Chapter Text
“You’ve gotten better,” Rhea compliments as Rhaenyra carefully pulls her red fletched arrow from the large pheasant’s heart. “Quick, painless, and you avoided damaging more of the meat than you had to. Well done.”
“I had a good teacher,” Rhaenyra demurs as she sheaths the weirwood bow Rhea had gifted to her just this past nameday feast, and clips her kill to the belt on her mare’s saddle.
“You had the best teacher,” Rhea corrects with a grin, dark curls kept off her face with a tight braid, then she turns to her new husband, “wouldn’t you agree, Ben?”
Bennard Stark, a dour, serious man of the North, doesn’t crack a smile, but his dark brown eyes do shimmer in amusement under his heavy brow. “My mother taught me to never disagree with the woman carrying my child.” Rhea laughs, rubbing the slight swell of her stomach that her own riding leathers and cloak of brown wolf fur did nothing to hide. The curve pregnancy adds to her aunt’s strong features softens her, but her shoulders are broad and lined with well-earned muscle, even outside of her bronze plate mail.
She looked happy like this, with a husband who so obviously adored her, and a babe on the way, but no less fierce because of it, so unalike Rhaenyra’s mother, who had only ever looked frail and sad.
“Aren’t you afraid something might go wrong?” Rhaenyra can’t stop herself from asking, and Rhea’s quicksilver eyes flicker to her knowingly. “With – the babe?” She hadn’t anyone else to ask, with her mother returned to the Fourteen Flames, and Rhaenys so far removed from her own experiences being with child.
Who else could she trust with her fears of pregnancy?
Definitely not Alicent, as the King seemed to hope.
“I suppose there always is that worry,” Rhea agrees slowly, sharing a look with Bennard. “This pup is to be my first, and I’m not quite a young maid any more. There will always be a risk – it’s a sacrifice no man could possibly understand.”
“Women are far stronger than I,” the younger brother of Lord Stark says, “we Northerners know it far too well.”
“Truly?” Rhaenyra asks doubtfully, and Bennard looks at her in such a way that the princess couldn’t possibly tell if he was jesting.
“No man meets a woman of Bear Island, and walks away still viewing women as the weaker sex.”
This time when she says it, her interest is piqued, “Truly?”
“Aye,” Bennard rumbles, respect in his gaze. “Now there’s a clan of bloodthirsty bitches.”
“They’re wonderful,” Rhea shares, grinning wolfishly. “Lady Mormont picked up an axe at two and ten and hacked up a bear larger than a ship.”
“Every Mormont claims that story as their own, my love,” Bennard tells her, scratching his bushy beard.
“She’s taller than any man I’ve every met, and thrice as strong. I’m inclined to believe her,” Rhea laughs, brushing him off, and Rhaenyra makes a mental note to look into asking Arya if it were true, the tales of her mother, and if any more of her kin might be willing to join them in the Capital now that so many of her Ladies in Waiting were to be leaving her services as their fathers married them off to the Lords Rheanyra had helped them choose.
Even Laena had been betrothed to Borros Baratheon, though she remained still at Rhaenyra’s side, while Johanna Westerling had returned to the Westerlands to marry Lord Jason Lannister, her loyal spy mistress easily taking control while the foppish Lord drank and partied, blind to the fact that his power was waning in favour of his wife. In Johanna’s last letter, she had proudly announced the birth of her first child, a daughter she had named Cerelle, who was the very image of House Lannister, though already carried her eldest Lady-in-Waiting’s keen intelligence. Margaery Turnberry, who had found love in Ser Medrick Manderly, heir to White Harbour, much to all of their honest surprise, remained still in King’s Landing, as the young man had taken up a position in Rhaenyra’s household himself as a guardsman. Turns out, the fearsome Northern trader had a love for strawberries, and Margaery’s love of cooking and food had inspired the construction of a glasshouse in the North to grow all kinds of fruits that House Turnberry was known for nurturing, to be used to feed the people come winter. Her cousin, Maygen Tyrell, had chosen the kind and loyal Lord Gormon Massey of Stonedance, to wed, her dowry going far to aid her new House, ancient and Old, re-establish themselves after they had nearly been beggared by the Triarchy pirates raiding their coasts and burning their fields. Already, she had birthed a daughter and heir in little Elinda Massey, who Rhaenyra had promised a place of honour in her household upon her ten and third nameday, while Maygen’s littlest sister, Sofina, had come to take her empty slot among the Princess’ Ladies. Dibella Celtigar had chosen Lord Samwell Blackwood herself to become her husband, while her twin sister, Diyana, wed Amos Bracken, the heir to Stone Hedge, to bring to a halt the generations of bloody feud between the two Houses and peace to the Riverlands that had long since been in upheaval.
They all seemed so excited to become mothers, while Rhaenyra stewed in her fear.
“Rhaenyra,” Rhea says gently, easily adjusting the princess’ knot on her game belt and pulling her from her thoughts. “You don’t need me to remind you about the risks of childbirth, you have been witness to the worst it has to offer. But you’re young, and strong, and you have time still.” Rhaenyra wrinkles her nose against the burn of tears in her eyes, and Rhea smiles sadly, before pulling the girl into a maternal hug that has Rhaenyra’s breath catching on a sob.
“Princess?” She can hear Ser Criston’s worry, and she’s quick to say;
“It’s fine, Criston.” Then she’s leaning into her aunt, clinging back desperately.
“I wish I could promise you that you don’t have to birth a child if you don’t want to,” Rhea says grimly, “but the Realm is watching and waiting.”
“And once they see weakness, they’ll exploit it,” Rhaenyra grumbles, and Rhea huffs out a bitter laugh.
“Just so, niece.”
