Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Aerys Targaryen had died quite unexpectedly right after the tourney of Harrenhal. Doubtless he had been mourned, but no one knew who it was that had mourned him - certainly not his family. 

They had been more concerned with the coronation of the new king, and whether the new queen would be well enough to attend the coronation after her recent miscarriage. 

She had, at her husband's insistence, and only the pride of her house had carried her through the ceremony.

That coronation was Rhaenys Targaryen's first memory.

The king seated on the Iron Throne with a crown upon his head, and her mother standing upon the steps of the throne, almost swallowed by her elaborate gown and heavy jewels.

She had been drawn and wan, but she had held her head high and Rhaenys can almost remember her face if she tries hard enough. There are no portraits of Elia Martell in the Red Keep. Rhaenys had not seen her mother's face from the time she was two until she had visited Dorne with her husband nearly twenty years later. 

Rhaenys herself had stood off to the side, one hand held by her nurse, the other by her brother. Aegon had only just been walking then, so their nurse had picked him up partway through. They had both been wearing rich gowns in Targaryen black, with black lace at the collar and cuffs that had raised red welts on Aegon's soft skin. If it had done same to Rhaenys, she does not remember it.

Her second memory is of her mother's funeral. A fever had taken Elia Martell exactly three moons after her coronation, and she had not had the strength to fight it off.

She had been dead by evening.

Rhaenys does not remember her mother's illness, or the subsequent rumours. Those she knows from later years when all such things were trotted back out.

She remembers that her dress from the coronation had not fit her. Aegon had worn it, taken in to fit his slightly smaller frame. She had had a new one, hastily made. It had been too tight at the shoulders.

She remembers standing at a pyre, watching the king lower a torch to the body of her mother and wondering why he did not look more sad. 

She remembers holding Egg's hand in hers, and him asking why Mama wasn't standing with the king. 

She remembers breathing in as her mother's ashes swirled towards her on the wind, and hoping that maybe if she breathed in enough, she would have Mama inside her to protect her and love her.

Even then, she had known that nothing would come from the king, though she had not known why. 

Her third memory is the king's wedding to Lyanna Stark. With the benefit of hindsight, she knows that Lyanna had been only a girl, torn from her home by a man who had seemed kind and gallant but was now revealing his true colours. 

She must have been terrified. 

Rhaenys had not known that at the time. 

She had only known that Mama was dead, and now Lyanna Stark would be Queen. Would have Mama's rooms and gowns and jewels and crown.

She had hated Lyanna Stark, and Egg had done whatever she did, so he had hated Lyanna Stark too. 

The new queen had been kind to them, despite their tantrums. She had given them toys and dolls and sweets and rides on her horse and tried to win them over. She had sung songs to them and told stories, and had their nurse wake her on the nights they had nightmares and the king wasn't in her bed. Even when they had wished at night for her to go away and their mother to come back, instead of saying their prayers.

Rhaenys still doesn't know why she was kind to them. It had hardly done her any good - the king had cared little and less for the children who bore their Dornish mother in their eyes and hair and skin.

Perhaps she had just been kind. Afraid and out of her depth and still kind to two motherless children who might as well have had no father either.

She had not appreciated it at the time but now, with years behind her, Rhaenys brings flowers to Lyanna Stark's grave whenever she brings them to her mother's. It does not make amends for what a trial she had been to her first stepmother in life, but she hopes Lyanna sees it from the Seven Heavens (or wherever the Old Gods take their worshippers). 

Lyanna had died too. Ten moons after she married Rhaenys and Egg's father, Lyanna had gone into confinement. 

Only Jaehaera had come out of that room. 

Rhaenys had hated Lyanna, but she had known that no one would love Jaehaera if she didn't. 

So as the king had raged and screamed at the maester and the midwives, Rhaenys had gone to the other side of the nursery. 

The baby had been lying in the same crib as they lay in, she remembers. Jaehaera had not had any hair then, and her eyes had been that uncertain infant blue. She had been squashed and purple, and nothing like Rhaenys or Egg. 

Rhaenys had taken the dragonglass amulet from her pocket and dropped it into the cradle beside the baby. It was carved in the shape of a weirwood tree, and was the last thing Lyanna had given her before she had gone into confinement. 

It had been the closest thing Rhaenys could get to giving Jaehaera her mother's love. 

She had kept close to the nurse at the funeral, paying more attention to the swaddled and sleeping baby than to the woman on the pyre. Everyone had been watching Lyanna Stark as if she was going to do something exciting despite being dead - at least one person had needed to be watching the baby. 

She had still heard the king's sobs though, and had wondered where those tears were when her mother died. The king had wept so hard that he had been unable to light the pyre, and the queen's brother Brandon had done it for him. 

Jaehaera had slept through it all, unaware that the only person in the world to love her was crumbling to ash right in front of her. So Rhaenys had swallowed to wet her dry throat and breathed in as the bitter wind wafted the ash towards her. 

Perhaps she would be able to keep enough of Lyanna inside her, next to her mother, that she could give Jaehaera Lyanna's love. 

She had done her best over the next year, trying to keep Jaehaera with her as much as she had Egg. It had been different with a sister - or perhaps it had been different with a sister by Lyanna Stark.

No one had much cared if she had sung half-remembered Rhoynish lullabies to Egg, but the one time the king had caught her stumbling over the words of 'In Mother Rhoyne's Cradle' to Jaehaera he had shouted at her. It has been the first time he had raised his voice to her, but it had also been the first time he addressed her that she could remember. 

After that, she had learned Northern lullabies from the remnants of Lyanna's ladies. Rhoynish lullabies had been kept for her and Egg, and only sung to Jaehaera when Egg was on watch for anyone interrupting them. 

Jaehaera's hair had come in brown, and both Rhaenys and Egg had been terrified. They had not been old enough to understand why the king cared so little for them, but they had known in that instinctive way children do that their hair was part of the problem. Both of them had full heads of dark curls and big noses and dark eyes and bronze skin, which they knew the king did not have. 

They had thought that he would start ignoring Jaehaera when her hair proved brown and her eyes turned grey, but he had not.

He had cried. 

He had called her 'his little rose' and brought her little crowns of blue roses that still had thorns on them. They had scratched her tender head bloody, and Rhaenys always took them off the baby's head as soon as the king left. 

At some point, she had started to love Jaehaera. The baby had still looked nothing like Rhaenys or Egg, and she had still been Lyanna Stark's daughter. But she was also their sister, and so she was theirs. 

Lyanna was dead, so there was no one else to love Jaehaera except the king - and even then Rhaenys had known that the king's love did not count. 

So she had loved Jaehaera, and so had Egg, with all of their hearts. It had not made up for all the people who didn't love her, the way it never made up for all the people who didn't love Rhaenys or Egg. But it was all that they had.

There had been a year of just them, three small children alone in the nursery, not a one of them looking anything like the king who visited with crowns of blue roses and sharp thorns.

The walls had been covered with portraits then, she remembers. Portraits of a girl with brown hair and grey eyes and a crown of blue roses - it had taken Rhaenys all of that year to realise the girl was meant to be Lyanna Stark. There had been no portraits of Elia Martell after her death for her children to remember her by, but Jaehaera had grown up with portraits of a woman that everyone told her was her mother but her siblings told her looked nothing like dead Lyanna. 

The only reason they had known the portraits were supposed to be Jaehaera's mother was because the new queen had swept into the nursery and sneered at them. "I won't have my children grow up in a shrine to Lyanna Stark." She had said, her lip curling. And the portraits had disappeared except one that the king insisted hung above Jaehaera's cradle.

That was how they had met the king's third wife.

Cersei Lannister had been older than Lyanna, prouder, and less kind. She had not cared to win over the children of her husband's dead wives, not when she was a third choice to flat-chested, sickly Elia Martell and half-wild, tomboyish Lyanna Stark.

At least, that is what Rhaenys surmises, looking back upon what she remembers of her second stepmother - which is more than what she remembers of her mother or of Jaehaera's. They had died in such quick succession when she was so young that Rhaenys had not known there were other colours for clothes than black until after Queen Cersei had married the king.

To her credit, Queen Cersei had not been cruel. She had seen little threat in two half-Dornish children and a brown haired girl. She had not been as lavish in her care as Lyanna had been - in later years, Rhaenys had found lists upon lists of purchases the girl-queen had made for her stepchildren, while Queen Cersei had given them little more than the clothes, food and lessons they were due to recieve as the king's children. But they had never starved, nor had they gone cold or lacked for anything save love. 

Queen Cersei had not loved them - but then their own father had not loved them either. The only people who had ever loved them were each other.

It had been nothing they were not accustomed to, and at least things had run more smoothly with a queen in charge.

In the year that the king had clung to his tragic widowhood, the court had ground to a halt and the children's nurse had been forced to appeal directly to the king for their needs. The new queen had been meticulous in ensuring that such needs were met before her husband was reminded of the children his previous wives had given him. The king had been happy to forget Rhaenys and Egg, though he had still visited Jaehaera once a week. Her head no longer bled when he crowned her with blue roses. 

And so very little had changed for them in the nursery during the first year that Cersei Lannister reigned as queen.

There had been banquets and feasts and tourneys, which they had sometimes been allowed to spy on by their nurse. More frequently, and less enjoyably, they had been trotted out for people to gawk at the king's children.

This had been a new experience, for Rhaenys and Egg's mother had died before she had been queen long enough to hold feasts, and Jaehaera's mother had not cared to hold them. Queen Cersei had been determined to be remembered above the other queens however, and so every few moons they had been shoved into gowns of red or black to blink at the lights of the hall and crowd together away from the adults who stared at them.

Lessons had begun for Rhaenys that year as well - Rhaenys was four, and Queen Cersei had refused to have it said that she neglected the education of a child under her care. So three days a week, Rhaenys had been taken to Maester Pycelle, who had started to teach her numbers and letters and the banners of the houses. 

This had all been outside of the nursery, however.

Inside the nursery, Jaehaera had learned to walk, and said her first word - 'ae', which led to several decades of arguments between Rhaenys and Egg about which of their names she had been trying to say. 

By the time Queen Cersei had entered confinement, Egg had joined Rhaenys in lessons and Jaehaera had learned that throwing a tantrum when left alone in the nursery gained her nothing more than a sharp slap from her nurse. 

They had all been quite ready for their next stepmother to leave them, for none of them had liked her and had known she disliked them or at least found then tiresome. None of them had known then that confinement was meant to be the beginning and not the end of a life. For them, confinement had meant a new baby in the nursery and a body on a pyre and ashes in Rhaenys' lungs. 

So they were, all three of them, quite surprised when the new baby was put in Jaehaera's old cradle and its mother had followed to sit proudly beside it. 

Rhaenys had just learned the story of the Others from Jaehaera's nurse and told it to her younger brother and sister while they had waited for the new baby and wondered if their old black clothes would still fit. In hindsight it had been a bad choice, for Jaehaera had thought that the queen had become an Other and gone into terrified hysterics that drew the king's attention to her rather than his new child. 

He had shoved Rhaenys aside where she was rocking Jaehaera back and forth, sweeping her up onto his hip and shushing her awkwardly while Queen Cersei had glared from her place beside the cradle. Thankfully, Jaehaera had been too busy sobbing to explain the reason for her tears - if she had, Rhaenys had been certain the king would have shouted at her again.

She had not known then why the king was by turns apathetic and cruel, for she had only been five. It was all she had known, all Egg had ever known, but not all Jaehaera had ever known - Jaehaera knew his love, and even then had envied her siblings his dislike. 

