Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Today’s tournament is held to honor the birth of the heir to the throne.

What the tournament means to you, however, is a chance to bring glory to your name not by appearing as comely as the gods made you, but, for once, by showing your skills.

As the bastard daughter of a faithless wife you know how fortunate it is that your father, a great lord, decided to treat you like a trueborn child; everyone, from the lowest servant of your household to the princes of the Realm, is overfond of telling you what an honor it is to be raised like his daughter even though you don’t have a drop of his blood in you.

Oh, you know all too well what a terrifying honor it is. You will never be able to forget that, with all the reminders you are given; but today you want to prove that you are worthy. And not only worthy of your place in your father’s household. Worthy of a place in this court, in this world. A cruel, hypocrite world, which would have you soon relegated to a cold marriage and endless pregnancies unless you show some promise today.

The first time you had begged him for fighting lessons your father had said no.

But you had surprised him with your comeback, “Targaryen princesses can fight on a dragon. I don’t have a dragon but I want to be able to fight all the same”, so sassy for a girl barely able to talk properly. He had always had a soft spot for you.

So he had hired an instructor, a skilled master who had taught you the art of fighting with cutlass and dagger, bow and blade, falcion and fists. Many nights you had drifted off to sleep to his voice reading from a book of battle strategy. But when he had died your father had refused to hire a new swordmaster for you. “You’re almost a woman. Time to leave behind games.”

Your father doesn’t know that you’re going to fight today. You know he’s going to be angry… unless you win. But the risk is worth taking.

You want to prove to everyone that you’re not just a lucky bastard with a pretty face; you want your future husband, whoever will your father’s choice be, to know that you are as proud and strong as a dragon, despite your origin, and that you expect to be treated consequently.

Moreover, the tournament will take place in front of the royal family. With your identity kept secret, if you win one of the princes or princesses might choose to grant you knighthood. And that would allow you to be seen for who you truly are by the woman you admire more than anyone alive: Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was. You have always considered her to be the True Queen, even though the world did not give her the crown she was due.

You have chosen a silver birch tree for a crest today.

Your name has been extracted for the second turn, and you can’t wait to start. You can’t remove your helm or you’ll be recognized, and its weight is making it difficult for you to breath properly.

When finally your time comes however all your prayers are answered: they have paired you with a knight that has been mocking your mysterious, unknown crest the whole morning. And just a few minutes ago you heard him say something nasty about Princess Rhaenys when that idiotic Baratheon had gone and asked for her favor before losing badly.

He badmouthed Rhaenys Targaryen: you don’t want him to lose, you want him to be humiliated.

You allow this feeling to pervade your body. You open the black doors of rancor, letting in the desire to take revenge, to hurt. The desire to defend and to shine.

You take up the spear and your legs close around the back of the horse, who reacts to your call like the most faithful of soldiers.

The horse rears up, charges and at the signal darts, low belly, as quick as an arrow shot from a bow. Your run is such a rapid charge that your spear smashes into your opponent's hauberk before you reach the center of the track. A groan of approval and surprise rise among the crowd, as if your charge has stolen breath from the lungs of those who are watching you.

The second run is even faster than the first, and the spear shatters with impressive violence. The third race is the coup de grace. You hit the knight with the ardor of a thunderbolt thrown by a god and your enemy, unsaddled, crashes to the ground.

The crowd cheers for you.

You dismount. You can feel everyone’s eyes on you as you walk towards the stables to wait for your next turn and you notice that now every men you cross gives way to you.

You throw a glance at the royal seats and you suddenly meet Princess Rhaenys’s gaze: your odd crest seems to have drawn her attention.

You stop at once.

Meeting her eyes is like being hit by a spear; and the most absurd thing is that you immediately desire to be hit again, and again, and again.

When she looks away you ask yourself if it has really happened or if you’ve just dreamt it. Yes, you admire the woman; but what’s this feeling?

Rhaenys’ small smile has just crushed your heart.

In a sudden impulse you turn and walk towards the royal box, your horse behind you.

“I would humbly ask for the favor of Princess Rhaenys Targaryen for the next round. You deserve a champion who can honor your name, my lady.”

