53. Rhaena II / Aenys XIII

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Rhaena II

8th Moon, 39AC

The nursery was warm in the late morning light, the heat from the interior of their volcanic home spread through the castle readily, keeping them warm even as Winter began to bring its fury. Rhaena sat cross-legged on the fine sofa, her skirts draped around her as she watched her brother march his little toy soldiers around the crude map of Westeros the Maester had hastily drawn up.

“Where are they marching now, Jae?” Rhaena asked, trying to shirk off the boredom that had been consuming her lately. 

“Dorne,” Jaehaerys said with all the confidence and pride a five-name-day-old boy could muster. 

That piqued her interest. Jaehaerys, much to Rhaena’s displeasure, had absolutely insisted on playing with his toy soldiers. An unpleasant reminder of their current situation, but she was surprised it was Dorne and not the Riverlands, where their brother now fought after clearing King’s Landing of its filth. 

“Why Dorne, Jae?” she asked, reluctantly getting off her comfortable sofa and descending onto her knees, her skirts pooling beneath her and providing a little comfort and protection from the warm stone floor. 

“Because they are bad,” he muttered as he smashed two soldiers together, the finely painted wooden toys admirably withstanding the abuse her little brother was putting them through. 

Rhaena hummed at that. She supposed he was not wrong, given they were the only openly rebellious Kingdom as of yet. Sure, nobles had risen up across all of Westeros, but none of the Lords Paramount or Wardens had declared independence. 

They had also killed their grandmother, the fabled beauty, Queen Rhaenys Targaryen. Her grandfather had always said that she looked like her. Which had been comforting in a time when she had still dreamt of being her Aegon’s Rhaenys, but now those memories just felt bitter. 

She shook her head, trying and failing to dispel the sick feeling she had ever since Aegon had left. They would do her no good here, she just had to have faith in Aegon. 

‘Faith,’ her mind scoffed, but she shook her head again, desperately searching for a question to ask her little brother to distract herself. 

“You know we warred with them recently,” Rhaena said,  hoping to draw her little brother’s attention.

“Really?” he said, cocking his head, letting his long silver-gold hair flopping to one side of his face, covering one of his cute purple eyes.

“Yes, really,” she said, her mind wandering back to the day her father, uncle, and grandaunt left. She and her husband had both begged to accompany them, she imagined his excuse was the same as her own. Hoping to release some pent-up anger onto those who deserved it. But they had both been denied, albeit for different reasons. 

Aegon was denied because of his actions at the dances the sennight prior, but she had been denied for a different reason. Because Dreamfyre was small. 

The very notion that her beloved blue dragon was too small for combat insulted Rhaena to her very core. Dreamfyre was nimble and quick, but she was still a dragon. Her uncle was allowed to go on campaign alone to the Stepstones when his dragon Terrax was damn near the same size. It was not fair. 

But that was in the past. Now, she was not allowed on campaign for a different reason, because her husband had asked a favor of her, and she would not let him down. 

“So who won?” her little brother thankfully asked, distracting Rhaena further. 

“Hm?” she blinked, confused

“Father and Uncle and Old Visenya fought Dorne. But they are not part of our Kingdom, did they win?” Jaehaerys asked, continuing to move his soldiers around the map, gathering them primarily around the Red Mountains. 

She smiled thinly. “Of course we did. The dragons always win,” Rhaena started, her harshly suppressed pride lightly bubbling within her. “But the Dornish are cowardly. They don’t fight like the other kingdoms. They vanish, they strike from the shadows, and they know their land better than any of us ever could.”

“Then they should all be killed,” Jaehaerys said, once more smashing his toy soldiers against each other. 

“Grandfather tried that,” Rhaena said, a thin smile on her lips once more.

She remembered how her grandfather disliked telling stories of his war in Dorne. He would happily tell stories of his destruction of Harrenhal, or the Field of Fire, and even the Last Storm and the Surrender of the Eyrie, but Dorne was always off limits. 

So her only real information on the topic had come from other witnesses. She was much too weary to ask her grandaunt Visenya for her first hand account. But her grandfather Aethan and granduncle Corlys told her and her husband much. 

The Dragon’s Wroth, as the singers called it. Had brought ruin to much of Dorne. Entire towns returned to the sand. The farms that fed Dorne were completely destroyed, leaving nothing but scorched earth and flooded rivers in their place. Every castle in Dorne had been visited at least thrice, reducing them all into sad, droopy things. Yet her grandfather never seemed all too proud of it. 

‘Because of Rhaenys,’ Rhaena thought. She wished she had gotten to meet her grandmother. From what everyone around her always said, she was everything that a queen could aspire to be. Smart, strong, beautiful, capable, loyal. 