They had all envied the new baby at first. 

Visenya had been the only one of the king's four children to have a living mother as well as a distant father. The queen had not been present very often but she had been alive and she had been there, which was infinities more than her elder siblings could ever dream of.

Their youngest sister was not forced to know her mother through lullabies and half-remembered stories and ash in Rhaenys' lungs. She knew more than her name and the way she died - she had known her face and her voice and the sound of her footsteps. 

Now, Rhaenys feels hot with shame whenever she thinks of their attitude to Visenya when she was a new baby. 

None of them had hurt her, but neither Jaehaera nor Egg had cared much for a little squirming thing that cried and made funny smells and disrupted the little sanctuary that was the nursery. Had Rhaenys made the effort to love Visenya as she had Jaehaera, they would have followed her. They had always followed her. 

But she had not and so they had not.

She had been five, with her little heart already wounded and her eyes already guarded. She had been mother and father and sister to both Egg and Jaehaera. 

What need had Visenya of her, she had thought then. Visenya had a mother as none of them did - Visenya did not need Rhaenys as Egg and Jaehaera did. Visenya had something none of them did, something none of them could ever have. 

Rhaenys had, she is now ashamed to remember, hated her sister. The others had followed her as they always did.

And so, clear lines had been drawn in the nursery. The cradle on one side with Visenya daughter of Queen Cersei, and three beds along the other with three motherless children. 

They had played together and slept all curled up in Rhaenys' bed and their nurses had traded the three about as easily as breathing. 

Meanwhile, across the room, Visenya had learned to lift her head, and then sit up, and then to crawl. When Rhaenys had bothered to notice her, she had always been watching them as if she had known even then that they hated her. 

Perhaps she had. Babies are clever that way. 

It had gotten worse when her hair came in - bright gold, the closest that any of Rhaegar's children had come to looking like their father. And then her eyes had gained their colour, one turning green and one purple, the same shade as the jewels her mother wore so often. 

Cersei Lannister had gloried in her triumph and brought her daughter with her wherever she could. 

Years later, Rhaenys understands that the queen must have been the subject of some scorn when it took her a full year to concieve after both of the king's previous wives gave birth almost exactly nine moons after marriage. Then of course, she had only been bitterly jealous of Visenya to have a mother who seemed to love her.

So she had kept her distance as the youngest child of the king had learned to crawl, and to walk, and to say 'mamamamama', all on her own. As the queen's tummy had grown again, and she grew more and more arrogant with the ease of her second pregnancy.

Rhaenys never quite knows if what she remembers of that night is true. Neither Egg not Jaehaera had been awake, nor had they been old enough to remember. 

But she thinks she recalls lying awake in the night, eyes staring blankly at nothing as she had listened to screams and shouts, and things breaking. Not in the nursery, but several doors away. In the king's rooms, or perhaps the queen's. 

Whether it was true or not does not really matter after all - everyone knows that the beginning of Rhaegar Targaryen's deterioration was the loss of Cersei Lannister's son.

(Rhaenys knows the truth. That baby had nothing to do with it. Her father was as rotten as the man who had sired him. Look at what he had done to her mother.)

In the morning, the queen had come into the nursery red eyed, limping slightly, her hair in disarray about her shoulders and her tummy oddly deflated beneath her loose robe. She had ignored Rhaenys, Aegon and Jaehaera as she was wont to do and made straight for Visenya as she always did. 

Visenya had been asleep in her bed, having been moved there to free the cradle for the coming baby, but had woken as her mother caressed her cheek and beamed up at her.

"You should have been a boy." The queen had said softly. "My son should have been first and you should have died last night. What use does the king have for yet another deadweight daughter?"

And she had turned and left the room, still limping, leaving a trail of blood behind her. 

Staring at the blood, Rhaenys had not moved for a long time. Neither Egg not Jaehaera had woken when the queen entered the room and they had not heard her wish her daughter dead. But Rhaenys had. 

That is one memory she does not doubt. It is as crystal clear as the day it was made, limmed in shock and horror. 

It was, privately, the day Rhaenys started to grow up. She had always known that the king did not love his children, but she had believed that mothers loved their children. She had thought that the love of a mother was something powerful and divine, that Elia and Lyanna were watching over their children. And she had just watched a mother tell her toddling baby that she should have died. 

She had been wrong. 

Rhaenys had been used to being wrong in the maester's lessons. She had been used to getting her stitches or prayers wrong. She had been used to never being right around the king or queen. But she had never been wrong about something like this before. She had not realised that Visenya had no one to love her. She had thought that Visenya's mother loved her. She had been wrong. 

It was then that Rhaenys had slipped from her bed and padded across the unspoken line to where little Visenya was sitting up, sucking her thumb placidly. 

Visenya had not known her mother did not love her and the king did not think of her. Or perhaps she had, and she had known that Rhaenys, Egg and Jaehaera did not love her either. Perhaps she had been terribly alone with no one to love her in the whole world. Perhaps that was why she cried so much at night. 

Rhaenys had sat down on the edge of the bed and wrapped her arms about her youngest sister. The toddler had gone very still and stiff and silent. Then she had curled into Rhaenys' lap and gone back to sleep. 

She had been heavy, Rhaenys remembers. Heavier than she had looked. It was the first time she had held Visenya. She had held her for a long time, rocking her back and forth, memorising her weight and the clean baby smell and the colour of her golden hair. 

There was no one to love Visenya. The king didn't. The queen wouldn't. So Rhaenys had decided on that quiet morning to love her enough to make up for the whole world, just as she had for Egg and Jaehaera.

They had followed her, as they always did. Visenya had become theirs as Jaehaera once had. She hadn't looked anything like them, but that hadn't mattered. They had loved her anyway. 

Her second word had been 'Rhae'. Rhaenys, six years old and full of invisible scars, had swallowed down the guilt and loved her newest sister harder to make up for hating her. It hadn't made up for it, and it never would.

But time passed and it got better. Visenya seemed to forget she had ever watched from her lonely corner as they loved each other enough to make up for the world. Now they loved Visenya that much too. They had slowed their games for her and held her hands as she toddled about, and Jaehaera had kept her company when Egg and Rhaenys went to their lessons. 

What Rhaenys remembers of the next two years is rather like what she imagines the Red Keep had been like under her grandfather. The king had not been burning anyone alive, or being particularly cruel. In fact, he was being hailed as the next Conciliator, or so Pycelle had told her during one of her lessons. He had then needed to explain who the Conciliator was, which had perhaps detracted from his point. 

But Rhaenys remembers a growing tension between the king and queen. The cradle had been removed from the royal nursery, because for the first time in Rhaenys' life there was no baby there. Visenya had been put into a new bed to make space for the baby that had never lived, and it had been deemed pointless to move her back when she was already speaking. 

At night, all four of them had learned to close their ears to the shouts sounding from the king's rooms three doors down the corridor or the queen's two doors down. Visenya and Jaehaera had cried at first, but Rhaenys hadn't cried since her Mama died and the others soon followed her example. They had all slept in her bed on shouting nights, something that was given up in later years when there were too many of them to fit into one bed.

Sometimes the shouts had died down into nothing, but sometimes they had turned into screams. The others had usually been asleep by then, and Rhaenys had lain awake and wondered if her mother had ever sounded like that. 

The few times she recalls the queen entering the nursery after the loss of her son, her collars were high and her sleeves were long. Rhaenys, all of seven years old, had thought little of it. Now, she can look back and wonder what was hiding beneath the fabric, and wonder if there were bruises to match the scratches on the king's face when he visited the nursery.

She can wonder if the king thought it was worth it when the queen announced her pregnancy two years after the last. At seven, Rhaenys had been judged old enough to stand in the gallery and watch court take place - she had watched the satisfied look on the king's face as he proclaimed that his queen was with child, and she had watched the dark look on the queen's face that she had struggled to cover with a smile. 

She can remember the tourney thrown to celebrate it. It had been fine and grand, and all four of the king's children had been allowed to attend. Rhaenys and Egg had been dressed by the queen in the fiery yellows and oranges of their mother's house, Jaehaera in the grey and white of her mother's house, and Visenya in the red of House Targaryen. 

Egg had complained the whole time, she remembers. He had just been breeched and had hated wearing trousers as much as he grew to hate his father. 

Her clearest memory of that tourney though, is the king winning the joust and crowning the Queen of Love and Beauty. It had been the queen of course - and the crown had been woven of winter roses. If she closes her eyes now, she can still see the green fire that had flashed in the queen's eyes when she saw the king carrying that garland.

The shouting had died down after the queen concieved, Rhaenys remembers. It had been replaced by a silence almost more unsettling, and doors locked shut at night. She had still had all of her siblings sleep in her bed with her. She had begun to sleep better if she knew they were safely beside her. 

Rhaenys had been eight when the queen went into her confinement. Old enough to know what was happening behind the door, and no longer young enough to think it meant death. Or at least, not certain death. It had meant death for her mother and Jaehaera's.

But the queen had lived, again. The cradle had been put back into the nursery with another warm, wriggling bundle. 

This time, however, Rhaenys had known that there was no mother or father to love it. She had loved Rhaella with her whole heart as she loved Egg and Jaehaera and Visenya. They had loved her too, the sweet, quiet baby that brought the familiar cradle back into the nursery. 

She had been tiny, smaller than the king's forearm the only time he held her. Tiny, and pretty, achingly pretty. Rhaenys hasn't seen such a pretty baby since. Porcelain perfect, with big eyes as blue as the sky. Those eyes haunt her dreams sometimes.

Rhaenys remembers little else about Rhaella. She had been quiet and colicky, and prone to hiccuping weakly in the night rather than screaming. Sometimes, if Rhaenys awoke before the wet nurse, she would pick Rhaella up and rock her back to sleep. 

Yes, she remembers that. The weight of her tiny sister in her arms, the little bubbling sounds she used to make. The soft, warm, baby scent of her. The promises Rhaenys would make to her in the dead of night when no one else could hear - to love her, to protect her, to keep her happy and whole. 

They were the same promises she had whispered to her siblings when they were asleep, and the same promises she would whisper to future siblings. The same promises she whispers to her own children. 

She had done her best to keep them, showering Rhaella with enough love to make up for her absent father and ever crueller mother. Their other siblings had helped, and Rhaella had spent that first year of life laughing whenever they could manage it. 

By the time the queen was pregnant again (and the shouts died down again), Rhaella was walking, toddling on stubby legs from one sibling to another and babbling their names. She had never learned any other words - not to call for her father or her mother, or even to say no. Only four words to span a whole life.

Some fever had spread through the Red Keep, a common one that bothered only the very old and very young. All five of the king's children had been confined to bed, coughing and miserable. 

Rhaenys remembers very little of that illness, as she remembers little of the myriad other childhood illnesses that one cannot escape. But she remembers when she finally awoke from the dreamy, feverish state that had taken her to find the cradle empty. It had been the first time she had cried since her mother's death, and the first time she had lost one of the children nestled so deeply into her heart.

It was not the last. 

They had taken the cradle out of the nursery a week after Rhaella's death, or something like that. She had not counted the days. It had been left for the coming child, but the queen had lost it in a welter of blood and rage and there had been no more use for a cradle. 

For a time there had only been silence in the royal apartments and all the children had slept huddled together in the same bed. None of them had cried after the first shock, but even decades later they sometimes dream of quiet, tiny Rhaella and her wide blue eyes. 

