Chapter Text
Rhaenyra created by hiiitsme (Guest) using AI
As soon as the heavy doors to her marriage chambers close behind the young princess and her new husband, Rhaenyra is already tearing at the blood-stained fabric of her once-ornate gown that had been forced to act as her wedding dress after the bloodshed that had interrupted their welcoming feast, rage twisting her beautiful face. Shame and fury burns, hot and heavy, between her breasts, like rolling magma and a rumbling volcano as the events of her rushed wedding and the horrid actions of her once-friends continued to haunt her like the sound of a man’s face being turned into a pulp of viscera.
How dare Criston –
How dare Alicent –
And even her own father –
“Curse them!” Rhaenyra hisses furiously, as the catching of a clasp on her pearled bodice magnifies her anger and the sound of glass beads falling to the floor fills her ears like screams and the pounding of feet fleeing from violence. She fights against the ruined gown, using all those colourful Valyrian words Daemon had taught her over the years to curse against Alicent’s bloodline and Criston’s very soul. “Curse them all! To the hell flames with them! And –“ she bites off a shriek, fumbling blindly with the clasps and ties, and failing miserably, “- curse this damned dress too!”
Gentle, if shaking, hands lined with calluses formed by a life of swords fighting and dragon riding take her own with a softness that had always come easy to their owner, and Rhaenyra tilts her head back to meet Laenor’s bloodshot sea-green eyes. “Let me,” he murmurs, voice rough from screaming sobs, and dried blood still encrusted around his nose and smeared across his lips from the blow Criston had landed on him in the chaos.
Bile swims in Rhaenyra’s throat at the reminder of what had happened to Laenor’s cheerful lover, but she allows her cousin to aide her in her battle against her dress. “Are you alright?” She asks, voice barely more than a whisper, and Laenor drops his gaze as he smiles bitterly.
“No,” he breathes, “I’m not.”
“He’ll die for it,” Rhaenyra vows, lilac eyes burning with her promise. “Say the word, and I’ll feed him to Syrax.”
“He’ll still be dead, and you’d just give Syrax indigestion,” Laenor sighs, helping Rhaenyra slide her gown off her body. “Cole’s death won’t bring him back.”
“It would be satisfying though,” Rhaenyra’s petulant reply makes Laenor laugh brokenly, ragged and torn around the edges, and her sweet cousin drops his head onto her shoulder, just holding her like she could keep him from falling apart.
Valyrians love fiercely. They burn with it like the Fourteen Flames they worship, possessive and forever hungry – and loosing Ser Joffrey Lonmouth, who Laenor took on flights on Seasmoke, the other half of his soul, is a crushing, smothering blow against Laenor’s inner blaze, and could just snuff out his life if Rhaenyra can’t keep those fires burning. It had driven more than one Targaryen to madness and death in history.
“We don’t have to do our duty tonight,” Rhaenyra assures him. “I won’t make you suffer anything else tonight.”
Laenor hums tiredly, wariness bone-deep. “Being with you is not what I would consider suffering, Nyra. You are… so much more than I could ever hope for.”
Rhaenyra smiles sadly, lifting her fingers to play with her cousin’s snowy locs, gently removing the silver clasps from his beautiful hair. “We can fake it.”
Laenor shakes his head, though doesn’t lift his face. “I made you a vow, Nyra, that I would do my duty to you. Joffrey –“ he chokes slightly, “- he helped me learn what I need to do, and how to make it pleasurable for you. You will be Queen, and I promised you heirs. I intend to keep my word.”
“I don’t expect you to, not in this state,” the princess tells him, and meets Laenor’s sad eyes through the curtain of his thick lashes.
“I saw the threat just as clearly as you did,” Laenor murmurs, lips pressing into a thin line, teal eyes starting to smoulder with a growing storm. He really is a dangerously beautiful man, highlighted by the blood on his lips and the fire of rage in his water coloured eyes; Velaryon, his colouring and temperament might be, but Laenor was still a Targaryen at heart, and the beautiful dragon that hatched for him at the age of six was proof enough of his heritage.