Rhaena shook her head again, feeling the twist in her gut at the mere thought of the word. Images of her husband with some pretty Andal wench out in Harrenhal had haunted her nightmares for the last moon, and no amount of distractions could abate them.

“Then he should have tried harder,” Jaehaerys said, this time moving his soldiers around toward the Stormlands. 

Rhaena leaned back onto her hands and stared at her brother. Trying to fill her mind with any thoughts that did not feel poisonous. She tried to imagine what he might be like when he was older. 

He would be tall, of course, Targaryens always were. A warrior, too, she imagined. Her entire family was, aside from herself, her mother, and her sister…

“Alysanne!” Rhaena yelled, jumping up from her position on the ground. Her heart was lurching in her chest as she made for the corner of the nursery, where her sister was.

She found the toddler sitting upright inside the cradle, half-tangled in a blanket she'd pulled around herself, a toy dragon clutched in her chubby little hands. The girl's pale blonde hair was tousled from the bed in the cradle, and her eyes, those impossibly big ocean blue eyes, blinked up at Rhaena with confusion.

“Yes?” she asked, her sweet voice working to dispel the thundering in Rhaena’s chest. 

Rhaena placed her face in her hands, steadying her breath. ‘Oh gods,’ she thought. She had completely forgotten about Alysanne. The maids were present, of course but she had not even glanced over at her little sister in what must have been two hours. 

She lowered her hands and leaned against the fine wooden walls of the cradle. “Are you alright?” she asked, brushing a curl from Alysanne’s face. 

“Yesh,” she responded, her stuffed dragon toy already half in her mouth. Rhaena moved a hand to pull out the white cloth dragon, but her sister fought for it. 

Rhaena indulged her little sister for a few moments, letting her soft, pudgy little sister struggle to keep her stuffed dragon in her mouth. But then, she gave a firmer tug, prying the damp dragon free from her grip.

Alysanne blinked. Her bottom lip trembled. “Mine,” was all she said, her voice quiet and confused.

“I’ll give it back,” Rhaena murmured distractedly, examining the slobbered toy. “It’s filthy.”

But Alysanne didn’t understand. Her face scrunched, as children did when they were about to make everyone in the vicinity pay for whatever transgression had occurred.

And then she wailed. The sound was sudden and sharp. It pierced through the warmth of the nursery like a blade through silk. Rhaena flinched as though struck in the face. 

She stared at Alysanne, heart thudding wildly again. Her sister's round cheeks were flushed now, tears rolling down them in fat streaks. Her arms reached up, little fat fingers grabbing at nothing. She looked betrayed, hurt.

Rhaena didn’t move. She couldn’t. The sound…

Her stomach twisted again, painful enough for her to nearly keel over, her hands clutching at her belly. The sound was not dissimilar to those same, nauseating screams that her other little sister had wailed for days. Hearing them again made her want to vomit. 

‘Vaella,’ Rhaena thought, remembering her little sister taken too soon. Gone before she could even get to know her. She had only seen her little sister a handful of times, but her screams, her cries, they haunted the castle still. 

Rhaena’s breath became shallow, her own eyes beginning to water with the sickening memories of her own mother’s cries as well. Alysanne, meanwhile, cried even louder.

And still, she did nothing. The toy dropped to the ground as she clutched at her stomach. Her body was stiff with guilt and memory.

Rhaena blinked hard, trying to banish the stinging in her eyes, but her breath still came in ragged gasps. She reached out with trembling arms, her hands brushing Alysanne’s shoulders hesitantly. 

“Shh… shh, it’s alright,” she tried, voice cracking. “I’m sorry. Please don’t cry,” she begged. She had to make the noise stop. 

But her own hesitation had made her clumsy, her hands too tense and her voice too uncertain. Alysanne flailed, her cries rising in pitch as though Rhaena’s touch had only deepened the offense.

Before the maids could step in and soothe her sister, the door to the nursery swung open. 

“What is going on?” the familiar voice of her aunt shouted over her little sister’s screaming. A Kingsguard knight followed quickly on her heels. 

“I…I… she won't stop crying!” Rhaena shouted, her stomach still twisting and turning from the noise. 

With a swift, fluid motion, her aunt Shiera scooped the toddler into her arms with a practiced ease that Rhaena envied instantly. She bounced her gently, swaying from side to side, her hand stroking the back of Alysanne’s head as she murmured soft, soothing words into her ear in High Valyrian.

Alysanne's sobs began to soften almost immediately. Her fists clenched and unclenched in her aunt Shiera’s dress, and after a few more moments, she buried her tear-streaked face into the crook of her aunt’s neck, hiccuping faintly.

Rhaena looked away, her jaw clenched, hot shame filling her like a glass of wine.

“Nothing happened?” the Kingsguard, Ser Davos Darklyn, she now realized, asked. His hand was ready to draw his sword at a moment's notice. 