At the time, Rhaenys did not know quite how long it was from the fight after the queen lost her child to when the shouts resumed. Now, she imagines it must have been precisely six weeks if the Citadel's rulings did not change between her childhood and the birth of her own children.

She remembers the queen's last pregnancy as eerily quiet. No shouts. No screams. Not even slamming doors. Just silence. They had all enjoyed the peace then, but now she looks back and wonders if she just thinks it was watchful because she knows what the king was capable of later. 

Perhaps the silence was merely because the queen was so drained by the pregnancy. Perhaps she was just tired. Rhaenys and Egg and Jaehaera and Visenya were all tired from the constant shouting at night. Perhaps everything Rhaenys thinks was ominous in hindsight is simply paranoia forged from all those years in the king's court.

Regardless, she had turned ten a moon before the child was due. The celebration had been quiet in deference to the queen's delicate condition, or perhaps because the king had disliked spending too much money on Elia Martell's daughter. 

She had recieved trinkets from various nobles, a ring with the motto of the Silent Sisters from the king, a second helping of cake from the queen (who had monitored all the girls' portions to prevent them gaining too much weight), extravagant silks from her mother's family and several unidentifiable items from her siblings worth more than all the rest put together. The queen had graciously allowed her to put the silks from her mother's family aside for use when she was older, and Rhaenys had only been half certain that they would have been used for the queen's gown by that time. 

It had been a useless speculation, as it turned out. The children had gone to sleep and woken up to the cradle full and the queen's bed empty. Cersei Lannister had given the king a son at last. 

Rhaenys does not think she even attempted to mourn her second stepmother. Perhaps she had squeezed out a few tears for Visenya's sake, but if she managed to then she does not remember it. None of them had cared much - three of them were motherless already, and Visenya only remembered their love. 

Perhaps it was unkind to the dead queen, but then she had never been kind to them. She had fed and clothed them, but she had also fed and clothed the servants who kept the keep running. The children had been reminders that she was third to Elia Martell, second to Lyanna Stark and had not given the king a son. If she had never been outright cruel, she had never given them a kind word either. 

They all had all worn black for her funeral, but it had been so long that not even Visenya had been able to wear the gown Rhaenys had worn for Lyanna Stark's. Each of them had been given new gowns, or tunic and breeches in Egg's case. Perhaps Daemon, the son Cersei Lannister had died cursing, was wrapped in the same black swaddlings that Jaehaera was seven years ago. Rhaenys cannot remember.

She remembers that she had held Daemon instead of the wet nurse, and he had been heavy and solid and slept the whole time. Egg had held Visenya's hand to comfort her, though Visenya had not needed much comforting. Jaehaera had held Visenya's other hand, and they had all made what must have been a tragic picture - five motherless children in black.

Perhaps the king had spoiled the image, for he had engaged in none of the hysterics that she dimly remembers at Lyanna Stark's funeral. He had looked more relieved than mournful, if appropriately solemn. She does remember weeping though. It had been the dead queen's brother, she thinks, the handsome one, sobbing into his red-headed wife's shoulder. 

Perhaps it had not been the king's lack of tears that had spoiled the image, but his words. Even as Cersei Lannister's ashes were blown about on the wind, he had announced his intent to seek his next bride from the Free Cities, to strengthen alliances that had long been weakening. 

Rhaenys had ignored the ensuing near-fight over the pyre of her stepmother, as Lord Tywin threw the pin of the Hand at the king's feet and stormed away. Instead, she had breathed in once, deeply. The ashes had caught in her throat as she did not remember her mother's catching, or Lyanna's. Perhaps it had been her imagination, but the smoke had seemed sharper and more bitter.

She had held in the cough that wanted to break free and resigned herself to keeping Queen Cersei in the same place she kept her mother and Jaehaera' - the queen had not loved Visenya, but perhaps she would have loved Daemon and for Daemon's sake Rhaenys had resolved to remember only what good she knew of Queen Cersei.

It had been pointless, in the end. 

Daemon had died two nights later. She cannot remember him being ill or frail as Rhaella had been. All she remembers is kissing him goodnight, and waking the next morning to find the wet nurse screaming. The king had had the wet nurse's head, but it hadn't brought Daemon back. 

When they had realised that he was dead, and the wet nurse was not merely having hysterics, Rhaenys had slipped away to the chamber pot and stuck two fingers down her throat. She had imagined that the bile that came up purged the place where she had tucked Queen Cersei beside her mother and Lyanna.

There had been no use keeping the queen hidden in her heart, not without Daemon to share her with. Visenya would never need it in the same way, and Rhaenys had not wanted to carry Cersei Lannister with her. She had felt cleaner without the king's third wife.

They had wept for Daemon as they had not for his mother. Rhaenys had wondered then if it made them wicked - they had known Daemon less than two weeks, and the queen the better part of six years. Even years later she does not know the answer.

Rather than ponder it until it drove her mad, she had thrown herself into her lessons. All four of the king's children had reached the age for them by then, and rather than have Pycelle teach them all the queen had engaged three governesses and a tutor for Egg. 

The governess she had chosen for Rhaenys was from the Marches between Dorne and the Stormlands. Mara Selmy had been young and clever and strict, and less virulently anti-Dornish than the queen had no doubt assumed she would be. Mara is one of her ladies-in-waiting now, decades later and one of her dearest companions.

But Mara then had been not a friend but an adult in charge of her. She had brought Rhaenys often to watch court or the Small Council in session, and Rhaenys had learned more about politics from watching than from even Mara's lectures. They had needed to be very quiet when watching the Small Council though, for only Mara's uncle Ser Barristan had known that they would be watching. Rhaenys can still find the tunnels they had hidden in if she looks hard enough. 

She had learned that the king was very different in public than he was in private. She had learned that his new Hand Jon Connington's eyes followed him everywhere. She had learned that only Lys, Pentos or Braavos were willing to give a bride to the king of Westeros, and that Volantis had simply laughed the envoys away. 

She had learned that the king did remember Elia Martell's children existed, and that he was determined for a son to supplant Egg. She had learned that he had plans for Jaehaera's marriage and for Visenya's, but none for hers. She had learned the way he spoke to the council of his future bride. She had watched and waited and brought it all back to the nursery to share with her siblings. 

And so they had known when the king settled on Elerei Ormollon of Lys, and they had known the trade of foodstuffs and luxury goods that was made for her as if she were a horse or a cow. Only Rhaenys had known the word 'whore' then. 

She had been ten, and Mara had judged her old enough to assist with preparations. The ladies of the court had been kind to a motherless girl for the most part, teaching her how to plan feasts and tourneys and embroider banners in the large solars set aside for socialising. It had been mostly Lady Velaryon who ran the court then, but she had taken Rhaenys under her wing, perhaps knowing even then where the king's obsession was likely to lead them.

It had been the first taste Rhaenys had of any kind of power, and she had loved it. She had taken charge of dressing herself and her siblings and Lady Velaryon had allowed her with little more than an amused smile. And she had been allowed to help with seating plans and menus and arranging accommodations for the many nobles streaming into the capital to celebrate the royal wedding. 

When Rhaenys had asked how the treasury could take a third royal wedding in ten years, Lady Velaryon had not laughed at her but had shown her the budget the king had allowed her. "This is what our Master of Coin says we can afford for the celebrations and this is what we need to spend - we have compromised halfway, and so the crown will be borrowing two thousand dragons from the Iron Bank. You are right, princess, that it is a strain the treasury cannot afford, but we have little choice if we do not wish to shame your kingly father in front of the Free Cities."

Rhaenys had bitten back her instinctive retort, that she would be more than happy for the king to be shamed in front of all of Essos. She had known that such sentiments were dangerously close to treason before Lyanna Stark had died. 

Lady Velaryon had also allowed Rhaenys to welcome some of the guests, once Rhaenys had proven herself capable of projecting the remote dignity required of the royal family in public. It had allowed Rhaenys to meet the most important nobles in the realm, which Mara and Lady Velaryon had agreed was a good thing. They both had seemed to assume that Rhaenys would marry Egg when they had grown up, and that she would become queen. Rhaenys had known even then that it was a foolish thought, but had said nothing. She had liked meeting new people. 

The best part had been when she had met her mother's family. She had recognised the sun and spear banners, and even now she remembers the thrill that had run through her body as she had realised who was riding in through the gate. The men who had dismounted had been unfamiliar to her, but she had recognised the dark curls, the bronzed skin and the black eyes and the nose. She had seen them every day on Aegon. 

She had dipped into a curtsey and bid them welcome to the Red Keep. And her uncles and aunt had bowed back. Her eldest uncle and his wife had kissed her brow and told her she looked like her mother. Her younger uncle had embraced her and lamented how long it had been. 

They had sent Rhaenys and her brother extravagant gifts and long letters for every nameday, but she had not seen them since her mother's death and had not remembered their faces. They had refused to attend the king's wedding to Lyanna Stark for the insult it offered their sister, and they had not been invited to the king's wedding to Cersei Lannister. It had taken a third marriage for them to return to King's Landing, but they had seemed truly eager to know their sister's children. 

She thinks they had visited the nursery every day that they remained in the Red Keep, and had brought gifts nearly every time they had visited. The first few times, the gifts had been only for Rhaenys and Aegon, but their uncles had quickly understood that what Rhaenys and Aegon had was also Jaehaera's and Visenya's. 

Her younger sisters had been glad of the gifts and games and affection lavished upon them by the Martells. The Starks had not left the North since Lyanna's death, and the Lannisters did what was proper and not a whit more. None of them had ever been loved by anyone who was not a sibling, and they had revelled in it like the first cool breeze after a hot summer.

Rhaenys had not joined in with the games and the shouting, having been deemed old enough to be a lady by Mara. She had sat to the side of the nursery and embroidered while her younger uncle tossed Visenya into the air until she was dizzy and shrieking with laughter. 

Sometimes she had talked with Prince Doran, who was kind and very wise and had never made her feel small and silly as Pycelle had been wont to do. But he had visited less often than Prince Oberyn, being the elder and far busier. So mostly she had watched and smiled, and when Prince Oberyn needed a break they would sit together and he told her fantastical stories about his adventures.

It had been very strange to the loveless children to find people who cared for them. The princes were not even blood kin to Jaehaera or Visenya. But they had been kind. Rhaenys would have loved her uncles for that alone.

When the day of the wedding had come, Rhaenys and her siblings had all been in the front row of the great Sept of Baelor. Rhaenys had begged Lady Velaryon to allow her to arrange what order she and her siblings sat in, and Lady Velaryon had agreed. Lady Velaryon had often agreed with whatever Rhaenys asked, looking wistful as if Rhaenys had reminded her of someone. It had taken Rhaenys many years to realise that the someone in question had been her mother.

But it had meant that Rhaenys had not been sitting beside the king, nor had Aegon. She had placed Jaehaera beside the king, then Rhaenys herself (whom he had ignored rather than actively hated), then Visenya and then their brother. 

Rhaenys had dressed them all in black and red, with the fashionable but uncomfortable standing collars and wide skirts, even Visenya who had complained that being the youngest should have gotten her out of some things. She had thanked the Seven that Aegon had grown up enough to no longer complain about wearing trousers after her fight with Visenya. 

She had given Jaehaera a blue rose to tuck behind her ear. Unlike the ones the king had always been wont to give her, it had been thornless and had not added to her garland of silvery scars. The king had not been so close to all of them for so long ever. She had wanted to keep him in a good mood, so that he would not shout at her or Aegon - or worse, Visenya. Visenya had been the only one who had still cried when he shouted.

