with you your whole life, I fear. The pain- it will feel suffocating at first, then before you know it, it will be a gentle reminder of the love you have carried with you. Your father and mother still live with you, in the soft breeze in the gardens, and the gentle touch of the sun. You will feel them in the moments of most need. Their love lives within you."
Those eyes flutter softly, and her cold hand reaches Rhaenys cheek to wipe the tears that have fallen of her eyes without notice. Rhaenys heart beats on old sorrow and the remembrance of love lost.
"Will you stay with me?"
"Of course, princess."
The heir to the throne and the Queen who never was hold each other in bed, the open wounds of their familiar loss closing just a little bit more with the tender embrace. Rhaenys does not leave, her eyes focusing on the window to the bays until exhaustion takes her. Caraxes cries welcoming her to sleep.