“N-no… I just…” Rhaena began, but she did not finish. Her shame quickly replaced her pain. 

“It is fine, as long as she is alright, it does not matter. Are you alright, Alysanne?” her aunt spoke up, cutting both her and Ser Davos off. 

Her hiccuping little sister did not verbally respond, only nodding lightly as her face was still buried in her aunt’s dress. It seemed like everyone in the room sighed a breath of relief upon the motion, despite its barely noticeable nature. Her aunt’s shoulders relaxed, and Ser Robin removed his hand from the pommel of his sword. 

“Aunt Shiera…” Rhaena began, but before she could properly explain what had happened, Jaehaerys was pulling at her skirts. 

“What happened?” he asked, staring up at her with his big purple eyes. 

“Nothing you need to worry about,” her aunt began. “Now, why don’t you go and play with Visenya?” she said with a smile that Jaehaerys did not return.

He merely pouted, not saying a word as he marched back over to his map and toys and took a seat on the ground once more. Meanwhile, Shiera sank into one of the old rocking chairs by the window, her arms cradling Alysanne with practiced ease. Rhaena followed slowly, curling her legs beneath her as she sat across from her aunt on a low stool.

“I tried to help her,” Rhaena spoke first, unwilling to be cut off once more. “But I made it worse. I couldn’t calm her, I just stood there like…” she admitted, feeling pathetic. 

“Do not worry, Rhaena. Believe it or not, this takes time to learn and master,” her aunt said with her characteristic thin smile. Her red eyes seemed to pierce a hole right into her very soul. 

Rhaena gave a faint, humorless laugh. “Maybe. But if you hadn’t come, I think we might have all come apart at the seams,” Rhaena said before mentally slapping herself. The words of her husband appeared in her mind once more. 

He’d called it pathetic, the way they had come to rely on their aunt and cousins to help care for Jaehaerys and Alysanne while their parents mourned Vaella behind closed doors.

But try as she might to agree with her husband, Rhaena couldn’t bring herself to do so. What else was family for, if not to support one another?

Then again… she couldn’t entirely blame her husband for his unease in regards to some of their family members. Their grandaunt’s nature was peculiar in particular. At times aloof, sometimes even a little unsettling. And the looks she gave them at supper, cool and unreadable, certainly didn’t help. It was hard to know whether she disapproved… or simply didn’t care. 

Rhaena's thoughts were interrupted by a sudden realization. “Wait… where is Visenya?” she asked, glancing about. She had only seen Shiera enter the nursery, which struck her as odd.

“I am right here!” her cousin’s voice chirped from behind her, as she was brought into a hug.

Rhaena jolted so suddenly that she nearly toppled forward. Only her cousin letting go of her and her own sense of self preservation prevented her from falling flat on her face. 

“Visenya!” her aunt scolded. “What did I tell you about sneaking up on people?”

Her cousin looked somewhat sheepish at that, grinding her heel into the fine cotton carpet. “That I shouldn’t unless I am in a fight or soon will be,” she murmured, her eyes not leaving the ground. 

Rhaena studied her cousin closely. Her aunt must have kept her behind her under the assumption that something was wrong with Alysanne. ‘Smart,’ Rhaena thought. She wished she had been able to remain ignorant of happenings around the castle when her sister Vaella had been dying. 

“To answer your question,” Shiera said lightly, continuing to stroke Alysanne’s golden curls as the little girl finally drifted into quiet snores, “Visenya is with Baelon and Daenys. They’re off flying Vhagar.”

Rhaena blinked. “Wait… Daenys?” she asked, tilting her head. “She’s only just had her second name day.”

“Yes,” Shiera replied with a small smile, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Rhaena chose not to question it further. Some things, with Shiera, were better left unexamined. She sat quietly, fumbling for what to say. It had been moons since they’d shared a proper conversation. And though she missed it, she hesitated. The fear of saying the wrong thing, of losing the one person who still spoke to her like she was just Rhaena and not the stupid girl who had almost ruined her life and betrayed her brother, always caught her tongue.

She glanced at her aunt then and felt the familiar comparison running through her mind once more. 

Her mother, Alyssa Velaryon, looked every inch the Valyrian Queen, regal, sharp-jawed, silver-haired, and stern-eyed. She was like how her books described the duties of a noble wife, beautiful and commanding, and perfect. But she had vanished behind locked doors and muffled sobs since Vaella died. Her grief had made her unreachable.

Her aunt Shiera, by contrast, looked even stranger in the presence of Valyrians than her blonde little sister Alysanne. Her hair was white instead of the traditional silver-gold, her skin a touch paler than Rhaena’s own, and her eyes were the haunting hue of Blood. She had always appeared more laid back when Rhaena caught glimpses of her parenting. Kind yet stern, yet she was willing to let her children go on dragon flights at barely two name days old? It was absurd, yet she was here. Steady, present, and dependable in a way no one else had been on the island.