(The calmest waters always hid the most dangerous tempests, Laena had told her when they were young.)
Rhaenyra could grow to love him, she thinks, because it would be built on the love she already held for the boy she had grown up beside. There would likely never be the spark of lust between them, not like the blaze she felt for Daemon, but there didn’t need to be. Laenor was steady and calm, he offered a stability for her future rule that Rhaenyra had come to accept that her uncle would never be able to.
“His Grace may be happy to blind himself to the banner of war his wife wears, but I will not.” Laenor straightens, like a man walking into battle, preparing himself for what’s to come. “We need to play the game for now, look for openings we can exploit, and do our duty. That includes trueborn heirs whose bloodline can’t be doubted. If we can’t perform our martial duties, we will never be secure.”
“We’ll need at least three children,” Rhaenyra warns. “One to inherit the throne, one for Driftmark, and at least one spare. Can you do this?” She wants Laenor to consent to what they had to do, and not for him to just agree.
Fire in his eyes, Laenor says, voice firm, “I will do it. For you, and for Joffrey. Our children will be pure Valyrian heirs that not even the Highcunt can deny; purer than her whelps can ever hope to be.”
All of her half-siblings had been born with hair closer to Alicent’s honey blond than proper Valyrian silver, and both her young sons had eyes of green rather than the purple or blue. None of them had dragons, their eggs gone cold in the cradle as soon as they were placed there, and their skin blistered in heats that Targaryens were meant to find luke-warm. Even Helaena, the most Valyrian of her children, would forever be smothered by Andal culture. Rhaenyra’s children though, would be proper Valyrian dragonlords, with two dragon riding parents with powerful enough blood magicks to hatch their own cradle eggs and mount their draconic soul-siblings young.
“Criston will pay for what he did,” Rhaenyra swears to him, “whatever it takes.” She turns to press their lips together in a chaste, iron-tinted kiss. “Alicent can’t hide him behind her green skirts forever.”
“Good,” Laenor breathes, salt on his lips as he leans into it, hands falling to her slim hips.
“What do you need of me?” Rhaenyra asks of him, starting to strip him of his rich, blood-soaked layers as they shift towards the grand bed.
“Talk to me?” Laenor pleads.
“Of course,” Rhaenyra promises.
Later, after their coupling is done with, something tender and warm settles between them as they part, filled with such sympathetic understanding of their shared position, and hands linked like the children they had once been, when they’d fallen asleep hidden away in the corners of Visenya’s Library before the throne had forced their families apart.
“Well,” Laenor says into the silence, humour in his tired voice that allows relief to soften Rhaenyra’s heart, “I can promise you that you will never have to worry for my intentions towards your Ladies.”
She can’t help the bark of laughter that follows his words, reaching out to shove him fondly, teasing, “And what of your practice partners?”
Chuckling, Laenor rolls over to face her, light entering his haunted gaze, seeming to wash away the worst of his pain like gentle waves against the soft beaches of High Tide. “I’ll share if you do.”
“Hm,” Rhaenyra pretends to mull it over, tapping her chin playfully, “you drive a hard bargain, husband.”
“I had a good teacher,” Laenor responds, teasingly tugging at her white-gold hair like they were children wrestling in Rhaenys’ Gardens once more.
“Lord Corlys?”
“My mother, actually,” he laughs quietly.
Rhaenyra’s lips twitch in amusement, “Princess Rhaenys is a formidable force.”
Laenor hums in agreement, “She was raised rule – if you were to ask, I’m sure she would happily teach you what Grandfather taught her.”
“Another day, perhaps,” Rhaenyra allows, thoughtfully shelving the suggestions to be considered at another time. Her good-mother would be a powerful mentor to have on her side.
