Chapter Text
Rhaenyra Targaryen died in one of the most gruesomely horrifying ways a person could, eaten by her usurping cunt of a brother's dragon, her son being forced to watch.
And yet, even as the pain and fury tore through every inch of her body, she felt something akin to relief at the thought of her life ending. Her grief and rage finally put to eternal rest, in which she would reunite with her beloved children, her mourned husband, and her darling Syrax. The Seven curse her so-called brothers, kinslaying monsters they were, and damn them to all of the Seven Hells, she thought, or maybe screamed, she wasn't certain, but one look at her sweet Aegon, and she knew. There was something, she couldn't articulate what exactly, about a child that knew they were about to lose their parent. A look in their eyes, perhaps, or a stiffening of the posture, maybe even the way they breathed, but Rhaenyra knew in that very instant that her life was over and done with, and her son would forever have to live with having witnessed her, ultimately undignified, demise.
Had she known how her children would end, how her uncle would end, how she herself would end, by the Gods of Old Valyria, she swore she would have done things differently.
And then...she died.
She awoke not with a gasp, but a scream, a curse, an expression of utmost, primal rage. Immediately, Ser Criston Cole burst into her chambers, worry plain on a face that was much too young and much too open to belong to a man that had never grown tired of hating her and the children she'd birthed.
'My Princess, are you alright? Shall I fetch the Maester?' His voice was not frantic, but not calm, either, and he did not seem to be deceitful in his worry for her. But that couldn't be. She recalled, with perfect clarity, her dalliance with him, and how she'd broken his heart when she had refused to trade her crown for the simple life he'd envisioned for the both of them, a dream that Daemon had relentlessly mocked when she'd told him of it one night, not entirely without reason, she'd had to admit.
Who does he think he is, her uncle had said, that you would throw away your life, your crown, your birthright for him? A fool, that's who. An obsessed, overreaching twat who thinks too highly of himself and too little of you, my sweet wife. And he had been right, on all accounts, Rhaenyra could admit that much. Just as she could admit that she'd been entirely selfish in her pursuit of Ser Cole, knowing full well that he felt more for her than a Sworn Shield ought to for the Princess he was sworn to protect. She'd seduced him, though he'd been not unwilling, eager even, and then used him, knowing that unlike her uncle, he Criston would not deny her.
It had been admittedly unworthy of her, she thought, staring into his face now, free of the resentment and judgement that she'd come to associate with him in her later years, or the lust and wanting that had been there before. He simply looked... concerned.
'Princess?'
She realized she'd perhaps stared at him a tad too long, as he called her again. She shook her head. 'Thank you, Ser Criston,' Gods, her voice was hoarse, 'I simply had... a nightmare. I apologize for startling you. There is no need for a Maester, although if you could remind me of my duties for today, I would be grateful.'
There, she thought, a perfectly reasonable request, which should help to clarify when exactly I am. For I am certainly not dead or dying any longer.
Ser Criston eyed her a second more, before straightening himself, the picture of a chivalrous, honorable knight once more. 'Today, Your Highness, after breaking your fast, His Grace wishes for you to attend a meeting of the Small Council, the contents of which I am afraid I am not privy to. Afterwards, your presence is required at the Ladies' Hall, where you must oversee the education of the daughters of the ladies at court, as well as your own dance lessons. Then you will be served a small lunch, and afterwards, you will hear the weekly report of the Head Maidservant of the Royal Household, following which you must meet Septa Marlow, with whom you will be until supper.'
So Alicent is yet to be announced as Father's new wife. The Head Maidservant usually reported to the highest-ranking female of a House, and after Mother's passing, that had been Rhaenyra. Until there was a new Queen, she thought bitterly. Rhaenyra swallowed, the old hurt flaring up again, the betrayal she'd never gotten over even as her former companion's son fed her to his dragon. She shuddered. That would not be happening again. But how to best prevent it? By stopping her father from marrying Alicent, she supposed, she would at least assure that there would be no Aegon to feed anyone to a dragon. No male heir to usurp her own claim, and no one-eyed monstrosity to kill her son and start the war. No strange sister to give the usurper heirs of his own, and no Queen Dowager to be used as a puppet by a Hand who'd gotten too big for his britches. Unless things are already too far along, and she's swayed Father's heart with toys and trinkets. She cursed herself for not remembering how things had gone the first time - because she refused to believe that all this was simply a dying fever-dream - and wished she had kept a written record of all happenings at court, all the meetings she was required to attend as the lack of a Queen forced the Princess to take up some of her duties. But she hadn't, and had often shirked those duties, feeling too little like she had any right to them, when she could still clearly remember how her mother had performed them with grace and poise, despite her ever-weakening body.
'Unless my Princess once again decides that she would rather ride her dragon in the afternoon, as she is sometimes wont to.' Ser Criston's voice returned her to the present like a splash of cool water to the face, and, despite all, Rhaenyra couldn't help her chuckle. She'd missed this, the easy camaraderie she'd shared with the Dornishman, the friendship she'd forsaken, unaware that he'd taken their dalliance far more seriously than she had. 'Thank you, Ser. You may leave me now.' She gifted him a smile, and saw with satisfaction that he didn't attempt to contradict her. He bowed and turned, his white cloak swishing behind him, and exited her chambers, leaving her alone with her thoughts racing.
Standing from her bed, she opened the windows, breathing in the air of King's Landing, as polluted as the minds of its inhabitants, unfamiliar to her after years spent on Dragonstone, her hand on her belly, lacking the tell-tale softness that all mothers had there, and took a moment to mourn the life that would never again be.
When the maids knocked on her chamber doors half a bell later to help her start her day, she was ready.