Chapter Text
Rhaenyra Targaryen never gave much thought to the gods; old or new. She was familiar enough with the suffering wrought by men to never need a better explanation for why terrible things happened. It was always a person wielding a blade, no matter what whim or want drove them to raise it. She considered herself practiced at identifying those whims and wants, even at her young age, but she was admittedly caught off-guard by the recent conduct of her pious step-mother and indecisive father. She understood at least some element of the anxiety that possessed them in recent months, but it did little to temper her fury.
The last few years had been admittedly grim, in all natures. Her mother had died horribly in childbirth, leaving her as the sole heir to the Iron Throne, a seat never before held by a woman. In a matter of months, her former lady-in-waiting Alicent Hightower was wed to her steadily sickening father, despite only being a few years older than Rhaenyra herself. With the birth of her first child, a son, Rhaenyra’s shaky claim to the throne was further upset, and she remained in a state of limbo, waiting to see if her father would still honour her promised inheritance as he inched closer to the grave.
With her beloved uncle Daemon having been estranged for the past 4 years waging war in the Stepstones, and her only close friend now assuming her role as step-mother, Rhaenyra was left with no one in close confidence. She was angry. At times, reckless. Alicent took every available opportunity to reprimand her and play mother, and Rhaenyra took every available opportunity to needle her former friend and her father. The fractures in their hastily stitched-together family only seemed to worsen with time, exacerbated even further by Otto Hightower’s frequent venomous whispering in her father’s ear.
Personal tensions aside, there was a greater strain affecting the broader kingdom, and it only seemed to be worsening.
The blood rains.
The first one came suddenly, at the edge of a short and barren summer. A few moons later, there came another. And another. The winding stone paths to the Red Keep were taking on an ironic hue of ghastly scarlet, as were the roofs of every building in Kings Landing. Strangely, the water still ran clear once the storms broke, magically untainted by the bloody deluge. Crops and livestock also seemed to suffer minimally through the rains, and Rhaenyra was as confused as she was concerned; though the same could be said for pretty much everyone.
As the storms worsened alongside her temper, she was repeatedly struck with a fervent curiosity, seeking knowledge to salve her dread. Whatever this was, it could not be good, and it could not be suffered in perpetuity. So little was known about the blood rains or what wrought them, and she was resolved to find truth. All the more so knowing she would one day have to steer the seven kingdoms through such calamities.
She wanted answers, action, something she could do to unseat the creeping unease, and confoundingly, her father seemed to have no appetite for a solution. The King didn’t seem particularly bothered by what could only be described as a sign of the end-times, one that he himself had originally told her stories about in connection to the Doom of Old Valyria.
In moments like this, she missed her uncle dearly. He was an impatient, stubborn person as well, made from all the same parts as her and hardened by battle. There wasn’t an indolent bone in his body, and she felt the absence of him all the more keenly as she chafed against her step-family’s self-righteous tendencies and her father’s apparent lack of a spine. It was Daemon’s determination that had finally found victory in the Stepstones 6 moons prior, though he had sequestered himself away at Dragonstone following his triumph. They had received a raven earlier that morning advising he was finally making his return to King’s Landing, and she was more than a little relieved at the news.
Two nights before his arrival, at a particularly fraught family dinner, she attempted to broach the topic of the blood rains for what could have been the thousandth time.
“They’re getting worse, Father. Surely it couldn’t hurt to contact the Citadel again and try to see if there is something to be done?” she asked. She’d made the suggestion a number of times, and had been continually rebuked.
Viserys sighed, placing his half-drained wine glass on the polished table in front of him. “Rhaenyra, we’ve already written to the Citadel twice. There’s not a Maester alive who has knowledge of such things. What good would a third raven do?”
She scowled. “More good than doing absolutely nothing at all, I imagine,” she bit back.
“If I may, your Highness, the rains have had no ill effect on the people or their lands, in spite of their grisly appearance. His Grace has more pressing matters to attend to than the weather,” Otto Hightower cut in, his droll voice grating against Rhaenyra’s patience instantly. She turned her attention to the gaunt man, also nursing a goblet of wine.
“Is your counsel always complacence, Lord Hand? You seemed remarkably uninvested in the conflict in the Stepstones as well. Perhaps your wisdom only extends to marrying off young girls?” she retorted. Otto huffed, before turning back to Viserys.
“Your Grace, while I agree these are troubling omens, we must focus our efforts on matters we can address. The King cannot affect the rains, but he may salve some civil unrest with his heir given a strong union,” he drawled, flicking a disdainful glance back at Rhaenyra.