“Marilda and Thorn,” Laenor says suddenly, petting her sweaty curls from her face, and Rhaenyra leans into the affection with a hum. “Marilda was in Hull, and Thorn, Spicetown. Joffrey and I were discreet, and paid them handsomely for their time and silence.” He smirks at her, “Your turn.”
“You’ve heard those Hightower rumours, then?” Rhaenyra notes, tired and just a little annoyed by the reminder, then she sighs. “Despite what Otto fucking Hightower wants the Realm to believe, I never fucked my uncle. In fact, he fled and left me alone in a pleasure house after I kissed him.”
“Pity,” Laenor says, and Rhaenyra snort inelegantly in surprise. “Prince Daemon is very passionate, in bed, and in battle. He taught me a lot during the War.”
“You bitch,” Rhaenyra accuses fondly with an incredulous laugh, swatting at his cheeky grin and rolling her eyes.
Laenor laughs, catching her delicate hand to dramatically kiss her knuckles, teasing, “What an unkind wife.”
Rhaenyra laughs again, before sobering, and releasing another sigh. “Criston, he – was my first. I was drunk, and frustrated, and he was there and more than willing – I had seen the way he had looked at me over the years.” She chews on her lip, guilty and ashamed of her foolish behaviour. “I don’t have the clearest of memories of the act – too much cheap ale, and whatever herb it was that was burning in the pleasure den.”
“Most likely an aphrodisiac,” Laenor notes absently, “it’s rather common, and it… enhances certain impulses and desires.”
Rhaenyra hums. “He asked me to run away with him to Essos or Dorne and marry him, but I wasn’t going to give up my inheritance – give up everything – just to become his wife. I laughed at him, and – you’ve seen what happened next.”
“He wanted more than he could have,” Laenor says with a thoughtful frown. “The King would kill him, if he knew. Taking your maidenhead, especially as your sworn Kingsguard, is treason against the Crown.”
“Criston was my friend, at the time,” Rhaenyra murmurs. “And now, he could ruin me if he said anything in a trial. I can already imagine what those Green cunts will say about me.” She sighs heavily, then admits, “Besides, I was the one to tease him, it would be wrong of me to accuse him of inappropriate behaviour, and I doubt anyone will believe me after what happened with Uncle Daemon.”
Admitting so out loud feels so wrong; Rhaenyra is the Crown Princess, the Heir to the Iron Throne. Her word should have been enough to dispel those whispers, but instead of believing her, her own father had fed into those rumours by confronting Daemon and sending a whole parade of Maesters to her chambers with moon tea. Alicent had even confronted her out in the open where anyone could have heard, and she would have known what would happen, especially with the way she had stolen the crown she wore.
“Rhaenyra,” Laenor’s voice is gentle, but firm, and he tightens his hold on her hand. “He essentially forced himself on you, no matter you teasing him or not. You were drunk and drugged, and he made a vow to protect you – that includes your honour. It was his duty not to touch you, even if you demanded it of him. Had he had good intentions, he would have refused, or even had another knight come to relieve him. If it were Laena in your place, father and mother would have had the man who touched her executed the moment she told them, without a trial. He wouldn’t even be allowed to speak, as to not risk rumours being spread.” There’s fire in Laenor’s gaze, a protective rage, for Rhaenyra. The itch of tears burns in the princess’ eyes, thickening in her throat like cotton, and Rhaenyra sniffles delicately as Laenor, so damn gentle, wipes her face clean of the salty wetness.
No one person had ever actually – defended her, like this. Not even Daemon, who had been more than happy to sully her name even further by not denying the claim, to put her entire future and life in jeopardy to get what he wanted out of a bad situation. He would doubtlessly kill for her, Rhaenyra knows, but – Daemon had always been a prince and a man, able to do things that Rhaenyra will never be allowed to because of his cock, and he would never understand the unequal battles she, as a woman, had to fight.
At times, Rhaenyra wondered if he’d ever even try.