It had worked, though Jaehaera had seemed deeply uncomfortable. The king had never stared at her for long, not even just after Lyanna's death. He had stared for so long that he had almost missed the bride's entrance. 

No one had yet seen the woman who would be the new queen of Westeros. Her ship had arrived two weeks before the wedding, but she had not left it and all her preparations had taken place on the ship. Lady Velaryon had visited her to approve her wedding gown but had only shaken her head disapprovingly when Rhaenys had asked her what Lady Elerei was like. 

When she thinks back now, Rhaenys is never entirely sure if her mental picture of Elerei Ormollon on her wedding day is accurate. It has been years, and her memory is no doubt tainted with everything that happened afterwards. 

But what she remembers, however falsely, is this - Lady Elenei had been pale, nearly as white as her gown, and so small. She had almost visibly shrunk beneath the scrutiny of so many unknown, foreign eyes. Her hair had been pale gold, streaming down her back almost to the floor. It had looked as if she had been drowning in it, only her white face peeking out from between the strands with its huge blue eyes almost swallowing the rest of it. 

Rhaenys had been only ten at the time, and had thought her fourteen year old stepmother very lovely and grown up despite her pallor and shyness. Now she looks back and shudders. 

Poor Elerei had been so pale and frightened that she had barely been able to repeat her vows, and her face had blanched white when the king had kissed her. She had barely been able to summon a smile when the sept cheered for her, and shouted her name. 

She was Queen Elerei Ormollon of the House Targaryen, and she did not know then that it would kill her. Or perhaps she had. Perhaps that was why she had been so pale and quiet on her wedding day. Perhaps she had already heard the whispers running wild in the court and the city - whispers that the king must have been cursed to have lost three wives to childbed so quickly, whispers that he had killed his last wife for a son that did not live, and darker, crueller whispers about Elerei herself. 

Rhaenys had been a child, and Aegon younger, but they had heard the whispers. They had been muted at the wedding feast, when poor Elerei barely forced anything past her colourless lips, but they had only grown as time passed. It had been from the whispers that her younger siblings had learnt the word 'whore'. 

The new queen had been only too glad to let Lady Velaryon continue running the Red Keep, for she had been young and homesick and afraid and had known little of Westerosi ways. She had spent much time in the nursery with her stepchildren, and her shy, quiet presence had eased the ache left after the Martells had departed.

They had all liked Elerei, who could tell marvellous stories when she could be prevailed upon to speak. She had grown accustomed to curl up on the window seat in the afternoon sun while Aegon, Jaehaera and Visenya sat on the floor before her in a row. Rhaenys would sit beside her and braid her hair in the Westerosi fashion, and Elerei would weave them a story so vivid it had seemed to come to life before their very eyes. It was the only time they had ever seen her eyes bright and hands gesturing excitedly. 

Elerei had even smiled sometimes. They had been beautiful smiles, slightly too wide for her narrow face, and sending her blue eyes dancing. But like the rest of her, her smiles had slowly paled and diminished beneath the weight of the whispers that had raced about court. 

'Whore queen' they had called her, and 'Saera's bastard' and worse. They had sneered when she had worn Lyseni fashion, and jeered when she had thrown it out and dressed like a Westerosi. They had sniggered at her accent, and whispered about Lyseni proclivities. Knights and squires had leered openly at her as she passed, and her husband had done nothing. When her pregnancy was announced, the people had clapped and wished her well to her face, and behind muffling hands had wondered whether the child was truly the king's. 

Elerei had retreated to the nursery more and more as the child within her grew, and they had struggled to tease out even the slightest hint of a smile. She had wept more than she had spoken, or been silent. The king had not come to visit her since her pregnancy was confirmed, she had whispered to Rhaenys once. He had visited her every night, and however she disliked his visits she had at least not been alone. 

Rhaenys, newly eleven and instated in a room across the corridor from the nursery in deference to her coming flowering, had not known what to do. She had only been able to wrap her arms about Elerei as she wept, and if the shoulder of her gown bore damp patches from her stepmother's tears neither of them ever told.

In those later months, she had added the queen's chambers to her usual midnight rotation - as she grew, her sleep became more interrupted. She had fallen into the habit of crossing to the nursery whenever she awoke so that she could see her sleeping siblings. It had not been difficult to persuade the Kingsguard to allow her to see the queen at such times when they were so accustomed to opening the nursery for her.

And so sometimes she had found Elerei awake, weeping silently into her pillow or simply staring at the canopy above her. On such occasions, Rhaenys had slipped into the bed beside her stepmother and held her as she wept, much as she always had for her siblings. Elerei had often cried herself to sleep, and then Rhaenys had laid her down and slipped from the room to sleep herself. Sometimes Rhaenys fell asleep before she left for her own rooms, and woke curled together with Elerei.

Neither of them had ever spoken when this happened, save once. Elerei had asked her to promise to stop visiting her at night after the baby was born. It had taken Rhaenys only a moment to understand why her stepmother asked this, but she had not promised, remembering Queen Cersei's last years in these rooms. 

And so, time had passed. When Elerei had reached her time for confinement, Rhaenys had been judged old enough to accompany her. She had been expected to flower within the next few years, and so had needed to grow accustomed to childbirth. Elerei had managed a smile when Rhaenys told her she would accompany her. They had sat and sewed together, or Rhaenys had read to her, or they had done each other's hair, or simply slept beside each other, and it had been little more than a week when Elerei's time came. 

Years have passed since then, but Rhaenys can still only recall disjointed snippets. She remembers the sharp tang of blood and herbs, the sound of Elerei crying, the crush of her stepmother's hand on hers, and little more. Her only clear memory is of Elerei turning to her in a break between pains, eyes clear and full of a resolve Rhaenys had never seen in them before. "I can't do this again, Rhae." She had said. "I won't."

And then the baby had been born. The king had come to the door upon hearing its cry and asked a muffled question. Rhaenys, closer to the door than Elerei, had heard Lady Velaryon tell him, 'a daughter your Grace, strong and beautiful." The king had shut the door and walked away. 

Elerei's baby had joined her siblings in the nursery, sleeping in the same cradle as they all once had. Her father did not name her and told her mother only to give her a Valyrian name. So she was named Rhaena, and her namesake held her close and promised her mother to love her as she did all of her other siblings. 

Unlike her elder siblings, Rhaena's mother had loved her. Elerei had been still four and ten then, looking small and shrunken indeed after she had grown so much with Rhaena. She declared to Rhaenys that Rhaena would be her only child and had lavished on her all of the love that the rest of them had only ever dreamed about. 

Seven years before, Rhaenys had resented Visenya for what she had thought was a mother's love. At two and ten, she had been older and wiser and had loved Rhaena no less for being loved more. None of them had, for Elerei had loved them all - albeit more as a playmate than a mother. 

For six weeks after Rhaena's birth, Rhaenys had continued to visit the queen at night whenever she had visited the nursery. Despite Elerei's protests, she had known well that the king would not appear a moment before Pycelle judged the queen fit to resume her marital duties. She had seen him with Queen Cersei and knew that if Elerei irritated him less, he loved her no more. 

In the end, the king had proved her right. Six weeks to the day after Rhaena's birth, Rhaenys had found a second Kingsguard at the queen's door and had heard Elerei's voice raised for the first time. She had turned back to the nursery, unable to bear the thought of returning to her own room.

Rhaena had been woken by the shouts, and had been crying as loudly as her mother. There had been nothing she could do to comfort Elerei, but she had been able to sing lullabies to Rhaena and pace the darkened nursery until the baby was asleep again. She had brought her over to Aegon's bed, where Jaehaera and Visenya were huddled against their brother. None of them had slept that night, not until they had heard the queen's door slam, and the king's footsteps recede down the hall. 

Then Rhaenys had slipped from the silent huddle and placed Rhaena back into her cradle. She and Aegon had each taken a sister and tucked her into bed with lullabies and stories, and then she had left Aegon to watch over the nursery.

Ser Arthur had been a friend of her mother, years ago, and he had always had a soft spot for Rhaenys for the same reason that hardened the king's against her. He had let her into the queen's chambers without much of an argument, only warning her to be quiet lest the king hear the door or the sound of voices.

She had found Elerei still crying, silently by then, her eyes red and her nightgown still in disarray. Rhaenys had tucked her into bed much as she had her siblings, and then taken her stepmother's hand and sung the Lyseni lullabies Elerei had sung to her daughter. When the queen was asleep, she had left and Ser Gerold had let her into her own chambers with only a scolding look. He and the rest of the Kingsguard had long given up on attempting to stop the midnight wanderings of the eldest princess.

And so it had gone for three long moons. The king had visited Elerei every night that she was not bleeding, and Rhaenys had spent those nights in the nursery or the queen's chambers after the king had left. The shouts had never been as loud as they had been when the queen had been Cersei Lannister, and within a moon Elerei had stopped shouting. She had just cried. Eventually, even that had stopped in favour of silent tears that leaked into her pillow until Rhaenys sang her to sleep.

She had not left the royal apartments for a full moon and a half by the time that the king had announced her second pregnancy. As soon as she was allowed, she had practically run from the throne room to the nursery. There, away from the prying eyes of the court, she had wept into Rhaenys' shoulder.

"I cannot do it again." She had repeated, over and over. "I cannot, I cannot." Rhaenys had not been able to do anything but hold her and rock her back and forth like a child. 

Over the next four moons, Elerei had grown smaller and sadder and quieter and nothing they did could stop it. She had spent her days in the nursery and her nights weeping into Rhaenys' arms. She had dismissed all of her ladies-in-waiting, so it was just her, Rhaenys, Aegon, Jaehaera, Visenya and Rhaena in the nursery. 

The king came only rarely, and then only to see Jaehaera. Even then, he had taken more and more to sending for her and taking her to sit in on council sessions, or on long rides in the Kingswood, or to the library. Every time that he had sent for Jaehaera she had come back with a crown of blue roses and more scratches to add to the silvery garland about her head. In nine years the king had never learned to clip off the thorns and he never would.

At the time those four moons had seemed dark and terrible indeed, but oh how she treasures the memory of them now. 

Elerei had cut her hair one day, and glared at the children's nurses, daring them to say anything about the uneven shoulder length strands. "The king won't see me for moons." She had whispered, the way she had whispered everything in those last moons. "It has time to grow back out."

And so she had grown thinner and quieter and sadder as her belly had swelled bigger. One night, she had slipped into Rhaenys' bed, waking her up. 

It was the only time she had ever come to Rhaenys instead of lying, weeping, in the dark and waiting for Rhaenys to wake up in the early hours of the morning. She was crying, Rhaenys remembers, but so quietly that it had seemed almost an afterthought. 

"The baby is kicking." She had whispered, shuddering, and then said nothing else except, "I'm sorry." 

By then, they had all grown used to Elerei's silence, and Rhaenys had thought nothing of it. She had simply rolled over and held her stepmother as if she was Jaehaera, and had sung 'In Mother Rhoyne's Cradle' until she fell asleep in the middle of the seventh verse. 

When she had woken the next morning, the bed had been empty. She had thought little of it, and had allowed her lady's maid to ready her for the day in a purple dress that brought out the faint hints of a similar colour in her eyes. She still has that dress, though it no longer fits her. It had been a gift from Elerei.

Heedless, she had crossed the corridor to the nursery and taken breakfast with her siblings. Rhaena had been fussy, she remembers. Perhaps she had sensed what had happened, or perhaps she had simply seen the despised pears on the table. She was most likely too young to know.