Her temper flared. “Lord Hand, are you actually suggesting that marrying me off to some fool of a lord might have stopped the Crabfeeder? I understand you are not a man with great experience in war, but I didn’t think you were a stupid one.”
“Silence, both of you,” Viserys snapped. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed again. Alicent sat demurely at his side, perfectly silent and perfectly smug. The perfect image of a lady, the perfect pawn of her father. Rhaenyra’s thoughts instinctively drifted back to her uncle, who had always been a staunch critic of Otto Hightower, as well as being the only person who bothered addressing the conflict being discussed.
“Your Grace, perhaps it might be prudent to show some flexibility in both these matters,” Alicent added smoothly. She found her Viserys’s arm, giving it a soft squeeze and offering him a smile. The King regarded his young bride, considering her advice.
He eventually turned his attention back to Rhaenyra. “My dear, no one is pretending the rains are a trivial concern. If you can suggest to me a line of inquiry we have not yet explored that may warrant contacting the Citadel, then I will write again,” he compromised. Her tense expression softened, and she offered her father a grateful smile. He then addressed Otto. “Lord Hand, while I sincerely doubt securing Rhaenyra a husband would have had any material effect on the conflict in the Stepstones, I do agree that finding her a strong match sooner rather than later is in the realm’s best interest.”
The smile immediately fell off her face. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she growled. “I will not be traded like livestock for public approval!”
“That is not what is being proposed Rhaenyra, and you know that!” Viserys snarled in reply. “I have already promised you I will permit you a match of your choice, so long as they are suitable. You still chose to recklessly abandon your marriage tour midway, and insult multiple powerful families by snubbing their sons. You have autonomy, but you also have duties!”
She bit back a string of pointed words about his own new choice of child-bride that reflexively came to mind. Again, her gaze drifted to the empty chair where Daemon would usually reside. A pang of longing, and then an idea occurred to her. She bit her lip and threaded her fingers together in her lap, holding herself strong. “Fine, father. I will choose an appropriate match for myself, and we can drop this godsforsaken topic for good,” she said. She paused, allowing her words to settle with the King, who looked admittedly shocked at her acquiescence. “I would choose Prince Daemon Targaryen for myself.”
The table was immediately incensed. Alicent’s eyes all but bugged out of her head, Otto’s greying eyebrows hit his hairline, and her father spluttered before assuming a mask of outrage. “You most certainly will not!” Viserys thundered back. “Gods be good, you will not be marrying your damned uncle!”
Otto cut in again with another unwelcome opinion. “I am aware of your family’s… questionable practices with their own blood, but even putting aside that matter, your marriage should serve to unify your house with other powers. It would be foolish to forfeit possible alliances with other great families in favour of a husband with your own name.” She rolled her eyes.
“I must disagree, Lord Hand,” she quipped in reply. “As you rightly acknowledged, our family has a long history of intermarriage. Such a union would strengthen the face of our house as well as our dragon blood. It would also consolidate my claim to the throne, to have another potential heir ruling at my side. Particularly a man who has actual experience in the art of war, and winning wars at that.”
She had initially made the suggestion out of spite, but the more she thought about it, the better of an idea it seemed. In addition to her earlier points, she also knew that her uncle was a man of action, and would be just as determined to unravel the mysteries of the blood rains as she was. He was also quite learned on the histories of Old Valyria and the Doom, and may even have greater information that could prove useful. Plus, he was an admittedly handsome man. She smirked.
Her father’s booming voice broke her from her thoughts. “Out of the question. You are enough of a thorn in my side without your uncle’s temperament exacerbating things. Lord Hightower is correct, your marriage should broker us broader allegiance with the great houses, not ridicule!”
“If I may,” Alicent interjected. “If Rhaenyra’s intent is to fortify the blood of the dragon, then perhaps a match with Laenor Velaryon would be less controversial.” She smiled her pretty smile again, and Rhaenyra wrestled with the urge to throw one of her discarded baked potatoes at her head. She did note with no small amount of interest that Otto’s face hardened at his daughter’s suggestion.
Viserys seemed much more amenable to her words. “The Velaryons are indeed dragon-riders of Old Valyria, wielding their own wealth and power as well. Consolidating our alliance further through marriage would be a strong play indeed,” he mused. He regarded Rhaenyra, gaze still sharp. “Your cousin is a good-natured man who also served in the Stepstones. You would do well to consider the match, Rhaenyra.”
She was seething, having had her own points thrown back in her face. While she got on perfectly well with her cousin, she had no interest in him as a husband. And if the rumours were to be believed, he would have no interest in her either. She grit her teeth.