She looks entertained. “You have an original crest, young knight. Is it a family crest from afar?”

“No, my lady. It is my own.”

“Most knights would have chosen a fierce beast to instill fear in their enemies’ hearts. Is that a birch tree?” she asks.

“Yes, my princess. It is a symbol of new beginning, and it serves as a sign of good luck and protection.”

“And it’s beautiful” she adds.

She can’t see it, but you’re smiling under your helmet.

“Indeed, my lady.”

“Show us your face and you will have my favor, Knight of the Silver Birch. I am curious to see if your looks match the beauty of your crest.”

“I will show my face after winning this tournament for you, princess, and you will be the judge of that. Is it acceptable?”

Her smile grows larger.

“I suspect I will know what your face looks like regardless of whether you win or lose” she answers, her voice dripping irony. Then she throws at you a flower crown and, while you kneel to retrieve it, she says: “Good fortune to you.”

You bow and take your leave, her favor held tightly in your hand.

When the time for your final round comes you are surprised to recognize Daemon Targaryen’s dragon helm in front of you.

“You caught the attention of the prince, mate” says the knight who’s in line for the next turn behind you. “Bad luck.”

This is a disaster. The man is a great warrior. And beating him might displease the King.

Then you look at Princess Rhaenys and notice that she’s uncharacteristically sitting on the edge of her seat. Is she actually interested in your duel? She gave you her favor. But would she support you against her own blood?

Maybe she would. It is only a tournament, after all. And a winner bearing her favor could be a small political success for her.

Damn it all. You are going to fight to the best of your abilities. This is not the moment to think about what will happen next. It is the moment to focus.

Daemon salutes you and you do the same. “May the best man win” he says as he gallops away.

“Let’s hope not” you murmur under your breath. You clench your fingers around your shield.

You know that a decent hit won’t be enough. You have to give your all. No mistakes.

When the fight starts you forget about everything. Your opponent may be a dragon, but his beast is not here now. Your blood though is on fire, boiling in your veins. As a woman you do not have much power but this is what now you have – you can beat him, the best warrior of the court.

You hit as viciously as possible. Your spear cracks against Daemon’s chest plate. You succeed in the incredible fit of unsaddling him in the first run.

He draws his sword and you dismount to face him fairly, letting go of your broken spear. Your shoulder bangs against his so hard that he staggers back. You attack again and again, knocking him down until he screams “Yield! I yield!”.

When it’s over you know you must have a bruise on your left cheekbone and on both of your knees, and you can’t feel your arms anymore.

But you have won. The crowd applauds, and it is as if you have suddenly woken from a dream. You look up at the royal box. Rhaenys is saluting you with a goblet of something while the rest of the royal family is applauding politely.

You start to tremble all over, the adrenaline draining out of you.

“Well fought” says the King. “Approach.”

You force yourself to walk in confident strides towards him and you kneel.

“Rise” he orders, and then: “Remove your helm.”

After a moment of hesitation you comply, letting your locks fall on your shoulders.

The crowd gasps; a moment later everyone is talking loudly and shouting something different.

Every member of the royal family is staring at you. Rhaenys seems inordinately pleased.

“You are all your father said, and so much more, my lady” says the King, not the shadow of a smile on his face. “I had no idea you were such an accomplished fighter. It’s quite unusual for a woman to be trained in the art of war.”

“Thank you, sire. You will find that a woman can do anything a man can do, if she’s willing to learn… and if the world allows her. My father was kind enough to go along with my desires on this matter. And now…”

You don’t know how to finish your sentence. You are surprised yourself by your boldness and you lower your gaze, at a loss.

“And now you have won against the strongest man of the Realm.”

You look up at once, unable to believe that Princess Rhaenys is speaking for you, to you.

“I’ve seen Daemon bested once or twice, but never quite in that fashion.”

“Now, now, cousin. Daemon fought valiantly” the King states.

“That he did, Viserys. But there can only be one champion” replies Rhaenys, and it’s the sweeter sentence you have ever heard.