They had been halfway through their meal when someone had screamed in the quen's chambers. It had been a wordless scream, and another followed it, and there was no sound of struggle so Rhaenys had stood and left the nursery. 

She had reached the queen's chambers just as the king did, and had fallen behind to let him throw the door open. 

Inside, a maid had been crouched by the bed, still screaming and weeping. 

Elerei had lain on the bed, her pale face as white as the sheets on which she had lain. There was no rise and fall of her chest, and no flicker of dreams behind her eyelids. Even the child within her was still and unmoving. 

To this day, Rhaenys had no idea how she had left that room and herded her siblings back into the nursery. 

"You don't want to see," she had told them. "Elerei has gone to be with the Seven now, and we mustn't disturb her."

Somehow, Aegon and Jaehaera had wrangled Visenya back into the nursery and Rhaenys had been closing the door when the king's voice had rung out through the empty corridor.

"Damn her!" The king had shouted. "Damn the bitch to the Seven Hells! What gave her the right to take my son with her?" 

Rhaenys had heard him through the open nursery door and so had her other siblings. Little Rhaena had been asleep in Visenya's arms but she had been too young to understand anyway. 

When she tries to pinpoint the moment that pushed her work contrary to the king wherever possible, she cannot ever decide on one. But that moment, when the king had only cared for the sons that died with his wife, had been a driving force. It had been the same for Aegon and her other siblings, or so they had told her years later. None of them had ever loved their sire anymore than he had ever loved them, but the horror of those words had crystallised dislike into hate fo many of them.

Elerei, as a suicide, had not been granted the grace of a royal pyre. The king had flung her body into the sea, but had cut out the twin boys she had been carrying and had burned them in the Targaryen tradition. Then he had notified the Small Council to contact the Free Cities again. 

Curled up on her bed, weeping, Rhaenys had found a square of parchment slipped beneath her pillow in Elerei's miniscule hand. It had been addressed to her, but she had not found the courage to read it for many years. 

She had started to bleed the next day, Rhaenys remembers vaguely. Aegon and Visenya had thought she was dying, and she had not had the will to contradict them. 

It had been Jaehaera who had slipped out of the nursery and sent a guard to fetch Lady Velaryon. Lady Velaryon, Larissa, had come at once and instantly taken Rhaenys under her wing once again. She had informed the king as well, but he had only sent a brief acknowledgement. 

No announcement of betrothal had come that day, or any day after. 

Instead just as they had slipped from 292 into 293, a ship had entered Blackwater Bay and brought with it honey-blonde, purple-eyed Saera - the daughter of a Pentoshi magister, the only man in Essos who had been willing to give up his daughter to be the king's fifth wife in a dozen years. 

Saera had been older than Elerei, well into her twenties, and the decision to wed her to the king had clearly not been hers. The wedding had been quiet and hasty, owing to how scandalously soon it was after the previous queen's death. 

Unlike Elerei, she had shown little interest in her husband's children by his previous wives. She had visited the nursery shortly after the wedding and had been polite, but not overly warm. Instead she had passed responsibility for them to Rhaenys, who had been made one of her ladies-in-waiting by Lady Velaryon's insistence. 

Rhaenys had been more than happy to officially have charge of her brother and sisters, though Aegon and Jaehaera had been given their own chambers by then. She had delighted in arranging - with Lady Velaryon and Mara's willing aid -  trips into the city and the kingswood, new horses, new decorations, and anything else her heart had desired all these years to give to her siblings. 

As long as they kept out of her way, Queen Saera had not much cared what they had done. It had been a stark change from Elerei, but Elerei was dead and Rhaenys had tried not to care too much about it. She had done her due diligence as the queen's lady, and when she roamed the halls at night she had never opened the doors of the queen's chamber. 

She had never heard Saera weep as Elerei had, or at least not that she remembers and so she had persuaded herself that perhaps Queen Saera was happier than Elerei had been. When the queen announced her pregnancy half a year after the wedding, she had smiled and held herself as if she had owned the very air they had breathed. And Rhaenys had wondered if at last the king had found a woman who could survive him. 

Lady Velaryon had not much liked the new queen, but then Lady Velaryon had not much liked any of the queens who had dared to take control of the court out of her hands. 

Rhaenys and her siblings had simply been glad that there had been no shouting at night, or screaming, or weeping. It had meant that the elder three could sleep in their own rooms, rather than cramming into the nursery beds with Visenya and Rhaena. It had grown hard to believe that all of the children in the nursery had once been able to sleep huddled into one bed. 

Even when she thinks back, the time between Saera concieving and her entering confinement seems to have passed in the blink of an eye. Perhaps, with the king in such a good mood, the tension that his children had passed their whole lives under had dissipated somewhat. Or perhaps Rhaenys had merely been growing up.

This time, she had not been the labouring queen's anchor, and had been reduced to handing towels and clothes when they were called for. It was, she had thought then, a rather better position to be in. She remembers more of this birth than she does of Rhaena's, but she still can see only blood and hear only screams. 

It had ended, eventually, as it always does. The queen had slumped back onto her pillows and turned her face away from her squalling daughter. The king had closed the door and walked away. So Lady Velaryon had placed the baby in Rhaenys' arms and that had been that. 

Neither father nor mother had cared for this newest sister, the king's fifth daughter. But that had never been unusual for them. So Rhaenys had, with the queen's permission, named the baby Daena for her defiant squalling at all hours of the day and night. And Rhaenys had drawn her newest sister into her heart and loved her as fiercely as she had every other sibling the Seven had granted her. If no one else in the world would love them, she had determined at two years old that she would love them enough to make up for it.

The queen had set her jaw five weeks after Daena's birth, had her ladies dress her in her most translucent shift, and gone into the king's rooms. The next evening, the king had gone to her rooms. 

Within a moon, Queen Saera was once again with child. Lady Velaryon had tutted and shaken her head at the swiftness of it, and had been proven right. The baby died halfway through the year in a welter of blood and screams. 

The king had not spoken to the queen after the loss, save only to inform her that he would be giving her six weeks to rest before he visited her again. Rhaenys remembered more the terrible look in the queen's eyes as the child had bled out of her. It had been the same look that had been in Queen Cersei's eyes all those years ago when she had told a tiny Visenya that she should have died. 

Rhaenys had retreated to the nursery as soon as the queen dismissed her. Inside it, she and Aegon had arranged their own feast to distracted Jaehaera, Visenya and Rhaena from the screams of rage in the queen's apartments. 

She had kept Daena in her crib beside the table as they ate, and the elder three had taken turns spooning mashed vegetables into her mouth like they were feeding a baby bird. Visenya had been dissuaded from attempting to help them by being set to watch toddling Rhaena's table manners, which had absorbed the nine year old and the three year old nicely. 

It had been a lovely evening, the last for some time. After that, Queen Saera had grown more and more frustrated, and had preferred to take it out upon Rhaenys than upon any of her noble attendants who's families would complain. Rhaenys had been safer, because Saera had known first hand that the king would hardly notice if one of his daughters had died. 

So Rhaenys had scrubbed floors and tied shoes and made beds and endured the queen's taunts and occasional slaps while the other ladies-in-waiting had frowned disapprovingly at the queen's actions. Rhaenys had just wished that this conscience had emerged before they had made Elerei so miserable she had chosen the only way of escape left to her. 

Aegon had been outraged when he had learned what the queen had been doing, but he was only three and ten and had never been officially recognised as heir. He had never had any more power than she had, and they had both known it. All they had been able to do was hide their younger siblings as best they could from the queen's increasingly sour temper.

When the queen's labours had begun with her third child, she had not yet entered confinement. Rhaenys distinctly remembers this because she had not known such a thing could happen. She had asked no questions at the time however, for she had seen the worried looks on the faces of the women about her and the sharp fear in the queen's eyes.

After a full day and a night, the maester had brought in the king and told him that it could come to a choice between the queen and the child she carried. The king had not even looked at his wife, lying wide eyed and afraid on the bloody bed. He had simply chosen the possibility of a son and walked back out. 

Lady Velaryon had drawn in a shaky breath and had sent Rhaenys out of the room, refusing to hear any protest. Even as the door had closed behind her, she had heard Saera screaming and cursing the king and the wet 'snick' of knives cutting through flesh. 

When the screaming had finally ended, they had left Saera's empty body hastily covered by a sheet and presented the king with his new son. Seemingly unaware of any irony, the king named the new child 'Baelon', and sent him to the nursery with his siblings while his mother burned on a lonely cliff's edge and his eldest sister tried to commit Queen Saera of Pentos to memory for her son and daughter

Baelon had not lived long. He had been born too early and the winter air was too cold for his delicate lungs. When Rhaenys had come into the nursery two moons after his birth, he had been blue and cold and still and she had wept bitterly.

The king had given Baelon a prince's pyre and cut off the head of Baelon's wet nurse for failing in her duty. 

That evening, he had sent for Rhaenys. It was the only time he had ever sent for her and so the first time that she had seen his apartments. Jaehaera had never told any of her siblings, out of what she later told Rhaenys was guilt at being so obviously favoured.

Unsurprisingly, the king's chambers had been dark and forbidding. Heavy draperies of black and red had hung over the windows, and the walls had been covered with tapestries of Old Valyria. The king himself had sat by the fireplace, staring into the leaping flames, still wearing the heavy black robes he had worn to burn Baelon. A half-empty carafe of some spirit had sat by his hand.

She had sunk into a curtsey and managed something about being present at the king's pleasure. He had looked at her as if she were a crawling thing with too many legs and beckoned her closer. 

"You look like Elia." He had said, his perfect lips twisting around her mother's name until it had made it an insult. "But you are far lovelier than she was. I imagine that was my doing."

Rhaenys had glared at the floor and prayed he would get to the point soon. He had not. He had gestured to her to sit, and rambled on about her mother and her failings for several long minutes before he had eventually grudgingly admitted that Elia had been the only one to give him a living son. 

"Yes, your grace." She remembers that she had bitten her tongue after that so hard that it had bled.

"Come here." The king had said, gesturing to the floor right before him. "Kneel."

He had grabbed her face and brought it close enough to his that she can still recall the exact pattern of the red veins in his bloodshot eyes and the stink of alcohol on his breath. "Yes, just like Elia. If you weren't so Dornish you might actually be presentable rather than a deadweight like her. I wonder if you would break like she did. She did it so beautifully I almost forgot she was so sickly and ugly. Sometimes I actually miss it, and then I wonder if her little doppelganger would do the same. Do you want to find out?"

"It is your Grace's decision." Rhaenys had managed, still staring into the king's bloodshot eyes and wondering if the Kingsguard would let her out of the room if she ran. 

"Yes it is." The king had smiled, and bent towards her, twirling one dark curl about his pale fingers. He had whispered the next into her ear, never letting go his bruising grip on her chin. "Some days I want to keep you at court for the rest of your life. See if you really are like your mother. And other days I want to marry you to a lord you deserve. Perhaps when Walder Frey's wife dies you can take her place, and we can see if you manage more children than your mother did before you join his other wives in the river. What do you think of that?"

To the end of her days, Rhaenys has no idea how she had managed to leave that terrible room without mortally offending the king in some way. If she truly tries to remember, she has a faint impression of babbling some sort of bootlicking nonsense and backing away while the king's spirit-sodden gaze never left her. 