“Visenya?” her aunt spoke quietly. 

“Yes, Mother?” her cousin asked, no longer staring at her boots. 

“Why don’t you go and play with Jaehaerys for a bit? I need to speak with your cousin,” Shiera said, her voice warm but edged with something firmer, unyielding. The kind of voice that offered no room for disagreement despite its calm surface.

Visenya gave a little huff but obeyed, trotting off with a dramatic sigh to where Jaehaerys sat distractedly trying to untangle the colored ribbons on one of his toys. 

A stillness settled over the nursery. The maids moved quietly, careful not to disturb the baby’s sleep. The dull thuds of wooden soldiers and the soft snores of Alysanne were the only sounds that broke the silence. 

“Rhaena?” Shiera said softly, her crimson gaze lifting to meet hers, sharp and patient all at once.

Rhaena flinched. “Y-Yes?” she answered, a little too fast, her voice tight. She hadn’t realized how far she’d drifted in thought again. 

Shiera tilted her head, saying nothing, and somehow that made it worse. Rhaena bit her lip. “S-sorry, “I didn’t mean to space out,” she muttered.

“That tends to happen when you’re pretending nothing is wrong,” Shiera replied gently, with no hint of accusation in her soft, quiet voice.

Rhaena blinked quickly, as if she could push the sting away before it became tears. “I… I’m tired, Aunt Shiera,” she said, voice low and strained.

Shiera said nothing, only giving the faintest nod as her look softened. It was all the permission Rhaena needed.

“I… it is like everything has gone wrong all at once,” Rhaena bemoaned, tears starting to prick at the corners of her eyes. But she hesitated again, wary of just how far she could push. 

“Do you mean recently, or are you finally ready to tell me what has happened between you and Aegon?” Shiera asked, her words nearly undoing Rhaena. 

She swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest. Her mouth opened, then shut again.

She glanced away. The maids were still occupied. Jaehaerys and Visenya were in their own little world, quietly arguing about something or other. The baby slept. No one was watching but her aunt, her crimson eyes calm and waiting, not judging, but expectant. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Rhaena tried, her own body wincing at her pathetic attempt at deflection.

“You needn’t lie to me, Rhaena,” Shiera said softly before ushering the maids away with a subtle wave of her hand.

That silenced Rhaena more effectively than any reprimand could have. Her palms began sweating as she nervously grabbed at her dress, her stomach ache returning in full force as she weighed her options. 

She took a shaky breath. “Things are better, sort of.” Her fingers fidgeted with the fine silk edge of her sleeve. “It's just… It's different from how I thought it would be,” she admitted, her heart now fully thundering in her chest. 

Shiera’s face remained neutral, not a sound escaping her lips, but Rhaena could see the concern behind her eyes.

“I remember what you said. I know we are still young. And I know people change and scars can heal.” Her voice lowered, bitter. “But it all feels off,” she said, her hands trembling. Her aunt had managed to coax out at least a little bit of her story already, but Rhaena was treading dangerously close to the edge. How would her aunt see her after this pathetic performance?

She paused, the silence spreading through the room once more.

“I keep thinking,” Rhaena went on, her voice almost a whisper now. Terror gripping at her very bones as she admitted what had been haunting her for almost the last moon now. “What if he finds someone else? Some sweet Andal whore with big eyes and an easy smile. Someone who doesn't come with… all the mess that is me. What if he decides I’m too much trouble?” Rhaena whispered, tears making her vision blurry as her throat felt hoarse, but she had more to say. 

“I’m trying,” she said desperately, her hands quivering. “I’m doing everything I can. I shared his bed every night, spent every waking moment of every day with him. I tried to make it like nothing had ever happened, yet he still left, and he wouldn’t take me with him,” Rhaena admitted, her throat burning with every word. 

She looked up at her aunt, eyes glassy. “But what if he doesn’t come back?”

Shiera was quiet, her expression unreadable.

“I don’t want to lose him,” Rhaena said, barely audible. “Not to war. Not to another girl. Not to time. I just want him to remember. To love me like he used to,” she admitted, hugging herself to stop her traitorous body from shaking. 

Shiera said nothing, and Rhaena felt the silence press against her ribs like a suffocating boulder. She kept her gaze down, focused on her fingers, how tightly they clutched the edge of her sleeve, her knuckles already pearl white.

‘I shouldn’t be saying any of this,’ she thought, shame heating up her whole body. ‘She’ll think I’m foolish. Or worse, pathetic.’

But once the words had started to tumble out, she couldn’t hold the rest back. Not all of it aloud, perhaps, but inside, inside of her was a storm that never ended, not since her brother had given her a chance.