“Do you want to reward your champion yourself, cousin?” asks the King, and you know by doing this he’s dismissing your victory as inconsequential, but if Rhaenys says yes you won’t care less.

“It will be my pleasure, Your Grace.”

She walks to the balustrade of the royal box and looks at you. “My brave Silver Birch Huntress, you may ask anything of me you desire. If it is within my power, it is yours.”

“My princess, I ask the honor of a place by your side, if you would have me.”

You can hear the crowd murmuring. “Bind my wrist with a single strand of your hair and my sword will be yours. I will keep you safe from all harm.”

“I have never heard a men ask for such a bold and gallant reward” she says, a smirk playing on her lips. Then her fingers fly to her hair. “Done. Rise, young lady, and join me. I will grant your wishes.”

“Your father will not be pleased” she murmurs as soon as you’re next to her in the royal box.

“Let me worry about my father, princess.”

“As you wish” she replies as she fastens three strands of her hair on your left wrist. “Welcome, then, to my house, my sweet champion.”

She holds your hand for a moment and she places a small kiss on your cheek, leaving you speechless. “I swear that I shall ask no service of you that can bring you or your family disonour.”

You look into her eyes as you answer: “I will shield your back and give my life for yours, if it comes to that, my princess. I am yours.”

Chapter Text

“Come with me today.”

Princess Rhaenys has had you called from the wing of Castle Driftmark where you have been living for the past few months.

You are surprised by her tone. She has left you free to roam the island and spend your time as you saw fit, only requesting your presence for the pleasure of your conversation or to have you ride with her to Meleys’ nest; and every time she has called for you she has been cordial, warm, even sweet, never trying to hide the sympathy she felt for you.

But today she is not looking in your eyes. Her posture is rigid, her back far too straightened in her splendid blue dress, and her voice much harder than usual.

“Is something wrong, my princess?”

Rhaenys turns, as if amazed by your insight. She scrutinizes you for a few seconds and then she lets her breath go, smiling the small smile, half disbelief, half self-mockery, that you have learned to love.

“We are going to King’s Landing. Lord Corlys and I have an audience with the King, and I do not care for what we will have to tell him.”

You can hear the words she is not saying: ‘Come with us so I will have the comfort of your friendship.’

You know she and Corlys share a deep affection, and you have no doubt he would take good care of his wife; but he’s still a man, and you have come to understand that sometimes princess Rhaenys feels the need of a more womanly point of view.

“Whatever it is, my princess, your desire is my command. I will be there with you. For you.”

“Thank you, my brave Huntress” she says, and you can hear the genuine note of gratitude in her voice as she briefly squeezes your arm. “Be ready to leave in two hours time.”

Once in King’s Landing you understand why she has been so perturbed.

The discussion she and Corlys had with the King must have been about Laena, their daughter. They must have decided to offer her in marriage… and no matter how sound a political move that is it can’t be easy for a mother to accept such a union for her little girl.

Sweet, proper, innocent Laena is right now walking with the King in the gardens, and you are sitting next to Rhaenys on the red balcony that overlooks them. You aren’t talking. You know Rhaenys couldn’t talk about anything else if not her daughter and the political situation as long as her child is down there, and you do not wish to speak about either.

When princess Rhaenyra joins you two on the balcony you stand up, assuming a less familiar demeanor. Out of the corner of your eye you can see Rhaenys smiling because of your sudden movement.

But Rhaenyra hasn’t spared a glance for you. She is watching her father and her young cousin with a stony expression, and after a moment she abruptly starts to leave, without even having acknowledged Rhaenys’ presence with a smile or a word.

You hate it when they disrespect her like that; you understand that Rhaenyra might perceive her as a menace to her succession, but they are still family.

So you are glad when Rhaenys, as always untroubled by her cousin’s bad manners, speaks to her.

“It bothers you, does it not?”

Rhaenyra gives all the right answers, pretending to be unperturbed by what is happening. She knows what to say, you have to give her that; and, while she is not ad good as Rhaenys at feigning indifference, you appreciate her willingness to try.

And then she attacks, and you are reminded that she is a Targaryen, after all: “Laena is your daughter, princess. Does it bother you?”