“Your suggestion is noted, father,” she bit out. “I would suggest we continue this discussion another night. Preferably after Daemon has returned,” she added with a smirk. Her father grunted and sought his abandoned wine glass, gesturing at a nearby cupbearer to fill it again. He surveyed his brazen daughter from over the rim of his golden goblet, before indicating stiffly to the door.
“You are dismissed for the evening. My temper will not suffer this inane conversation any further.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” she said coolly, before standing up and casting one final scathing look at Otto. Her family had been dysfunctional since long before she was born into it, but she was quite certain that Otto pouring poison in her father’s ear each night was only aggravating their strife. Gods, she hated him.
“By your leave,” she muttered, and bitterly made her retreat.
***
Rhaenyra slipped into the library on her way back to her chambers, mind racing and blood boiling. She’d poured over every damn tome in the place by this point, though admittedly hit a very frustrating roadblock with her middling knowledge of High Valyrian. While she was quite certain a number of the older books dealt with the Doom, they were all written in their mother tongue, and while she could speak it competently enough, her reading and penmanship were lacking.
Nonetheless, she found herself gravitating back to an intricate oak bookshelf, greyed with age. She recognised some of the embossed words decorating their spines, and sounded out the unfamiliar ones with no small amount of humiliation. She saw books on histories, wars, family lineages, and arts. Some of it may have been informative, but she knew she would struggle with such dense materials at her current proficiency. She frowned, furrowing her brow. Her eyes were drawn to a smaller book on the topic of medicines.
She carefully drew it from the shelf, and leafed through the pages. She saw a number of diagrams of plants, tinctures, and ailments, as well as short descriptions on the purpose of each, and ingredient lists that were much easier to read. She saw a number of components she did not recognise, likely flora from outside of Westeros. She hummed under her breath, before tucking the book under her arm. Even if there was nothing immediately of use to her, the text was simple enough to read, and may help brush up on her written word.
Another slim book caught her eye, tucked away on a lower shelf that dealt more with epics and folklore. She reached for it and let the pages flutter open. The text was also shorter in form, but she didn’t recognise many of the words. She slowly flipped through the tome, realising this was likely poetry. She paused on a weathered page, finally recognising a word she knew. She snickered lightly. Her uncle had taught her that one; it meant ‘cock’.
She recognised a few more, for ‘love’, ‘desire’, and ‘breast’, eventually reaching the conclusion that she had found a book of erotic poems. With a bemused smile, she took this one too, wondering if she might cause a further ruckus at the dinner table by dropping some new, filthy words in front of her father. Perhaps even learn a new covert method of insulting her step-monsters.
Satisfied with her findings, she left the library, and followed the faint flicker of torchlight back through the winding passageways of the Keep, until she reached her chambers.
***
Her handmaids greeted her with a gentle smile, which she easily returned. Elowen had attended her since she was a child, and the older woman always regarded her with kind eyes in spite of her stern temper. Eira, the younger maid, had only assumed her care a few moons ago, but she was already quite charmed by the slight woman’s bright eyes and surprising wit. Elowen gestured properly at the already-filled tub toward the back of her chambers. Rhaenyra could have groaned at the sight of the steaming water. “Your bath has been drawn, m’lady. Would you like some assistance removing your gowns?” Elowen inquired.
Rhaenyra nodded enthusiastically, carefully placing her reading materials on her bedside table, before allowing her attendants to guide her toward the bath. They made swift work of her heavy skirts and complex bodice, folding each piece of the garment with practiced motion and placing them neatly on the dressing stool adjacent. She settled into the boiling water with a pleased moan, and Eira chuckled.
“I could hardly believe you took your baths at such scalding temperatures at first, m’lady,” she hummed, reaching for a comb and steadily starting to unpick the complex weave of braids at her crown. Rhaenyra laughed at the comment, as she continued her work. “The girls I grew up with could hardly believe it either – said it must be proof of dragon’s blood!”
Elowen tutted. “Eira, you know you oughtn’t be trading whispers about the crown princess!” she reprimanded, though her tone was less stiff than her words. The older attendant collected a number of oils and tinctures from a nearby dresser, and set them down at the foot of the bath. She carefully dipped a washcloth in the heated water, not allowing her skin to touch it directly, and added a few drops of a pleasant-smelling substance to the material. She began massaging the warm water into Rhaenyra’s taut muscles, and she melted as Elowen’s firm hands unspooled all the carried tension. The maid huffed to herself. “If the condition of your back is anything to note, I imagine dinner was not an easy affair.”