‘He was mine,’ her mind thought darkly, lamenting how she had let him leave.

She’d spent every waking moment she could at Aegon’s side. Quietly memorizing every part of him. Laughing at his jokes, even the dull ones. Smiling when she felt hollow. Pressing close to him, indulging his lusts as much as she could manage, as if her body could anchor him in place.

And for a while, a long while, it had worked. He’d looked at her like she was familiar, safe. Like things were not broken. He'd touched her hand at feasts, shared secrets in the dark, and they indulged in each other as lovers ought to. It felt like she was winning. Every night, they fell asleep next to each other, her husband cradling her in her arms after hours of fun. It felt like she could actually earn him back.

But then he'd left. Just like that. Without her. 

He had dismissed her every plea. Demanded that she remain on Dragonstone like a good little nursemaid, caring for their siblings while he went off and put his life on the line. Gallivanting around the Kingdom, no doubt being seduced by all the whorish ladies and wenches around Westeros. 

Rhaena’s breath caught in her throat, her chest tightening like something was coiling inside her, something sharp and cold and furious.

His words… His words brought her no comfort. Needing her to be safe? How could she be safe anywhere but by his side? In his bed? In his embrace? She was in far more danger of losing everything here than she would be with him outside of Harrenhal. 

But the storm raging inside of her was not just one of rage. Where half of her raged against the idea of being replaced, the other side merely wished to roll over and die. For how could she blame her husband for wandering eyes, when she had nearly destroyed their relationship in the same way? 

The war inside of her was enough to make her feel nauseous. The sweat which was originally on her hands, spread to her whole body as her aunt continued to merely look at her. 

“Rhaena,” her aunt whispered, bringing a hand to cover her mouth. 

“I… I cannot say I have been in your situation. But you cannot allow this to eat you like it is. You look sick, Rhaena,” Shiera said, moving in to get a better look at her. 

It was easy to forget sometimes, but her aunt was by all definitions a witch. Rhaena had been lucky enough to be allowed to attend a few magic lessons with her cousin Visenya, so she knew what her aunt was doing, likely thinking of some magic tincture to cure her shakes and shivers, but the only thing that could help Rhaena now would be the embrace of her husband. 

“H-how can I not? After what I've done?” Rhaena whispered, nearly gagging the words out. 

Shiera’s hand dropped from her mouth, her sharp red eyes narrowing, not with judgment but something far softer. 

“I know you are haunted by what you have done,” she began as she pressed the back of her hand to Rhaena’s forehead. “But I think you are letting this consume you too heavily. Have you not heard the whispers? The whole castle is relieved that you and Aegon have mended your bonds. Do you really think they are all mistaken?” 

‘Yes,’ Rhaena thought without a moment of doubt. She did think they were all mistaken. None knew the true gravity of her traitorous acts but her and Aegon. He had every right to leave her in the dirt, yet she could not let him do that. 

“I want to believe that they aren’t,” she whispered. “But every time I close my eyes, I see him walking away from me. And I think if he finds someone else, someone better, he’ll never look back.”

Shiera reached out and took her trembling, sweaty hand.

“There is no one better, Rhaena,” her aunt whispered, the words feeling chilling more than comforting.

The words should have brought strength, but Rhaena only felt cold. Her body was weak, trembling from inside, as though her soul had been emptied from the flask that was her body.

“You are clearly unwell,” her aunt said as she continued to do a light checkup of her.

“I am unwell,” she repeated. “I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, and everything feels cold.”

“Then let us visit the Maester. He will have the supplies I need to help you. I may not be able to cast off your worries, but I should at least be able to help you sleep,” Shiera said as she moved back toward Alysanne’s cradle. Depositing her sleeping sister before whispering something or other to the Kingsguard, likely to have the maids return.

Slowly, Rhaena nodded, her limbs sluggish but listening to her. She rose and wobbled over to her aunt. Her legs felt hopelessly weak before her aunt took her hand, helping to steady her. 

Together, they walked out of the chamber, the storm inside Rhaena still raging, but for the first time in years, she felt like she was not bearing its full weight alone.

…

The Maester’s quarters were bathed in the full light of the afternoon. It smelled of parchment, dried herbs, and that curious medicinal sharpness all Maester’s chambers seemed to share.

She and her aunt stepped uneasily into the room, followed closely by Ser Addison Hill. Shiera set her down in one of the more comfortable chairs in the room before wandering over to Grand Maester Gawen.

Said Grand Maester looked up from where he was organizing his finely made Pentoshi glass jars filled with tonics and tinctures. “Princess Shiera, have you come to scold me again for the measurements I use for Dreamwine?” he said, only a bit of sass present. 