Your heart constricts in equal measure in pain and pride for Rhaenys when she answers: “Of course it does.”

You find yourself wondering if Rhaenys is, in some smart, indirect way, knowlingly teaching a valuable lesson to her younger cousin. She is telling her that she must never forget how the world around her works, if she wants to survive.

“When I’m Queen, I will create a new order.”

You hear a scoff and you know without having to look that Rhaenys’ signature small smile is on her lips. “How I wish that could be, Rhaenyra. But the men of the Realm already had their opportunity to appoint a ruling Queen at the Great Council, and they denied it.”

“They denied you, princess Rhaenys. The Queen Who Never Was. But they bent the knee to me and called me heir to the throne.”

You can’t help your hand to fly to your sword. How dare she speak to Rhaenys in such a-

“Do you remind your father’s men of that as you carry their cups?”

You almost laugh out aloud as you release your tight hold on the hilt of your sword. You disregard for a moment the traditional guarding stance as you turn your head to look at Rhaenys in wonder.

By the Gods, she is so witty, so subtle, so good at this. She would have been a magnificent Queen, wise, fierce and beautiful.

Every second you spend with her you admire her more.

When, a few minutes later, she cuts short the conversation and leaves, you follow her.

“I bet you enjoyed that.”

“I can’t deny it, my princess” you answer, smirking at her.

“And still,” she sighs, “I’d rather not have to say those words, even if they won me a small victory.”

“I know that” you say quietly.

“Look at her,” Rhaenys says, stopping to watch Rhaenyra talking to the newest Kingsguard, ser Criston Cole. “She’s so desperate to believe she’s truly the chosen one. So hopeful that she’s the one who will break the wheel. I wish she would understand that she has to be willing to do unspeakable things if she wants to prevail. This world is never kind to a woman.”

You stay silent, for you know she is also thinking about Laena.

“And look at that man. How proud, how sure of his rightful place in the world. You saw the other day, when Rhaenyra choose him for the Kingsguard. You bested him in combat during the last tournament. And yet, here he is, honored with a position at court, instead of you.”

“My princess…”

“Don’t tell me you think he deserves it more than you.”

“No” you smile, shaking your head. “But as far as I’m concerned, I already am in the Kingsguard. I am protecting the Queen.”

When she turns you know your words have touched her.

You stop breathing as her hand goes to your left cheek to place a gentle caress.

The perfume she has on her wrist stays in the air long after her fingers have left your skin.

 A few days later you are preparing your bags when an unknown servant knocks at the door.

“What is it?”

“The Hand of the King wishes to see you, m’lady.”

“The lord Hightower?”

“Yes, m’lady. He said it is most urgent.”

You have never spoken more than a few words to Otto Hightower, and you know that there’s only a reason why he could have called for you: something must have happened to Rhaenys.

You drop your clothes, grab the first weapon you find, a dagger, and say “Lead the way.”

You urge the servant to go faster, and when he finally points at a door you fly in the corridor and kick the entrance open, striding into the room.

Otto Hightower has two cups and a flagon of wine on the wooden table in front of him. You halt, surprised at how relaxed he looks. He raises both eyebrows.

“My lady. What happened? Why are you in such a rush?”

“They- they told me it was urgent” you say, worry tripping your tongue. “I thought Rhaenys- I mean, princess Rhaenys…”

Suddenly Otto is smiling. “Princess Rhaenys is not in danger. I merely wished to exchange a few words with you.”

He picks up the flagon and pours some wine into the two cups.

“Will you drink with me?”

You shake your head. “No offense meant, my lord, but it will go straight to my head.”

“Then conversation will have to be enough.”

He lifts his cup as if in salute and then gestures for you to sit on the chair in front of him. As you do so he takes a sip of wine, puts down the cup and sits straighter.

“Tell me what you dream of, my lady. Tell me what you want” he says then, searching for your eyes.

Your heart hammers in your chest as Rhaenys’ splendid face comes to mind. You feel a little dizzy, and definitely on alert. Why is he asking you such personal questions?

Your hands tighten around the dagger. “I don’t understand.”