She had, somehow, made it back to the nursery and Aegon had held her until she had stopped shaking so hard that she feared she would fall apart. The next morning, her jaw had been bruised and sore, but the king had not sent for her again and she had counted herself lucky. 

His words had preyed on her mind, however, and she had wondered if he really would marry her off to Walder Frey. He might, she had known from the time she was a small child that he had hated her. She had been less afraid that he would ever carry out his other threat, but she had wished to risk neither. 

And so, when the court was arranging celebrations for the king's marriage to Lady Agnes Blackwood, Rhaenys had taken the opportunity to slip her mother's family into the guest list. She had not then known enough nobles to pick one who would be able to protect her from king and queen and extend that protection to her siblings. But she had known then that her uncles would know. 

Besides, she had not seen them since the king had married dear, dear Elerei and she had missed them. 

The winds had not been fair that year, and it fell out that the Dornish party did not arrive until the evening before the ceremony. There had only been time for her to greet her uncle Oberyn and have a servant take him to the apartments she had set aside for him. Doran had not come, but had sent her a long letter explaining that he would have attended had it not been for his infirmity. He had sent several lengths of Dornish muslin for her as well, which she had commissioned the seamstresses to make into a gown.

She had worn the gown the next day for the wedding, a lovely thing of draping sleeves and dramatic skirts, kept from scandalous translucency by its several layers. She had cinched the waist in with a golden belt Aegon had gifted her for her fifteenth nameday, and had worn the gold rings and earrings that her sisters had worked together to give her. 

Aegon she had allowed to dress himself, in solemn red and black, but she had dressed her sisters along the same lines as herself. Queen Saera had popularised the Pentoshi robe in her brief time at court, and Rhaenys had known that Lady Agnes would not take offense, for she had seen her wearing several Pentoshi-style gowns. 

So she had commissioned gowns of red silk lined with black, and bought them all a new necklace and set of earrings.

Jaehaera had fought against wearing the necklace of lapis lazuli roses that the king had sent for her, but had agreed that it would make for an unpleasant scene if he was thwarted.

Visenya had wanted to line her sleeves with gold if she was intended to marry her cousin Loreon anyway, but the seamstress had run out of gold silk and Visenya had been forced to accept black like her sisters.

Rhaena had cried because her dress wasn't the same as Rhaenys' dress, and Daena had nearly ripped hers when she had suddenly decided she hated all dresses. 

But Rhaenys had somehow managed to wrangle all five of her siblings to the sept in time for the ceremony. Jaehaera had sat once again by the king, followed by Rhaena, then Rhaenys with Daena on her lap, then Visenya and finally Aegon as far away from the king as they could put him. Lady Velaryon had agreed with her reasoning, but had been leaving the final decisions regarding her siblings up to Rhaenys for years by that point. 

They had known their newest stepmother, Agnes Blackwood, for some time before she married the king. She had been one of Queen Cersei's ladies and had not left the court since she was four and ten.

Rhaenys had wondered why the lady would have agreed to the king's suit if she had seen the fates of three queens firsthand, but then she had remembered that terrible evening he had summoned her. It would not have mattered if the lady had agreed or not. She had always liked Lady Agnes, who had been one of the few ladies not to heap scorn upon Elerei for being quiet and Lyseni.

After the ceremony, she had sat through the ensuing feast and toasting with the pleasantest smile she had been able to paste upon her face when she could feel the glares the king was sending in her direction. Why was it that he had only ever paid her attention under the influence? 

He had given the last toast ('to my new queen, may she be a credit to the throne'), and then had remained standing. Rhaenys had felt a chill running down her back, and had felt her smile fix in her aching muscles. 

Surely Walder Frey's wife was not dead yet? But thankfully the king had not announced her betrothal. He had instead announced Jaehaera's betrothal to their uncle Viserys, whom none of them had ever met. The king's younger brother and sister had been raised by their mother on Dragonstone, away from court, and had not left since the last king's death. 

Rhaenys had reached across Rhaena to clasp Jaehaera's hand. Her sister had clung to it with such force that her joints had groaned, staring at the king as if willing him to announce that there had been a mistake. 

He had not done so, of course. And Jaehaera's white face had stared at the tablecloth for the rest of the evening. None of them had known then what Viserys Targaryen was like. All that they had then known was what Aerys was like, and what Rhaegar was like. It had not boded well for Jaehaera.

Rhaenys had been greatly relieved when the bedding had finally been called for, and poor Queen Agnes had been swept off, her teak-coloured hair already pulled out of its elegant twist by eager hands. At least her father could do no more damage if he was locked up with his new wife. 

It was after the bride and groom had left that the dancing began, and she had finally been able to descend from the high table. Aegon had also been about to move, but she had shot him a look and he had sat back down. Visenya had always been well-behaved, as had Rhaena, but Daena had been a handful from birth and Jaehaera was in no condition to watch her. 

Her only brother had pursed his lips but silently agreed to stay and watch over their little sisters. No one else had ever cared to after all.

A few young noblemen and knights had asked her for a dance, which she had declined - albeit a little reluctantly, for she had always loved dancing. But she had known that her uncle had spotted her and was moving towards her, impeded by the merrymakers taking full advantage of the melancholy king's absence. 

When they had finally managed to reach each other, her uncle had asked for a dance, as if that was the only reason he had made his way to her. Rhaenys, who had grown up at court, had accepted with a blithe smile and they had made light conversation for the duration.

Afterwards, she had idly complained of the stuffiness inside the hall and he had suggested a walk in the gardens to clear her head. They had kept up the light conversation until they were well into the gardens, unable to hear the music and laughter within the keep.

Then Prince Oberyn had turned to her. "What is wrong, Rhaenys? Doran did not tell me why you asked for our presence tonight."

Rhaenys had looked up at her uncle and thought. She had barely known him then, only through gifts and letters and one visit half a decade ago. But they shared blood, and that had always counted for something. 

"I need to find a husband." She had said, feeling a flush of humiliation that still stung years later. "The king has given no thought to my marriage beyond threatening me with Walder Frey or, or my mother's fate, so I will be forced to elope without his permission. I have spent my childhood isolated enough that I know almost none of the powerful nobles of Westeros. I need someone who can protect me from the king, and who can extend that protection to my siblings. I thought perhaps you would be able to think of someone."

Oberyn had hummed deeper in his throat and led her further into the gardens. "Robb Stark?"

"The Starks," she had said with considerable resentment on behalf of her sister, "have ever proved ready to abandon their kin to the capital."

"What of Willas Tyrell?"

She had sighed. "Unofficially promised to Talla Tarly."

They had walked on for some distance, her uncle suggesting options and Rhaenys pointing out the flaws of each one. She had begun to wonder if perhaps she should give up and elope with Aegon, when Oberyn had stopped and looked down at her. "Have you considered me? I am a second son, but still a prince, and I have as little love for our king as you." 

She had felt her jaw drop, and a blush rise to her cheeks. Even now she does not remember what she had said in reply, beyond that it must have addressed their close relation. In response, he had only shrugged. "You are a Targaryen, little niece, I imagine it is no stretch for you."

Blushing, she had remembered her previous thoughts of elopment with Aegon. She had stammered something about consummation requiring both parties and he had only laughed. "There is Targaryen blood in me too, from Daenerys. And even was there none, you are a beautiful woman. Do you know how many of the men in that hall were praying for that dress to slip just a hair lower? At least a dozen that I saw, in between praying for the same."

And then he had kissed her. 

It had felt strange at first, for she had never kissed anyone save her siblings before, but it had not done so for long. He had run one hand down her back and the other had cupped her throat, and something warm and dark had awoken in Rhaenys in that starlit garden. 

So she had agreed to her uncle's suit, and he had taken her to the Sept of Baelor, echoingly empty after the king's grand wedding earlier in the day. There had been one old septon still at the door, and he had agreed to marry Princess Rhaenys to Prince Oberyn after being reminded of the Doctrine of Exceptionalism.

It had been a hasty ceremony, with only one quavering old voice to read out the prayers and vows, but it had been legally binding and that had been all that Rhaenys had really needed. The only cloak that Oberyn had had to give her was the one he was wearing, which had been of deep orange silk shot with gold but which had born no device. Still, it had served adequately, and they sealed their marriage with a kiss. 

The septon had of course gone straight to tell the High Septon that Princess Rhaenys had wed her uncle, but they had counted on that. The High Septon had been at the feast and by the time a messenger had reached him it had been too late. Besides, no one had done anything until the king had emerged from his marital bed the following morning and they had known it would be so - it was the one time that Rhaenys had been grateful to have a father so often wed.

Oberyn had left his cloak about her shoulders and had brought her back through the same tunnels they had used earlier. There they had seperated, and she had returned him his cloak before she had re-entered the hall ten minutes before he would.

She had made her way back up the edge of the merriment, slowly, doing her best to reject offers of a dance as kindly as she could. Aegon had fixed her with a glare as she returned and demanded to know where she had been for so long. Even Jaehaera had stirred from her stupour to turn curious eyes to her. 

Rhaenys had only smiled her most mysterious smile and told them that she had fixed the problem they had all been so worried about, but that she would not tell them anymore now as it was time that they put the younger girls to bed. Her announcement had been met with minimal grumbling, for Rhaena and Daena had been nodding since she had left. 

Just as she had taken Rhaena on her hip and Aegon had hefted Daena over his shoulder, her uncle had appeared at her side and had offered to assist them with putting his younger nieces to bed. Rhaenys had accepted, trying not to flush as she had suddenly noticed his glance to the deep neckline of her gown. Her brother had caught the glance though - and her flush. 

By some miracle, Aegon had managed to keep his mouth shut until they were inside the nursery and the door was closed. Then he had instantly rounded on her and demanded what in the Seven Hells she had been thinking. It had led to a long, whispered argument between the eldest three over Daena's bed while Oberyn had tucked in Visenya across the room and presumably done his best not to eavesdrop. 

Eventually, Rhaenys had brought Aegon and Jaehaera around to her view and they had grudgingly agreed that uncle or not, Oberyn Martell had probably been her best option. By that point, all three of the younger girls had been asleep and Jaehaera had been yawning. She and Aegon had gone to their own rooms to sleep, and Rhaenys had brought Oberyn into her rooms. 

They had settled on consummating there primarily because it would mean they were more likely to be discovered in the morning - and because Aegon had demanded that they allow him to see the king's face when he discovered them. Rhaenys had closed the door, though she had not locked it. 

She had moved, somewhat awkwardly to sit before her vanity and had taken her hair down, and replaced her jewellery in its boxes. It had been strange indeed to do so with a man other than Aegon in her room, but she has grown used to it since. 

Oberyn had finished disrobing long before Rhaenys herself had, and he had come over to the vanity just as her hair tumbled down over her shoulders. It had been thick and curly, and though it is longer now it had reached her waist then. He had wound one loose tendril about his finger and tugged gently as she stood. "Would you like help with your dress?"

She had swallowed down the bubbly panic in her throat and nodded. This had been her solution and consummation was a small price to pay for protection against the king. Perhaps Oberyn had read something of her thoughts in her eyes, for he had been careful as he had unbuckled the belt that had held her dress closed. 

It had fallen open and slipped down her shoulders, but Oberyn had caught it before it could fall to the floor. "Dornish muslin?" He had said curiously, and then, before she could answer, "Doran, of course."

He had draped the dress over the back of a chair, and then had swept her hair forward over one shoulder as he had unlaced her corset and unhooked the busk with deft, practiced fingers and she had remembered with a shudder his reputation as a libertine. 

