Chapter Text
Rhaenyra I
She’s stalling.
At her right, Ser Criston shifts on top of his horse. His patience is at its end, a frown marring his handsome face as he stares at her. Rhaenyra feels his eyes, the weight of his gaze and worry, but chooses to ignore it for a little longer.
Instead, she looks straight ahead. Her father’s lands are bathed in the soft pink light of early morning; rolling green hills and gloomy forests, fields ripe with crops and meadows with flowers that grow wild and reckless. It’s serene out here. The air tastes of late spring with all its wonders, a promise of freedom and new life.
Yet, far in the distance, she can see the royal tent, red amidst the greenery like a lonely Dragon’s breath spurting out from between the tall blades of grass in the Godswood back at home. She knows she has to return, abandon the freedom the forest offers and face whatever awaits her.
Father’s fury and disappointment. Otto Hightower’s smug face. Alicent’s betrayal that feels like an open wound still. Jason Lannister or another fool, eyeing her like a prize in the Tourney. Disinheritance and fall from grace. Shame for being something less, simply because she doesn’t have a cock dangling between her legs.
Not for the first time since Aegon’s birth, Rhaenyra’s thoughts go to her uncle, and she understands him now more than ever. They have always shared the feeling of not being good enough, but now, they can share the rejection, too. To hear that you are not fit to rule is a bitter drink to swallow, and at last, Rhaenyra understands Daemon’s childish outbursts and pettiness.
She wants to rage, too.
She sighs and allows herself a few more moments of peace, trying to prepare herself for the inevitable. Aegon, a babe of two, is what the realm wants. Her brother still uses his hands to eat but has already been hailed a Conqueror. She scoffs at the memory of the applause that greeted Aegon upon their arrival. All for a babe of two, drooling onto his doublet. Her father will give in to their wishes – out of weakness and his own desire. He has always longed for a son.
She will not cry or rage when her father announces his change of will. Rhaenyra will face it with her chin held high and straight back. She’s a Targaryen; she won’t become a spectacle and a piece of gossip for the masses. And she won’t stay in the Red Keep either to witness Otto Hightower’s victorious smiles and her father’s fawning over his long-awaited son. She won’t watch as even the smallest of Aegon’s achievements is praised and hailed as a miracle worthy of the Conqueror’s name. She won’t be sold to some foolish lord like a broodmare for a promise of an army and her weight in gold.
She promises all that herself, a silent vow that no one will hear. She opens her mouth to tell Ser Criston they can return to the camp when she hears the sound of hoofs on the soft ground. She turns her eyes to the source of the sound, and there it is.
The white hart. The white hart her father’s men look for; a symbol of royalty, a sign from the Gods who sent the animal for Aegon’s name day to prove he is meant to be the King.
The stag stands tall and proud, painting a beautiful picture with the rising sun and soft pink sky at its back and the rustling trees on its side. Their eyes meet, and Rhaenyra’s heart stutters to a stop. The moment lasts for what seems like forever. Everything around them gets quiet and still, and calmness washes over Rhaenyra like a wave.
There it is – the King of the forest – and he picked her. Not Aegon, the King’s son, but Rhaenyra, the daughter. There’s something magical in the hart’s steady gaze, and Rhaenyra almost collapses under the weight of what the stag symbolises.
The moment when their eyes meet is, in a way, more meaningful than the day when her father called the lords to King’s Landing to swear fealty to her. After all, the lords answered the King’s summons, but the stag picked her of its own volition. It chose her of its own free will and not because of the advice of lesser men or on a whim to spurn a rebellious younger brother.
“Men would sooner put realm to torch than see a woman on the Iron Throne,” Princess Rhaenys’ words ring in Rhaenyra’s head. When Rhaenys shared the painful truth with her, Rhaenyra scoffed, annoyed with the bitter Princess, who thought Rhaenyra was destined for the same fate as her. Now, she sees wisdom in Rhaenys’ words. Instead of the sweet lies and half-truths her father prefers to believe, Rhaenys told her the truth, even if cold and unpleasant.
I won’t allow it to happen, Rhaenyra decides. A second ago, she was thinking of running away – across the Narrow Sea to Essos, the land of her ancestors. Now, she understands hers is a different path. Aegon and his sister-wives did not give up at the first sign of trouble during their conquest. No, they fought, and like them, Rhaenyra will, too, fight for her right to sit on the Iron Throne.
She can feel the corner of her lips curl up in a tiny smile. It is the first honest smile in a long time. She bows her head, accepting the responsibility the white hart bestows upon her, and in her heart, determination blooms. She will prove to everyone a woman can rule just as well as any man.