“I know you are ambitious. Your little stunt at the tournament made that clear for the world to see. So what do you want? I am the most powerful man of the court, save for the King himself. Ask me for something. Something you’ve never had the bravery to ask from anyone.”

Tell me how to win Rhaenys Targaryen’s love, you think, and then feel yourself blush. You take a deep breath. He must want something from you, otherwise he’d never be this interested in your desires. You understand the danger, of course. Once you answer him he is going to try to strike a bargain.

You think of Rhaenys and of how she can do wonders with a few words - enchant a crowd or humiliate a man with a single well formulated sentence.

“I… I want to become a knight” you say, willing yourself to stillness to avoid betraying your lie. “A real knight, I mean.”

Otto Hightower regards you thoughtfully. “I understand that. Princess Rhaenys took you in, but she has not given you a proper knighthood ceremony. You want to see your value recognized on a formal level. You want to be the first female knight.”  He leans forward in the chair. “I have the power to do that. I can make you a real knight. If you swear yourself into my service, you will find yourself rewarded.”

Your heart sinks. Why is he so interested in your service? He knows you swore yourself to Rhaenys. What does he want? This can’t be good.

“And what would you expect me to do?”

“I can’t tell you that unless you accept.”

You go very still and consider his offer. All you want to do right now is throw it in his face and warn him never to doubt your loyalty again. But is that the course of action that would be more useful to Rhaenys Targaryen, if indeed he is conspiring against her as it seems?

You know the answer, and you know what you have to do.

“Give me knighthood, and I will do whatever it is you need me to do, my lord.”

He smiles and nods. “So you accept.”

It’s frightening, but you know it’s the right thing to do.

“And you will do everything that I ask of you?”

You nod.

Otto Hightower rises and touches your shoulder. “You made the right choice, my lady. But I’m sure you understand I have to require a proof of your... loyalty.”

Your gaze goes to the floor. You were afraid something like this would happen.

“That’s a pretty dagger you have there.”

You look at him at once, surprised.

“Show it to me.”

You unsheathe it and hand it to him, but he does not touch it.

“Mmmh. A fine blade. Were I to ask you to put the blade through your hand,” he says in a gentle voice, “would you do that for me?”

You hate him as soon as the words have left his mouth.

“Why do you think that would prove anything?”

“It will tell me that you are willing to go to any length to reach your goal. It will prove your devotion to your cause, blood and bone. And your wound will be noted. I will know right away if you’re able to invent a suitable lie to explain it or if you have no talent for what I’m about to ask you.”

You feel trapped. But you think of Rhaenys, grit your teeth and aim the sharp point of the dagger, pressing it lightly against your skin. You hate him, but you are ready. You hate him, and love Rhaenys.

“Do the least damage possible” lord Hightower adds, sounding like a concerned father.

You hesitate. “My lady?” he says, disappoint coloring his voice.

You think of Rhaenys’ fingers, softly caressing your cheek.

Your eyes on him, you slam the knife into your hand. The pain is excruciating. You make a low sound in your throat. You draw the blade out and blood runs over the table.

Otto Hightower’s expression is odd, blank behind the smile. Maybe he didn’t think you would actually do it.

“You are very brave.”

“Now tell me what is it that I have to do to have my knighthood… my lord.”

“My daughter is about to become Queen. I need to protect her and the Realm. I know the Sea Snake won’t take well to the news. So spy for me. I need to know what Rhaenys and Corlys are planning, thinking, when they are not at court. I know it is not what a knight imagines for himse-… I beg your pardon, herself. But I promise you that if you serve well you will have your knighthood and much more.”

You knew he wanted you to betray princess Rhaenys. You want to insult him so badly. But this is an opportunity to help her, to protect her and to give her a political advantage. Will you make a good double spy? You have no way of knowing. But you hope for Rhaenys Taragaryen’s sake that you do.

“Remember to invent a decent lie when Rhaenys asks what happened to your hand. If they understand that you are lying they’ll become suspicious – and your life will be forfait. Corlys Velaryon is not a forgiving man.”

Feeling sick, you go down on your knee and swear yourself into lord Hightower’s service.