Rhaenyra snorted, finding similar relief as the tight braids at her scalp were slowly released. “I cannot recall a time in recent memory where family dinner has been an easy affair,” she replied. Her eyes drifted shut, and her thoughts were instantly pulled to memories of her mother. That would have been the last peaceful dinner, she supposed. The night before her mother died, when she had been awaiting the arrival of her little brother. She admittedly had been possessed of some tension at the prospect of losing her title of heir, but at least the dining table hadn’t felt like a battlefield. At least Daemon was there. At least her mother wasn’t dead.
Elowen seemed aware of the direction of her thoughts, and offered her a kind smile and a consoling squeeze of her upper arm. “You’re a fierce one, m’lady, as your mother was before you. You can weather any manner of dinner-side storms, and then some.” She resumed her work kneading warm water and rich oils into her aching body, and Rhaenyra finally let her mind slip from its angry, defensive stance into something more collected. She sighed softly.
“Elowen, thank you for your assistance, I can finish the rest,” Rhaenyra said softly. The older woman nodded, and rose from her seat by the tub. She turned her attention to her other maid, who had deftly unwound the final braid at her head and released her long silver-blonde curls from their restraints. “You too, Eira. I would have a moment with my thoughts, if it pleases.”
“Of course, your Highness,” she replied lightly. Rolling down her sleeves and drawing to her feet. She paused a moment “Please let us know if there is anything you need m’lady. I’d be more than happy to fetch you any number of sweet treats as well – the kitchen staff are quite fond of you too.”
Rhaenyra smiled, and her handmaids departed with a low curtsey. In the quiet torchlight, she gathered the unruly mass of hair from the edge of the tub and dunked it in the scalding water, allowing her head to dip beneath the surface as well. She floated in it’s warm embrace, body suddenly weightless. She held her breath as long as she could, assembling her next move after an admittedly disastrous evening in the perfect quiet. She could hear the beat of her pulse in her ears, templating her hearts steadying pace.
She broke the surface of the water, retrieving the oils and comb left at her bath side, and began smoothing the lingering tangles from her damp hair. She reflected on her evening as she worked. Her father had thrown her something akin to a bone with his promise of a third letter, given the justification. If she could learn anything from the library that could recontextualise what they already knew, that would be sufficient. Which is to say, if she could learn anything new about the conditions of the Doom, she would be able to get her way. She’d devote herself to learning her two newly acquired tomes, and then could hopefully leverage her learnings to decipher some of the more advanced books. Once she had found something new, she’d approach her father and force his pen.
As for the marriage, that was a more complex beast. While Laenor Velaryon was the least offensive option that had been proposed to-date, she did not wish to marry him. She wanted a husband who could meet her fire with his own, who would make her stronger through loving her. She did not believe he was that man, even if it would make for a peaceable marriage. If she was being honest, she was also hopeful for a happy and mutual intimate life. While much of it was unknown to her, she’d heard enough about the act to develop a curiosity of pleasure. Of the things men could do with their hands, their mouths, their cocks. Of the kind of sensation they could bring. She wanted that as well. And while she had always carefully repressed the thought, it was always Daemon in her mind’s eye when she imagined such things.
An unexpected flash of heat between her legs, and she fought off a blush. Yes, Laenor would not do. She knew what she wanted. And she would take it for herself, as dragons did.
She finished work on her hair, satisfied with her efforts, and rose from the water.
She retrieved a robe that had been neatly left for her nearby, and wound it around her relaxed body. She twisted her hair into a loose braid suitable for bed, and settled on the edge of the mattress.
Rhaenyra retrieved her book of medicines, not bothering with her heavy bedclothes, and coiled herself into a cosy posture. She began leafing through the slim book, repeating any unfamiliar words aloud to impress them on her memory as she went. She took a vague mental note that dragonthistle salved burns from dragonfire, and bloodroot aided clotting.
Slowly, the letters started to feel more familiar, and she was exceedingly pleased to digest a 2-paragraph essay on the applications of ashwort without getting stuck once. She continued to read the words aloud though, if only to prove to herself that she was indeed improving. There was also a more carnal sense of pride in hearing their mother-tongue, spoken in her own voice. Almost like her blood was humming in approval.
Against her will, her mind began to slow. She was unsure of how much time had passed, but if the pitch of night beyond her window was anything to go off, it was well past a sensible hour.
Still swathed in her bathrobe only, she reluctantly returned to book to her bedside table, slipping an old scrap of paper between the pages to mark her place. She folded herself languidly into bed, drawing only the light top sheet over her warm body. Eventually, her consciousness began to dull, and she let sleep claim her.