Rhaenyra pulls away with a grounding breath, blinking quickly to clear her vision. “At least, I know Laenor won’t put a son over me, if it came to a choice,” she says bitterly. “He’s my friend and cousin first, and he’s good and kind.”
“Can’t build a Keep without a strong foundation,” Lord Bennard rumbles, Northern accent thick and filled with gravel. “Marriage is much the same, Princess.”
“It’s good that Ser Laenor respects you, niece,” Rhea chuckles, easily tucking away a few pale curls that had escaped the princess’ own braid. “Otherwise, he and I would be having a very long conversation on how to treat a woman.”
Rhaenyra giggles despite herself. “His mother is Princess Rhaenys, I doubt he would ever risk her ire by disrespecting a lady.” She smiles faintly, but it fades quickly as she’s reminded, once more, of heavy thoughts. “I’m afraid of it – marriage and childbed, but… motherhood itself doesn’t seem so bad.” Her opinion of it had, over time, shifted as she had watched Alysanne grow. Rhaenyra had been there for everything; her sister’s first word, her first steps, even her first taste of real food when Alysanne had been weaned from her nursemaid.
Alysanne had wished Rhaenyra were her mother, and often, Rhaenyra felt as if she was. Her mother had been three and ten when Rhaenyra was born, and married at the same age Rhaenyra had been at her sister’s birth.
“And I’m sure that when the day comes, you will be an amazing mother,” Rhea tells her, “and an amazing Queen.”
“Thank you,” Rhaenyra murmurs, cheeks pinking, and-
“Princess!” Ser Criston shouts as a dark, stinking mass bursts into the river-side clearing they were standing in with a loud, furious squeal, and her sworn shield is immediately flung aside by the massive boar.
Bennard curses, pulling out his sword and placing himself between both woman and the grunting, shrieking beast as their mounts whinny and stomp in alarm. It was about to charge, swinging it’s massive, shaggy head and deadly tusks, beady eyes alight with rage, and Rhaenyra fumbles with her bow as the Stark man braces.
The boar rushes, but somehow, Rhaenyra is faster with a great bow. It wails, rearing back, before collapsing in a heap, one of Rhaenyra’s arrows imbedded in it’s eye.
The clearing goes silent, tension thick enough to snap.
“Good shot,” Rhea says breathlessly, and Rhaenyra lowers her bow, admitting;
“I was aiming for the shoulder joint.”
Lord Bennard laughs suddenly, as wild as the North he hailed from. “It’s that bow of yours, Princess. The Old Gods bless their weirwoods, and those with the blood of the First Men.”
The Crown Princess let’s out a breathy laugh, starting to relax as she worries her thumb across the runes carved into her weapon thoughtfully. The Royces were guardians of Old Magic, Rhea had told her, descended from Children of the Forest, and had been carving the runes since before the First Men even arrived and began to interbreed with the magical beings, and then also often married into House Arryn after the Mountain Kings had begun to settle the Valley and Mountains of the Moon. Rhaenyra herself prayed to the Gods of Valyria, but perhaps she could also begin looking into the Old Gods of Westeros. Across from them, just on the other side of the bubbling stream, the bushes rustle, and Ser Criston, likely still smarting from being thrown, pulls her behind him protectively, but a sense of peace falls over her instead as a great white stag steps into the clear water, massive antlers a crown above it’s massive head.
It feels like a test, and Rhaenyra wonders if she had passed by slaying the boar.
“The King of the Forest,” Rhea breathes in awe, laying a hand over her stomach, and next to her, her consort murmurs a rapid prayer in the Old Tongue.
“By the Seven,” Criston gasps, sword dipping, but the mythical stag, of who’s presence the Hightowers and their ilk had claimed would be an omen of Alicent’s newest babe, only has eyes for Rhaenyra.
It croons, calling the Princess forward to present herself, and Rhaenyra finds herself obeying, stepping forward into the river. The cold water flows over her leather boots, soaking into the hem of her black surcoat, but Rhaenyra barely notices it in favour of the creature before her, massive and gleaming like the moon itself had woven its pelt. Dark, intelligent eyes study her, as if peering into her very soul, before the white stag huffs, warm breath fanning across her face like the gentle brush of a mother’s touch.
Then – it bows.
“Oh,” Rhaenyra breathes, and in that moment, she knows what she has to do. “Thank you.”
The King of the Forest croons knowingly, lowering itself gracefully to its knees, and Rhaenyra follows, blind to the water soaking into her leathers as the stag watches her with dark, regal eyes. Gently, Rhaenyra pets a hand across its snout, taking in the magnificent creature and its massive crown, and she finds herself believing the tales of the Old Gods crafting this beast from the moon itself to bring about change. An omen of greatness, they say, a King carrying the blessing of the wild itself. As she pulls out her knife, one of carved dragon bone and obsidian that Daemon had had sent to her for her five and tenth nameday from his personal craftsman on Dragonstone, the stag rests its massive head on her thin shoulder, like a king knighting its subject.
“Thank you,” she repeats, tapping their foreheads together like she would with Syrax. “I won’t let this go to waste, I swear it.”
With a deep breath, Rhaenyra lines up the dagger, and pushes it forward. There’s little to no resistance, the black blade parting skin and sinew like warmed butter and piercing the King of the Forest’s heart. It’s clean, and quick, and the great white stag dies kneeling, with the dignity and grace it deserves.
“I will not fail,” the Crown Princess vows, musical High Valyrian falling from her tongue with ease as blood coats the front of her surcoat and sprays on her face, dying her pale hair with crimson, and she closes her eyes as she lowers the dead King into the river, letting its blood drain into the crystalline water to feed the roots of the forest. “I will wear your great pelt with pride, and crown myself with your antlers, all will know of the blessing you have granted me this day, and they will bow. I swear this to you on the memory of Queen Aemma Arryn, the First of Her Name.”