“Let’s get dressed,” Laenor murmurs, like he was rechannelling all his rage and pain of the events of the day into a single-minded determination to take justice, and Rhaenyra –
Well, had she not vowed to her sweet cousin to make Criston Cole pay in any way she could? Obviously, her father cared naught for the murder of a guest in cold blood under his own roof and the breaking of guest rights, but Rhaenyra? Rhaenyra was his daughter, his only living child from the wife he claimed so much to love, and even the Old King had killed for his daughter’s honour, even if he cared little for their happiness.
“Hand me my gown then, would you, husband?” Rhaenyra requests as she slides from their bed, and, after a moment’s hesitation, purposefully nicking her inner thigh with a comb to leave a smear of blood where she had once been laying with a sense of smug satisfaction.
If Alicent wanted to challenge her, then Rhaenyra would play her game, and ensure she could take control of the board.
“One in blue and white, if you would. Simple, not too opulent, and – yes, the silver shawl. It was my mother’s.” She forgoes stockings, grabbing instead some soft, delicate slippers that would make her appear smaller and younger. “Alicent isn’t the only one who can send a message with a dress.”
If Alicent wanted a war, then Rhaenyra would humour her, but she would be fighting to win, by any means necessary. She’d been letting the Hightowers choose their battlefields for years now, since she was naught but a heartbroken girl of eight who had lost her mother and brother in a single day. Whose trusted caretaker and handmaiden had seduced her way into her father’s bed before her mother’s ashes had even been interred in her tomb. She had been letting them make their moves without challenge, but no longer. One should never poke a passive dragon, no matter how docile or pretty it appeared, lest they be faced with fire and blood.
“Does it look like I’ve been crying?” Rhaenyra asks as she lets Laenor help her into a dress, a mirror of how he had aided her out of a gown stained with the blood of a murdered lover. In a way, she is a soldier putting on her armour before facing a foe.
“Heart wrenchingly so, dear wife,” Laenor replies, kissing her cheek.
“Leave your shift partially undone,” she instructs, “like you put it on in a hurry when your beautiful wife confided in you in tears of the heinous crime done against her person.” Humour shines in teal eyes as Laenor follows her orders with ease where most men would bristle at being commanded by a woman half their height, but Laenor Velaryon was of a rare sort. He had grown at the skirts of the Queen-Who-Never-Was, and carried a respect for women few men did – he would make a perfect King Consort if Rhaenyra could stop him from falling into despair.
Daemon had always been Rhaenyra’s dream, but Laenor would be her reality, and she finds that she is fine with what has become of her marriage. She looks forward to it, even, and can imagine the striking portrait of Valyrian power they will paint in royal regalia, for even dressed down as they are, they still turn heads in the quiet halls of Maegor’s Keep as they walk towards the King’s chambers, arm-in-arm, with two confused Velaryon guardsmen and a concerned Ser Steffon Darkling dogging their steps.
“The Crown Princess and I are here to speak to the King,” Laenor orders, the very image of a protective husband, “on a delicate matter regarding an attack against her person.”
Before them, wide-eyed, Ser Harrold turns immediately to announce them. He’d been Rhaenyra’s guard since her birth, and had often been more involved in her early life than her own father, dogged down he had been as first the Spring Prince’s heir, then after the official Crown Prince to the aged and nearly senile Old King. He’d witnessed both young dragon riders’ lives, a parental and gently fond figure, who still held a soft spot in his heart for them both, even as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
“My darling daughter,” her father greets joyfully upon their entrance, shooing out his servants and maids as he stands from his model of Old Valyria, looking like a memory captured of her childhood, before his illness had started to weaken him in these last few years as her mother’s death whittled away at his inner fire. “I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon on your wedding night!”
Laenor lays a protective hand against Rhaenyra’s elbow, “Your Grace –“
“None of that, Ser Laenor,” Viserys Targaryen waves off the formalities, “call me Good-Father, you are my beloved girl’s husband now, and that makes you family.”