That had left her only in her shift, which she had had made of Dornish muslin so fine it was functionally transparent. She had bent to take off her slippers, and when she had stood back up she had seen her uncle's face in the mirror, and the glint in his eyes as he had looked at her body covered only by her shift. It is a look that she is accustomed to now, but then with only the king and his queens as her examples, she had been terrified.

She had braced herself, and pulled the shift off, expecting him to pounce on her by his expression. But though his eyes had darkened, he had only taken the shift from her hands and folded it over the gown on the back of the chair, and then asked if she was ready. 

Rhaenys, in what her husband had later called the bravest moment of her life, had nodded and let him carry her to the bed.

"I cannot promise it won't hurt." He had said, caressing the side of her face as he had settled on top of her. "But I can promise it will feel good afterwards."

Then he had kissed her.

"My princess." He had whispered into her ear. "My lovely, perfect princess. I'll make you scream for me."

Rhaenys had laughed, a breathy shocked sound she had not ever thought to hear. "Did you forget, we can't be interrupted until the marriage is consummated."

A wicked gleam had appeared in her uncle's eye and he had kissed his way down her body, nipping and licking until her skin was prickling uncomfortably. 

"Then you'll just have to be quiet, little one."

His sharp eyes had, of course, noticed the hitch in her breath when he said that. She had coloured and kept silent but he had just smiled and moved back up her body. "Do you like that, little one." He had whispered, his voice so low she barely heard it. "My little girl? Mmm, I think you do."

Rhaenys had turned her eyes away from his, knowing that she was blushing fit to burn King's Landing down. "Don't...uncle, please."

And she had heard the intake of breath by her ear, and had suddenly understood why he had looked at her like that. It had felt so good.

He had taken her face in one hand and turned it to his. "Please, what, little one? Do you want your uncle to fuck you into the mattress? Do you want him to take care of you?"

"I...I don't know." Rhaenys had stammered out, knowing it was feeding the wicked gleam in his eye and doing it anyway. "I just...don't be like the king?"

"Oh, sweetheart." The glint had diminished, and her uncle had bent to kiss her gently, oh so very gently that it made her want to cry. "Don't worry your little head about it. Uncle will look after you."

And he had. 

He had buried his face between her legs and kissed her there until something had burst inside of her and she had bucked her hips so violently his neck had cracked. And then she had frozen even as shudders of pleasure rolled through her, wondering if she had made him angry. 

But he had only laughed and asked her if his little girl wanted another peak. And then he had slid his fingers inside her, one and then two and then three, and had kissed her with his lips still dripping her essence. It had tasted strange and bitter but he had not complained so she had assumed she would grow used to the taste - which she had. 

The second time he had worked her to her peak, he had been forced to cover her mouth with one hand for she had forgotten herself and screamed. 

"What a naughty little girl." He had said, mock sorrowfully when she had come back down. "Imagine if you had gotten us caught, princess."

Strangely caught up in the odd game, Rhaenys had lowered her eyes. "I'm sorry, Uncle." She had whispered, and then had looked up at him through her lashes. "Can you forgive me?"

Her uncle's eyes had gone darker still, and he had bent to nuzzle the side of her neck as one hand reached back between her legs. "Perhaps, if my little girl lets me in here."

And so she had. Because it was the point of consummation, and because her uncle had asked so very nicely. 

He had been gentle the whole time, inching in slowly, oh so very slowly as she had whined and twitched and complained in a manner entirely unlike her usual self.

But he had liked it when she complained, had called her his spoiled little princess and told her to be good for her uncle, which had sent such a shock of heat through her that she had almost forgotten the strange ache of having him inside her.

And then he had fucked her so hard that she had forgotten everything except how good it felt. He had whispered into her ear the whole time, telling her how perfect she was for him, how well his little girl was doing, how much he loved his spoiled baby princess.

And she had fallen apart about him with a cry that her siblings later told her they had heard through the walls. 

Chapter Text

When the king had been woken the next morning by Ser Arthur banging on his door to inform him that Rhaenys had been discovered abed with her uncle, he had not been pleased. In fact, he had flung her door open and turned the most marvellous shade of purple upon seeing the two bodies lying twined together in the bed.

He had nearly declared war on Dorne and executed his goodbrother, starting forward into the room and shouting about annulment and banishment and trade sanctions.

Her uncle had only laughed, prowling towards the king so that he had nowhere to go save back out the door. "Believe me, the marriage is thoroughly consummated enough to make a whore blush. And as for the rest, I am the Red Viper. Do you think a piece of paper could keep me from any woman, let alone one so sweet? I happen to like my new wife, and I intend to keep her."

Rhaenys had slid off the bed behind him, draping herself in a sheet but leaving enough skin showing that the line of dark bruises Oberyn had left on her neck was entirely visible. She had come forward and wrapped her arms about her uncle from behind, totally ignoring the king. 

"Come back to bed, uncle." She had said, lowering her voice to a throb that she had discovered the night before went straight to his cock and ghosting her lips over his bare shoulder. The king's face had been priceless.

Her uncle had flashed his teeth at the king in something no man could ever call a smile, and turned about to kiss her. There had been a strangled sound of horror, but Rhaenys had been fairly sure it had come from Ser Arthur and not the king. She had cracked open one eye, and seen Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan averting their eyes, faces red, while the king had just stared as her husband's hand had crept ever lower.

Rhaenys had kicked the door closed. Her uncle had fumbled for the key and turned it with a click. Then, and only then, had her sheet dropped.

"The king was looking at you, little one." He had whispered into her ear. "I don't like that. You are mine now, my precious little princess, not his. He cannot touch you now." And he had lifted her, fucking her against the door until she had probably screamed.

The marriage had stood. What else could the king do? Rhaenys had proved that she was more than capable of getting whatever she wanted, and it had always been dangerous to make an enemy of Oberyn Martell. The king had already killed his sister, if he took away the man's wife the Seven knew what he would do. 

Besides, his attention had been mostly taken by his new queen. Agnes Blackwood had possessed the Northern look more than any other queen since Lyanna - her eyes had been brown, not grey, but her hair had been nearly the exact same rich brown. After declaring that if Rhaenys wanted so badly to be her uncle's whore she could rot in his bed for all he cared, he had stormed back to his own chambers and slammed the door. 

By the time Rhaenys had emerged, limping somewhat, on the arm of a very smug Red Viper, the entire court had known of her marriage. Most had known because Aegon had taken the opportunity to wander the halls gossiping loudly with Jaehaera - truly, sometimes Rhaenys wondered what she had done to deserve such a brother.

Reactions had been...mixed. Being Targaryens, Oberyn being both her uncle and Dornish had seemed minor issues compared to the looming one of the king's threats and Jaehaera's imminent flowering. Oberyn Martell had been their best option. The court, unaware of the motives behind the match, had not agreed of course. 

"I understand that you need to wed, princess, but your uncle?" Lady Alla Piper's eyes had been wide and her Andal sensibilities on full display right beside her seven-pointed star pendant. Rhaenys had patted her hand comfortingly, and reminded her that the Doctrine of Exception applied to her uncle as well as Rhaenys herself. 

Lady Velaryon's poised brows had bent over her blue eyes, and she had shaken her head, murmuring that a husband twenty years her senior was less than ideal. Being Valyrian herself, she had said nothing at all about Oberyn being her uncle. Rhaenys had shrugged and smiled and had later, when her uncle's attention was elsewhere, told her that marrying a man the king's age would hopefully leave her a widow about the time the king died. Lady Velaryon had not been de facto queen for years for nothing - she had seen the king's gaze and had subsided with terrible understanding in her eyes.

"But he is, well, not kindly thought of in some circles, Rhaenys dear." Lady Lysa Lannister had said delicately. "You know what he did to the eldest Tyrell boy." Rhaenys had flashed one of her uncle's trademark smiles at her and made some remark about figures of unconditional support. Lady Lysa, who had never had a moment's support from her family and had been doomed to marry a man in perpetual mourning for some nameless lover, had eyed Rhaenys jealously and said no more.

Lady Delena Baratheon had made noises about Rhaenys being wasted on such close kin. Lady Elinor Tyrell had tittered something mindless about Dornish blood before being hushed by Lady Margaery. Even Lady Barbara Bracken, stewing over losing the king to a Blackwood, had found time to offer mock sympathies for the unequal match. 

And the less said about the men of the court the better. Rhaenys had needed her brother and her husband to spend a great deal of time in the yards with all of the men who had dared to impugn her honour and that of her house. Both of her houses. 

It had not all been bawdy squires who's voices were still cracking, and not only Oberyn and Aegon defending her either. Lord Baratheon, still stewing a decade later over losing Lyanna Stark to the king, had guffawed something crass about Targaryen cunt and Ser Arthur had beaten him black and blue. The White Bull, still Lord Commander in his fifties, had half killed Ser Harry Hardyng when he had idly wondered if the princess was as easy for other men as she had been for her own uncle.

The only person who had seemed to truly understand had been the new queen. But then, Agnes Blackwood was seeing the truth of Rhaegar Targaryen at close quarters. To the general public, the king had been a decent if hands-off ruler, an indulgent albeit absentminded father, and a melancholy man who had lost far too many wives through no fault of his own.

Most Westerosi at the time had suspected a curse, or poison though the truth of the matter had been filtering out slowly by that point - it stretched the imagination to believe that even the most elaborate plot could account for five queens in just over a decade without the king discovering or retaliating. But the king had never been properly discredited while he lived.

Agnes Blackwood, who's penchant for Pentoshi robes with deep-V necks and wide sleeves that bared her arms had been replaced with high necks and tight sleeves, was seeing the truth behind the mask King Rhaegar Targaryen. The king's taste for shouting matches had increased it seemed, and had become accessorised with blades. It had fallen to Rhaenys to comfort the queen in the aftermath - as it had before with dear Elerei.

The support of the queen and (however tangentially) the king for the match had done much to alleviate the fallout of Rhaenys eloping with a Dornishman who had happened to be the Red Viper and her uncle. It had not been enough however. The court, and indeed all seven kingdoms, had still buzzed with the scandal and mock pity for Rhaenys.

She had cared little. Aegon's plan for her to become queen had been far away then, and all she had cared was that there was someone brazen enough to stand between the king and his daughters. As long as Oberyn had done so, she had been content.

The only objecting voice that had affected her had come from the elder Martell brother, and that had only been because she had been disappointed in his lack of support, not because she had taken his words to heart. Prince Doran had been deeply disapproving in the letter he had sent to Oberyn.

Really Oberyn, Rhaenys had read over her husband's shoulder, our sister's child? I knew you were shameless but this goes beyond what I am willing to tolerate. She is Arianne's age, brother, too young to accommodate your appetites, and too young to understand what she is getting into. For Seven's sake, stop this nonsense and come back to Dorne. If Rhaenys needs protection there are other ways to provide it than marrying our niece.

She had stopped reading then and started kissing her way up her new husband's neck. "Am I old enough to accommodate your appetites, Uncle?" She had whispered, and smiled to see his pupils blow wide.

He had lifted her and carried her to the bed, pushing up her skirts impatiently rather than letting her undress. Rhaenys had whined and complained as she had come to enjoy doing, and her husband had fucked her while praise for his sweet girl, little niece, his perfect princess had spilled from his lips.

Afterwards, Rhaenys had sat at her desk with her husband's seed sticky between her legs and smiled. Doran had not seen Rhaenys since she was ten years old. He had no idea what she could or could not accommodate. Even if she had not been able to, she had weighed everything up, and decided than that it would be worth it if there was someone to stand between the king and them (especially Jaehaera, once she had flowered).