Ser Criston’s hand moves to the pommel of his sword, but a quiet “no” from her stays his hand. The white hart is a symbol, and symbols are not meant to be killed. Even if bringing its corpse back to the camp would probably solidify her place as her father’s heir, Rhaenyra won’t do it.
The knowledge that her father’s men won’t be able to catch the white hart is enough for Rhaenyra. Her smile grows wider as she watches the stag turn around and run away. It disappears into the forest, away from the royal camp and the men who would use it to push Aegon onto the Iron Throne.
The strength the white stag has given her helps Rhaenyra hold her head high as she returns to the royal tent. As she dismounts, she can feel everyone’s eyes on her as the camp grows still. She can picture what sight she makes, with blood smeared over her face and neck and tangled hair, dragging a dead wild boar tied to Ser Criston’s horse. It’s like walking into a bee nest; the whispers buzz in her ears, but Rhaenyra doesn’t let it bother her.
She meets the eyes of every lord and lady, every knight and peasant, as she walks toward her tent, daring them to say anything. Jason Lannister’s lips twist in disgust as his eyes rake over her blood-stained clothes, and she swallows a grin. A lion is no match for a dragon. He’s not the only one who watches her stroll with wide eyes full of contempt, but there are few who seem impressed by her appearance and the wild boar she brought. Rhaenyra slides her eyes over their faces and commits them to the memory to use at a later time.
At last, she reaches the table where her father, Allicent, and Hightower brothers sit. Allicent holds Aegon in her arms as she gapes at her, but Rhaenyra barely spares her a glance. Instead, she meets Otto Hightower’s gaze.
“It seems you did not manage to catch the white hart,” she says to her father, though her eyes are fixed on the Hand of the King. She throws him a challenging smile. “It was truly a beautiful specimen. A shame you did not see it, Your Grace,” she adds, glancing at her father.
“You saw it?” Her father asks quietly, looking at her as if seeing her in a new light.
Ser Criston joins them to stand at her side. “Yes, Your Grace,” he says. He glances at her briefly. He’s her first ally, the one she gained all by herself. Ser Criston won’t betray her or the vows he took. He will remain loyal to her, she knows. “The most amazing sight. Forty stones, at least. It came to the Princess when we made a stop to let the horses rest.”
Relief washes over her father’s face, and he leans against the chair, lips curling in a warm smile and the shadow of a doubt that has been present in his eyes for the past two years leaving at last.
“Too bad you did not manage to catch him and bring him here, Princess,” Hobert Hightower says. “I’m sure everyone here would like to see such a rare sight with their own eyes. A proof of your tale for those who have doubts.”
Ser Criston stiffens. The implication that they’re lying is unmistakable in Lord Hobert’s voice and eyes. The King doesn’t seem to notice, or perhaps he simply doesn’t want to. She has seen time and time again how her father preferred to remain oblivious to thinly veiled insults or hidden threats in order to keep things peaceful and pleasant.
Rhaenyra smiles coldly at the man. A little over three years ago, he was kneeling at her feet, swearing to be loyal, to protect her and her rights. Yet now, as Allicent holds a prince of Hightower’s blood in her arms, Lord Hobert’s memory seems to be failing.
“A regal portent, isn’t that what you called the white stag, Ser Otto? Mayhaps you were right. Mayhaps it is truly a symbol of some sort,” Rhaenyra says, staring at the Hand of the King. She tries to read his expression, but Ser Otto’s face is blank. Years in King’s Landing had taught the man how to shelter his secrets behind the mask of false courtesy. “Mayhaps it is like in myths and legends, where symbols appear only to those who are worthy of seeing them, not those full of doubts.” She knows it’s a dig not only at the Hightowers but her father, too, but it’s well-deserved. She means it, too, since for all the doubts her father seems to have, the white hart came to her, not him or his long-awaited son.
She turns around and continues her stroll to her tent, leaving her father and the Hightowers with no chance to reply.
Later that evening, freshly bathed and dressed in clean clothes, Rhaenyra walks into the royal tent, where her father’s guests gathered for one last feast. Tomorrow, the celebrations for Aegon’s name day will be over, and everyone will disperse to their own keeps and lands.
The group that stands near the entrance falls silent upon Rhaenyra’s arrival. Rhaenyra’s eyes sweep over them. It is a mix of Reachmen and noblemen from Westerlands. She can name only a few of them, the most prominent being Lady Redwyne, who Rhaenyra met earlier and Lord Hobert’s wife, Lady Lynesse. One look at their faces, and Rhaenyra knows where they stand. Their eyes tell it all, no matter how subtle they try to be.