“Good-Father,” Laenor corrects grimly, “unfortunately, Rhaenyra and I aren’t here for a social evening, but rather about a delicate matter.” He takes a slow, steadying breath, and Rhaenyra subtly leans into him to offer her support. “Ser Criston Cole – I demand his head for what he’s done.”
“Ser Laenor –“ her father sighs, but Rhaenyra cuts off his denials with a shaking voice, making her eyes water.
“Kepa,” she cries plaintively, “please. He – He –“ Rhaenyra bites off her own words with a sob, knowing that it would decimate any resistance her father would attempt to wield against them.
Gently, Laenor pulls her into his side, kissing the crown of her white-gold hair, and hiding her face in his chest. They’d played this game before, back when they were small children trying to escape punishment for their mischief. Viserys, even then, had never been able to see through their act, faced with Laenor’s cherubic, sweet face, and innocent voice, and Rhaenyra’s false tears, and wide lilac eyes.
“That… man grievously attacked her, Good-Father,” Laenor says. “Nyra entrusted these crimes to me, and spoke of how terrified she is of him. Seeing the murder of my trusted sworn-shield, and how he escaped his fair punishment through your Wife-Consort’s… gentle heart – she’s afraid of what he will do to her if given the chance.”
Rhaenyra watches her father from under her lashes as she makes her shoulders shake, her face strategically hidden in Laenor’s white shift; he swells up with rage, violet eyes darkening, and he looks, for once, like a man who had once bonded with the legendary Black Dread.
“Rhaenyra,” the King demands, “give me the truth of it, what did he do to you?”
“I –“ Rhaenyra sniffles, “- that night when Uncle Daemon took me into the city to celebrate my nameday at the festival – I – I had confided in him of my fear of the marriage bed, and he took me to a nearby pleasure house, so that I could witness the act without participating, and we drank.” She looks to her father tearfully as she weaves her tale, just truthful enough that it couldn’t be proven false, “He was pulled away by other duties, so Ser Harwin Strong brought me back to the Keep before returning to his rounds. When I saw Ser Criston in front of my door, I had hoped to tease him a little for not noticing I had snuck past him. I took his helm in jest, and retreated into my chambers, and –“ She makes herself burst into tears, using memories of the pain she had felt during her mother’s funeral to make it as real as possible.
“He forced himself on her, Your Grace,” Laenor finishes with a cold fury that bit like frost and dragon teeth, “while she was drunk, and likely under the influence of drugged pleasure incense.”
“I was so frightened afterwards,” she sobs, watching her father’s rage grow. “Everyone thought that Uncle Daemon and I had – done those acts in the pleasure house, and Ser Criston was always there.”
“Why did you never tell me?” Her father sounds heartbroken, and so angry, and for a moment, Rhaenyra feels guilty for her theatrics, but –
Alicent had declared war at Rhaenyra’s wedding feast, and Criston had ruined the celebrations by murdering a good man so publicly that her vows were forced to be made in a hurry, secretly, like she was some great shame and not the Heir to the Iron Throne and future Queen. Criston had chosen his side, and he knew far too much.
“I was scared you wouldn’t believe me, after those horrible rumours were spread by Ser Otto’s lack of subtly in handling his ill-gotten intelligence,” Rhaenyra tells him, hiding her face in her delicate hands, looking so small and scared before her father’s eyes, instead of the firey, willful young lady she had been these last ten years.
“My precious girl,” her father breathes mournfully, opening his arms, and Rhaenyra rushes into his embrace like she had as a small girl. “My sweet, little bird. I will have his head,” he vows to her, tucking her close, “and his name stricken from history for his crimes against you.”
“But what of perception?” Rhaenyra asks tearfully, and the King scowls.
“I am the King, and you are my heir. My only child and the last piece of my Aemma I have left,” he says firmly. “Perceptions will be what I make of them.”