Rhaena studied the old man closely. He was one of the few members of the Small Council still left on Dragonstone. Her grandfather, the Hand of the King, along with the Masters of Coin, Law, Ships, and two of the Kingsguard, had left. Lord Commander Addison Hill remained on the island as her sworn shield but otherwise it was just the Grandmaester. 

Shiera let out a soft snort, arms crossed. “Yes, actually. Princess Rhaena is in need of some, and I will not have her suffer from horrid nightmares,” her aunt said as she began filtering through his supply of herbs and solutions. 

The grey-robed man sighed heavily before turning toward her. The old man hobbled over to her before sitting down on a stool in front of her. He ran many of the same tests that Shiera had done in the nursery, pressing his wrinkled hand to her wrists and checking her temperature. 

After finishing his tests and giving her a gentle once-over, the old man spoke. “You look… well, not healthy, princess. But we’ll fix that,” he said confidently. Even if Rhaena was not so sure it was possible. 

“How long have you felt poorly?” he asked, his tone shifting into clinical calm as he pulled over some of his tools.

“A fortnight at least,” she murmured. “More, probably. I’ve hardly eaten. I feel sick, tired, and weak.”

“Hmph.” He frowned, reaching for a small vial and uncorking it with a practiced hand.

“Rhaena?” Shiera asked suddenly, standing up from her hunched position near the glass bowl she was mixing the dreamwine. 

“Yes?” Rhaena asked, cocking her head as the maester fumbled with his tools. 

“When was your last moon blood?” Shiera asked, deathly serious. 

She blinked rapidly as she paled further. “I… perhaps a moon and a half ago?” Rhaena said, before she realized the brevity of what she had just said.

Shiera abandoned her workstation. Deathly quiet as she stepped closer. 

Grand Maester Gawen hummed low in his throat. “Let us make sure.”

The minutes felt like days as Shiera and the Grand Maester both ran their tests. The whole time she was oddly calm, her heart was beating loudly, but it all felt so unreal. After what felt like a century of waiting, both Shiera and the Grand Maester shared a look before speaking at once.

“You’re with child,” they said softly.

Rhaena didn’t move. The words floated above her, not quite sinking in.

She was with child. With Aegon’s child. Her and Aegon’s child.

A gasp broke from her lips, then another. Her hands trembled as they flew to her face, tears spilling fast and hot down her cheeks as she began swaying in the chair. Her aunt and the Grand Maester tried to steady her, but she was not listening to their words. 

Instead, a few ragged laughs and sobs began escaping her throat. She didn’t even know what she was feeling: elation, dread, pride, terror. It crashed over her all at once, a storm of meaning tangled in the simple truth, she was not alone in her body. Something of him was within her. No matter what came next.

__________________________________________________________________________

Aenys XIII

9th Moon, 39 AC

The cool air outside of Dragonstone accentuated Aenys’s mood perfectly. He sat quietly on one of the benches of Aegon’s garden, letting the cold winds and bitter dry air whip through his light clothes. He hadn’t even bothered with a cloak.

The wind chilled him to the bone, but that felt right somehow. Like penance. Like proof he was still alive.

The garden, lively and beautiful in the summer years, had already wilted and died. The beautiful flowers and green vines that draped over every inch of surface was replaced with the normal, black stone that made much of Dragonstone so dreary. 

Aenys stared across the gray sky, his expression hollow.

His daughter was dead.

He couldn’t believe it for a while. Some part of him thought that his little girl would cough, or her egg would hatch, and she would be saved. Yet it had not happened. She had been given a proper Targaryen funeral, the flames lit by Balerion and Quicksilver. 

He exhaled slowly, watching the mist of his breath drift and vanish into the cold air. Gone. Just like Vaella.

He had tried to speak at the pyre. To say something, anything, befitting of a king, a father. But the words had never come. His lips had trembled, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, and when he looked upon her pale, lifeless form swaddled in black and crimson, all he could think was that he had failed.

His sweet, beautiful Vaella. A little girl who never got to grow up. He never got to see her smile, hear her laughter, or watch her grow. He would never get to give her flying lessons. Tell her stories of her grandfather. He would never get to walk her down the aisle toward her marriage. Because now she was just ash, buried beneath the very castle he lived in. 

He buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook, but no tears came. They had run dry sennights ago.

He could almost hear his brother. His brother, who left to deal with some irrelevant Essosi troubles, taking Aenys’s son Viserys with him on his gallivanting while Aenys’s heart bled here. He would want Aenys to stand up, so would his grandfather. But he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. 

He heard the familiar screech of a dragon then. He would have mused on which one it was. Vhagar or Vemithor? He had not heard Dreamfyre’s in a while. Some part of him wondered what his daughter was doing before sorrow overpowered him once more. 

“You will have to fight, Brother,” Aenys muttered, his brother’s words almost humorously. They seemed so laughable now. What could he do? The Kingdom was falling apart, and he had nothing. 