Rhaenyra offers them a shallow smile. She waits until they bow their heads and curtsy, as is the custom when greeting a Princess of the blood and the heir to the Iron Throne before she walks away and leaves them to their idle gossip.
She sweeps her gaze over the dim room, searching for a friendly face amidst the smoke curling from the braziers set up in the tent, but stops when her eyes find her father. At a small dais in the centre of the tent, her father, the King, sits, observing the celebrations. He looks tired and old as he stares inside the goblet in his hands as if it holds answers to his many questions. Jason Lannister stands before him, chest puffed out and arrogance pouring off every gesture and word.
How can her father think she has anything in common with that fool?
She huffs with disdain at the insinuation but continues to watch them. It is small comfort to see that her father seems to enjoy Jason Lannister’s presence as much as she had. The King says something to the younger man, a begining of an angry frown appearing on his face, and Jason Lannister takes a step back in surprise. Rhaenyra watches it happen with fascination. It is rare to see her father be anything but pleasant and courteous with nobles and knights. Yet for a brief moment, she sees a dragon in her father, with fire in his eyes and blood. Before she can truly appreciate it, though, the moment is gone. The King’s face smooths over, and a smile slides onto his lips. Rhaenyra’s shoulders drop in disappointment.
As Jason Lannister walks away, Rhaenyra takes a small step forward. Should she go to her father and try to bridge the gap that grew between them, she wonders as her fingers play with the hem of a silk curtain hanging from the ceiling. She bites her lip as she tries to decide what to do. There’s bitterness in Rhaenyra’s heart that grew from a tiny seed into something big and unpleasant, and a part of her wants to hold onto it with all her might. But another part of her misses her father and how things were when her mother was still with them.
Before she can take another step, Otto Hightower creeps out of the shadow and joins her father at the dais. Rhaenyra clenches her fist so tight her nails dig painfully into her skin. As she watches the two men, she starts to wonder how her father can be so blind when it comes to that man.
Otto Hightower shifts on his chair, desperate to get even closer to the King than he already is. There’s a calculating look on the man’s face as he weighs his words before he can whisper them into the King’s ear. His eyes are fixed on Aegon, who sits on the floor amidst pillows and blankets, playing with his toy dragon under the careful eyes of wetnurses.
Her father listens to the man, as he always does. Whatever the man says seems to interest the King, and Rhaenyra sees how Ser Otto grows bolder and bolder. Then her father’s gaze falls on Aegon, and a bark of laughter escapes his lips.
Rhaenyra rolls her eyes and turns away, stalking toward the table in the corner of the room. She won’t watch as her father fawns over his precious son. She has seen enough of this for the past two years.
Grabbing a goblet from the table, she pours sweet wine from the jug and takes a sip. Lannisters, Hightowers and the rest of the lot in this tent - all of them preying on her father, grasping to gain more power. Daemon has seen it, too, as she sees it now – the King is weak, too eager to please, and too afraid of failure to notice the scheming and plotting.
The realisation makes her heart break in two.
As much as Rhaenyra loves her father, she has to acknowledge the hard truth – the King might want her to succeed him, but he lacks the strength to secure the Iron Throne for her. She must do it herself, for the Hightowers won’t give up without a fight, not now that they have a prince in the line to the Throne.
She needs allies.
“That was quite a boar you brought, Princess.”
Rhaenyra turns around. Ser Harwin Strong, the oldest son of one of her father’s councillors, stands a few feet away. She eyes him, suspicion blooming in her belly. Is he yet another Jason Lannister, hoping to claim her as his future wife? His father is the Master of Laws, after all. If there is anything that Rhaenyra has learned from Otto Hightower and Alicent is that ambitious fathers are eager to use their children for a promise of a crown.
However, the smile on Ser Harwin’s lips is kind, even encouraging, and nothing like the off-putting smirk Jason Lannister constantly wears on his face. He’s one of the few who did not seem disturbed by her appearance earlier. Instead, his brown eyes were sparkling with joy as he watched her stroll through the camp.
Rhaenyra returns the smile with only a hint of hesitation. “Thank you, Ser Harwin. To be fair, I had help. I’m not sure I would have emerged victorious if Ser Criston had not been with me.”
“Hunting is a sport to enjoy with company,” he reassures her. He looks around before leaning closer. “The King did not kill the stag by himself either,” he whispers into her ear, so no one would hear. “Three men held the beast down so your father could strike the final blow.” His voice grows quieter still as he leans even closer. “And even then, it wasn’t exactly a clean death.” He straightens his back and takes a step back, looking at her before he adds a little louder. “You should be proud, Princess. Your first hunting trip and how successful it has proven to be already. By the time you’ll be the Queen, you’ll put all men to shame. ”
Rhaenyra wouldn’t call the trip successful, but she smiles at Ser Harwin nonetheless, appreciating his kindness and bravery, for he’s the only one who dared to approach her. That he doesn’t question her position as the King’s heir makes her even more grateful for his words and presence.
Before the pause in conversation can grow into an awkward silence, she asks Ser Harwin about the City Watch. Perhaps, he senses her need to fill the quiet, for he starts telling about some of the more interesting, but still appropriately tame, incidents happening in the City Watch.
Rhaenyra listens and nods, and asks questions to prompt the knight to reveal more details, remembering some stories her uncle has told her. How she wishes for Daemon to be here. How she longs to have another dragon to stand beside her, and whatever the people say about Daemon, Rhaenyra knows he’d be on her side.
Daemon would have seen through the whole charade – the hunt, the celebration, the gathering of lords and ladies allied with the Hightowers. He would have seen it for what it is - a nest of vipers readying to attempt a strike against the dragons. Everywhere she looks, she sees a Hightower, some cousin of theirs, or someone sworn to their House. Knights from Old Town and the Reach, lords and ladies from the West, who are all too eager to make friends with Hightowers.
She won’t find allies here. This is Aegon’s camp, she realises with disdain. Then, her eyes fall on Ser Harwin, and she cocks her head to the side, examining the knight. So far, he has not uttered a single word that would suggest his intention to court her, or at least, he has been more subtle than Jason Lannister, not that is a great achievement. Compared to the future Lord of Casterly Rock, even Daemon would appear humble and modest.
“Everyone in the City Watch awaits the return of the Prince, of course,” Ser Harwin says once he finishes his last story. “The men are loyal to him,” he adds, continuing the subject of the Gold Cloaks.
Rhaenyra bites her lip, hesitating. Does she dare to ask? Yes, she does. She fixes her eyes on Ser Harwin, observing him intently. “Your father has been loyal to my uncle too, was he not? I remember that he stood up for Daemon when Ser Otto first suggested my father should name me his heir in his stead.”
Ser Harwin looks down at his feet, smiling a bit sheepishly. With that grin and his brown eyes sparkling merrily, he almost looks like a little boy caught in mischief. “My father is a stickler for the law and tradition. Don’t take it personally, Princess. I assure you, he has nothing against you.”
She looks but does not see even the tiniest hint of lie or dishonesty on his handsome face. Either he’s speaking the truth, or he’s a good liar. “The King’s word is the law,” she challenges him instead.
“That is correct,” Ser Harwin replies. “And my father has accepted it as such.”
“Has he?”
Ser Harwin pauses for a moment, looking intently into her eyes before checking if anyone’s nearby. Once again, he leans close to her. “Yes, and he’s most displeased by those who haven’t,” he whispers. His eyes travel to Otto Hightower and his brood for a split second before he looks at Rhaenyra again. “My father is an honourable man. The King has called him to serve the Crown, and it’s the Crown my father serves, not his own interests.”
Rhaenyra smiles. How she wishes she could believe it. “The Crown is grateful for his loyalty and wisdom. I know the King values your father’s opinion.”
Ser Harwin seems to sense her hesitation, for his smile grows smaller and sadder. He looks at her as they stand silent and still, and Rhaenyra feels like he can read her thoughts just by looking at her face and into her eyes.
She has never been good at hiding her feelings, but now, she wishes she has learnt the skill to shelter her thoughts from strangers. It’s the only way to survive when surrounded by enemies and those of uncertain loyalty. She looks away, instead, hoping lack of eye contact will make it more difficult for Ser Harwin to see through her.
Her gaze falls on Alicent. Her once best friend, and now stepmother and the Queen, sits surrounded by the ladies from the Reach. Aegon is on her lap, babbling something under his nose while the ladies clap, laugh and coo at him.
“The Princess was more suited for the role,” Alicent said when she defended her against Lady Redwyne’s accusation. But does she think that truly? Or is it that Rhaenyra is better suited for the role only in comparison to Daemon, but against Aegon, she fails?
Rhaenyra wishes she could tell what’s in Alicent’s head or trust her like she once had. Alicent’s betrayal is like an open wound, still painful and bleeding.
She remembers Ser Harwin and turns to him once more, trying to chase away the thoughts of Alicent and the friendship they once had. It’s useless, though. The memories are like a plague and won’t leave her alone; everything that was once precious is now twisted into something dark and gloomy. The only thing that remains of their friendship is the question of whether or not it has even been real in the first place.
She smiles at Ser Harwin and makes her excuses before leaving the tent and stepping into the darkness of the night. In her head, she inspects every smile and touch and searches for lies.