His family was shattered. Maegor and Viserys had left for Essos before everything boiled over. Aegon had disappeared with the Small Council some time ago. Alyssa was still cold to him, grieving in her own way. Rhaena had disappeared into her room. And his daughter Vaella was dead.

His Kingdom was in shambles. The Small Council was gone. ‘Not like we were meeting anyway,’ Aenys thought cynically. The loyalists were being defeated left and right all across the continent. Countless lords had declared for the fat oaf in Oldtown, and he could hardly count on help here on Dragonstone. 

He knew he should do something. Had to do something. But here he was, half-mad with grief in a dead garden, while the kingdom was pulled to pieces by rebels and sycophants. 

He sat there a while longer, stewing in his grief and pain. Time melded into one unconscious stream as he continued to stare out at the dark skies. The wind howled through the garden's lifeless stone, the branches of dead vines scraping softly against the walls. He was so distracted that he did not even notice when two of his Kingsguard appeared in the garden. 

“Pathetic.” 

Aenys blinked slowly, his head turning just in time to see a towering shadow loom beside him, Maegor. His brother's voice cut through the stillness like a blade, sharp and cold. Before Aenys could form a reply, Maegor seized him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him to his feet with brute force.

“You sniveling, wretched coward,” Maegor growled, shoving him back against the bench.

“I leave for less than six moons. I trusted that you had grown enough to handle the threats to our family. But what do I find when I return? I found a King with no plan, no system, no method!” he spat, venom dripping off every word.

“Let go of me,” Aenys muttered, trying to wrest free, but Maegor didn’t budge, his grip too strong to dislodge.

“Your son,” Maegor said, voice low and deliberate, “is fighting your wars for you.”

Aenys flinched partly at the words, but more so at his tone. But he said nothing, he couldn’t. The shame had long since buried itself deep in his chest, a festering rot he had come to ignore.

“Your son,” Maegor repeated, letting the phrase hang in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre. “A boy. Barely old enough to marry, let alone lead an army, raised in peace, now thrown into the jaws of rebellion while you sit here… wilting like some soft, pathetic flower.”

Aenys stared down at the ground, lips pressed tightly together. Maegor continued to bore a hole in his head with his piercing purple eyes. 

“You are the king, Brother. You sit atop the same throne that our father once ruled from. He brought fear to every pathetic Andal dog in Westeros. Because he was a dragon. Yet you disgrace his name and legacy by cowering here like a fool,” Maegor continued his voice carving through Aenys like a Valyrian Steel Dagger. 

Aenys didn’t move, didn’t speak. The shame, the pain, the grief, it had numbed him. He didn’t even know if he was more angry or broken.

“You think our enemies care about your sorrow?” Maegor pressed, lifting Aenys nearly off the ground, his voice lower now, but no less sharp. “You think they will pause their treason out of respect for your grief? They are emboldened by it! Every tear you shed makes them bolder. Every moment you spend hiding from the truth gives them more ground.”

“They despise our family, and will stop at nothing to see us all dead and buried. Our legacy tarnished and forgotten. Are you really so weak that you will sit here and do nothing while they threaten not only the legacy of our family, but our very lives as well?”

Aenys opened his mouth, but no words were spoken. 

‘You grieve, Vaella, believe me, I sympathize. But what of the rest of your family, Brother? Your son is in danger, leading an army of Andals and potential traitors. Your wife has closed herself off, leaving your children without their mother. Your eldest daughter is pregnant and you cower here like a fool!” he roared with a great shake, tossing Aenys around by the collar of his tunic. 

At last, Aenys raised his head. His face was pale, drawn, haunted, but there was something else in his eyes now. A flicker. Small, but real.

“And what would you have me do, Maegor?” he said, voice ragged but clear. “Burn the realm to the ground? Drown it in blood? Am I to become the very monster they claim me to be?”

Maegor scoffed. “Yes,” he began, teeth gritted in a snarl. “I want you to be a king, I want you to punish those who would harm our family just as our father would have. I want you to act like our father’s heir, not some weeping widow skulking through the gardens.”

Aenys stood a little taller, squaring his shoulders, his breath slow and deep. He met his brother’s eyes, thinking of a response, but he had none. 

‘He’s right,’ Aenys thought. The brevity of the situation finally dawned on Aenys. In his grief and indecision, he had cut himself off from the world. Let his Kingdom drift nearer and nearer toward collapse. He put his children in direct danger, let his son go out and lead the army, rule the Kingdom in all but name at just five and ten name days old. 

His weakness, his failures, and his indecision had landed them all here. His family hiding away on Dragonstone from mere men. He should be out there, fighting with his son at his side. Showing him how to lead and rule like his father had for him. Like how it was supposed to happen.

“You are right,” Aenys began, a shocked but pleased look replacing Maegor’s anger as he loosened his grip on Aenys’s collar. “I thought I could hold this realm together with kindness,” he said quietly. “I thought mercy and compromise would keep the realm from bleeding, and maintain the peace that our father fought for.”

The words felt like defeat. He admitted that his goal of avoiding war had failed. But he had to do so. He had to admit his fault and right his wrongs. There would be a time and place for grief, for sadness. But that was not now. The Seven Kingdoms needed their king, and he would be a king worthy of succeeding his father. 

“But I failed, and it is time for the Andals to learn why we were made Kings,” Aenys said, his voice more resolute than it had ever been in his entire life before. 

Maegor let go of him then. Giving him a satisfied smile. Meanwhile, Aenys turned to the Kingsguard. 

“Gather our family and whatever is left of the council. It is time to teach these rebels a lesson.”

…

“So, Your Grace, what is the plan?” Maegor said, expectantly waiting for his answer, his arms crossed as he leaned against the edge of the Painted Table.

All eyes in the room turned to Aenys.

He stood near the Crownlands, upright and calm. The flickering torches cast long shadows across the chamber in the late afternoon light. His aunt Visenya stood quiet near the far wall, her expression as unreadable as ever. Rhaena sat nearby, hands resting gently on her belly, her gaze fixed on her father with a fierce and quiet hope.

“I will not recall Aegon,” Aenys said.

There was a brief murmur, surprise from some, disapproval from others, but no open dissent.

“He has already broken the largest Riverlord host outside of Harrenhal. The Blackwoods are still under siege at Raventree Hall, and he’s moving to relieve them now. He has earned the right to see it through,” Aenys said, disliking the idea just as much as he saw the necessity. 

Winter was here, and campaigning north of the Stormlands would be nigh impossible in just a few more moons, lest they bring famine and pestilence to the whole Riverlands. If he recalled Aegon now, he would ruin the chance for them to defeat the rebels before winter brought its full force to bear. 

Maegor said nothing at first, but gave a small nod of acknowledgment. “And the rest?”

“You will fly to the Gates of the Moon. Lord Ronnel has lost control of his bannermen. You’ll help him bring it back to heel,” Aenys said, moving the small dragon statue across the map for all to see. 

Maegor’s brow twitched upward. “And then?”

“You’ll pivot south to the Riverlands,” Aenys said, moving the dragon piece once more. “Support Aegon, should his campaign not yet be complete. The letters I am getting from the Riverlands are already mentioning his reprisals, harsh, sudden, and bloody. He is a dragon, yes, but he is still young. I want you there to steady his hand if it wavers... or goes too far,” Aenys said. He would have liked to save such a role for himself. But he thought dropping in on his son now would only cause him to grow angrier, that would have to be dealt with after the Faith’s field armies were routed and destroyed. 

Maegor gave a satisfied smile. “Very well, I will depart now. No time to waste,” Maegor said as he stood from the table. Moving past his wife, children, and mother, wishing them all a goodbye as he made for the exit. 

Aenys thanked whatever gods were out there that he was here. There were so many problems all at once. That if it were not for Maegor and his family, he might have to press his pregnant daughter into service or just outright ignore the Vale.

“Where will you be going, Your Grace?” Lord Commander Ser Addison Hill asked, his keen military instincts already no doubt planning for wherever he may be deployed. 

Aenys's eyes swept to the Stormlands and the Reach on the table. “I will go south. My uncle Orys is dealing with substantial Faith forces near the Eastern Reach. I will lend him my dragon and my support,” Aenys decided. This was probably going to be the most troublesome assignment. There would have been merit to sending Maegor to deal with this. Given his substantial military expertise. But Aenys had to appear strong, Maegor was right, his cowering on Dragonstone had already likely tarnished his reputation forever, but he would prove to be a king worthy of his father’s crown, which he now wore. 

Aunt Visenya stepped forward then, voice cold and calculating. “And what of me?”

“You’ll remain on Dragonstone,” Aenys said, meeting her gaze directly. “Rhaena is with child, and you’re the only adult rider not committed to a campaign. I will not press Viserys or Visenya into combat, not yet. If we need to strike fast, I’ll call for you, but I won’t leave the island undefended.”

Visenya regarded him coolly, then inclined her head. “Wise.”

Aenys looked down at the table again, not lingering on the word he had never heard from her before. “Winter is nearly upon us. Once the snows come in force, the campaigns north of the Stormlands will stall. Roads will vanish, feeding our troops will be nigh impossible, and the soldiers will need to return home. We have weeks, maybe a moon or two, before the land itself turns against us.”

He raised his gaze again, voice sharpening.

“We will hit them hard and fast. Let them know that it is the dragons that made us Kings. Not the words of fanatics and fools,” Aenys commanded, noticing several approving nods among the crowd.