The Kingsguard, for all their defense of her, had not seemed to realise this either. Her Uncle Lewyn had taken her aside when she had padded sleeplessly from her chambers to the nursery one night. He had flushed red and been unable to meet her eyes, but he had asked after her wellbeing and whether she had needed a respite from her new husband.

He had not asked if the prince had forced her, for which she had been grateful, and when she had told him that she was well, she had seen Ser Brynden's shoulders ease from where he had been guarding the king's chambers. It had sent something warm through her to know that they cared enough to ask. The Kingsguard were merely guards, but they had been there from the day she was born.

And so, things had settled into an uneasy peace. Rhaenys and her new husband had argued when she had drunk moon tea, but she had only had to bring up her mother for him to subside, albeit with an ill grace.

The memory of Elia Martell, she had discovered, was one of the most potent weapons anyone could wield against the Red Viper. Rhaenys had done so with little guilt. She had seen too many stepmothers die screaming and bloody to let her husband's seed take root in her, not then, only a few brief years after Elerei had killed herself to avoid it.

The king, after his initial rage, had returned to ignoring Rhaenys once more. He had busied himself with affairs of the realm, and with attempting to finally sire himself a second son - one who did not bear Elia Martell's taint and who managed to survive the cradle. 

Rhaenys had been given her own household. The king had never bothered to think on her long enough to appoint one after her flowering, and neither Lady Velaryon nor any of the queens had possesed the authority to do so. Oberyn, upon learning that she had only Jeyne, her nurse-turned-ladies-maid, and Mara, her governess, had promptly written to Prince Doran. 

For all his disapproval of the marriage, her elder uncle had been efficient. Letters had flown from Sunspear and within two moons Rhaenys had found herself mistress of a household fit for the eldest Targaryen princess and the wife of a Martell prince.

Mara had become the head of her ladies, which Rhaenys had insisted upon - Mara had been one of the few stable presences in her life from the time she was five. She had trusted her and relied upon her, and knew above all that Mara understood how important her siblings were. Mara had been her only appointment for sentiment rather than politics, and Rhaenys had never regretted it.

Sansa had been raised in the isolated north of the continent, and had not yet been disabused of her romantic fantasies in those days. She had still pouted and complained when Rhaenys had 'ruined things' then - it had been irritating at the time, but oh how Rhaenys misses it now. 

Still, even when Sansa had annoyed her, Rhaenys had preferred her to Alysanne Lefford. It had been through no fault of Alysanne's own. The only surviving child of a long string of miscarriages and stillbirths, she had been indulged as much as the resources of her ancient, powerful house would allow which was to say, she had been almost unbelievably spoiled. Rhaenys had never had any complaints, for she had completed her duties well, but she had been overconfident and cocksure which was akin to suicide in Rhaegar's court. Besides, she had never made more than the slightest effort to hide her disdain for Rhaenys' husband - and Rhaenys was loyal to him as both her lord husband and her near kin. 

Roslin Frey had been quiet, as she is now, and had been entirely forgettable. Prettier than the rest of her house by rumour, but unremarkable in a court of famed beauties (for such a court had her father cultivated, always preparing for another wife and ever ready to take a mistress stuffed full of moon tea). She had been grateful to leave the Twins though, and that gratitude had tied her to Rhaenys as tightly as any blood link. 

Then there had been Ysilla Royce. She had been proud of her ancient bloodline and careful of her dignity, but she had served Rhaenys well and faithfully until she had left for her own marriage. Rhaenys could never quite have called her friend. An ally perhaps, a firm and trusted ally, not a friend. 

Friendship did not mean everything, however. Rhaenys had counted Rhaena Hightower a dear friend, before Rhaena had shamed her so painfully. She had always known that Rhaena's loyalty was to the Hightower first, to the Tyrells second, and to Rhaenys third and last. But she had been charming and cheerful and Rhaenys had thought them friends. 

Still, she had gained better friends than Rhaena. Emelia Bar Emmon and Tremna Gargalen are two of her dearest companions to this day. Tremna was her kin through the Martells, through Elia Martell's Gargalen father, and their blood ties had drawn them together quickly. She had trusted Tremna from the beginning, and Tremna had never let her down. Neither had Emelia, the much younger sister of the Lord Bar Emmon, and more than competent enough to be frustrated by her useless brother and nephew. They had both been loyal to her beyond reason from almost the first day. She does not know how she lived without either. 

It had been odd at first, adjusting to not only a husband but to eight women who's business it was to know every aspect of her life. Alysanne had overseen her expenditures, Emelia and Sansa her wardrobe, Tremna the children's wellbeing, Roslin her charitable endeavours, Rhaena the children's education, Ysilla had helped them all, and Mara had ruled them with an iron fist and kept her finger on the pulse of the court. Rhaenys had never had so much free time in her life before, having always needed to do so much on her own - and having no choice in the matter if she had wished for her siblings to be cared for. 

But she had quickly become used to it, and had found more things to fill her day. Spending time with her husband had been one of them, and her ladies had quickly learned to knock before entering. Poor, dreamy little Lady Sansa had gone quite red the first time she had found Rhaenys and her uncle together, and had been quite transfixed with horror before dear Emelia had ushered her away.

Jaehaera's moon blood had made its appearance exactly four moons to the day after the announcement of her betrothal. Oberyn and Rhaenys had moved her into their own rooms as soon as Jaehaera had come to Rhaenys wide-eyed and bloody. They had long decided to take no chances with the sister who resembled Lyanna Stark so closely. 

Viserys had arrived at court a moon after Jaehaera's flowering was announced. With him had come his mother, Dowager Queen Rhaella. His sister the Princess Daenerys, Queen Rhaella had announced with her head held high, was too ill to join them at court. Rhaenys had watched her grandmother's eyes and seen the well-hidden fear in them only because it was the same well-hidden fear that hid in her own eyes. 

The king had frowned and offered half-hearted wishes that his dear sister (whom he had never even met) would recover soon. And Rhaenys had watched the new queen, her cheeks hollowing as her stomach rounded, slump as she saw the spark light in the king's eyes which marked another night  of sleeplessness for the whole royal family. Whatever Queen Rhaella had attempted to do by keeping the young princess away from her elder brother (an elder brother with five dead wives and none of them a Targaryen sister-wife), it had failed.

When the prince was introduced to Jaehaera he had just stared like a simpleton, until his mother had stepped in to do all of the talking for him. Years later, he had explain to Jaehaera that she had been the first woman he had ever seen without the Valyrian look.

Queen Rhaella had raised her younger children in an isolation so absolute it had been tantamount to exile - they had rarely left the keep of Dragonstone, let alone the island, and been tended only by a skeleton staff of loyal dragonseeds. It had taken a royal command and a platoon of guards to bring them back to court after twenty years. 

Rhaenys had not remembered her grandmother then. The queen dowager had not even waited for her husband's body to cool before she had retreated to Dragonstone with her younger son. There, on that lonely island, she had birthed her only daughter and raised her children and had not returned to court until the king had sent guards to fetch her. 

It had not been Rhaella Targaryen who had loved Aegon and Jaehaera and Visenya and Rhaena and Daena enough to make up for the world. It had not been Rhaella Targaryen who had taught them to walk and to speak. It had not been Rhaella Targaryen who had spent sleepless nights comforting them while the king raged. And it had not been Rhaella Targaryen who had married herself to a man twenty years her senior on the off chance that he could protect them from their father. 

Rhaenys had sacrificed herself on the altar of her siblings' lives from the moment she could speak and that sacrifice had lived under her collarbone as a festering wound for almost as long. She had felt no little resentment for the grandmother she did not remember. 

But Rhaella had remembered her. Had sent her and Aegon and their sisters gifts for every nameday, just like the Starks had done for Jaehaera and the Lannisters for Visenya, and the Ormollons for Rhaena and the Toparens for Daena. Only Rhaella and the Martells had consistently sent gifts for all of the children and that had granted her some grace.

She had gained further grace by instantly adoring all of the children she had never met, embracing them and showering them with kisses and telling them to call her 'grandmama', which they had all taken to with enthusiasm. Rhaenys herself and Aegon had remained slightly wary, remembering the dozen years that Rhaella had been entirely absent, but they had never been able to deny their sisters any sort of love. 

And the thing that had most gained Rhaenys' trust and forgiveness, had been the dowager queen's interactions with the queen. She too had once endured a terrible marriage to a Targaryen king, and had taken Agnes under her wing. It had taken her only a glance, where all of court had turned a blind eye to Agnes Blackwood's high collars and long sleeves that could not quite hide the bruises and bandages adorning her. 

By the time that her grandmother had become comfortable enough to take her aside and murmur something about understanding difficult marriages to faithless men, Rhaenys had forgiven her grandmother's abandonment enough to just smile. She had not quite forgiven Rhaella enough to reassure her that she trusted Oberyn, but it had still been progress. 

Her grandmother had, however, taken a secondary role to her careful monitoring of Prince Viserys. In public, he had always seemed little more than a simpleton - eyes downcast, never speaking, allowing his mother to do all for him. In private he had been shrewd and generous but still deferential to his mother - entirely unlike his elder brother, who had treated Dowager Queen Rhaella like a favoured toy to pick up and put away on a whim.

Viserys had been curious about his nephew and nieces and their likes and dislikes, and most of all about Jaehaera. He had given her flowers and sweetmeats at first, but after he had gotten to know her better had given her rare maps and tales of fantastic journeys and strange trinkets from foreign lands. And Jaehaera had blossomed under his attentions. 

As much as Rhaenys had hated it, Jaehaera too had been forced to grow up far too quickly. She had been too young to shield a small Jaehaera, and as a woman flowered her eldest sister had born a crown of silver scars as Lyanna had worn a crown of blue roses.

It had fallen to Jaehaera as much as to Rhaenys and to Aegon to give their younger siblings all the love that the world had denied them. And because Visenya's earliest memory was her mother wishing for her death and Rhaena was too sensitive to endure court and Daena had thrown tantrums at the drop of a hat, Jaehaera had been thrown into the role of protector almost as young as Rhaenys.

Viserys had taken that role for her, had given her gifts and played her songs and taken her on walks, and had allowed her to be as carefree as a maid of two and ten ought. She had loved it, the tight line in her shoulders easing and the fear in her eyes receding by the day. She had even started to sing.

Their wedding had been beautiful. Rhaenys would not have had it any other way, not for sweet, melancholy Jaehaera, not for her first sister. All of her siblings held special places in her heart, but Jaehaera had been there longer than any of them save Aegon.

Queen Agnes, who had grown weaker as the child in her had grown larger, had left the planning entirely up to Rhaenys, as a married princess of Dorne and the king's eldest daughter. Rhaenys had turned to Lady Velaryon, who had run the court and its events with an iron fist on and off for the majority of the king's reign. 

They had worked themselves almost to the bone to make it a perfect day for Jaehaera - and to keep the king away from her sister. Even in the antechamber where Jaehaera would wait for the king to hand her over to Viserys, Rhaenys had stationed her husband to sharpen his spear and glare at the king. 

She had dressed all of her siblings in black and red once again, with the high collars and tight sleeves of Valyria. Better to keep the king as happy with them as possible.

As a married woman herself, Rhaenys had worn layers of Dornish muslin and painted silk in the colours of her husband's house. The style, with the sleeves that had fallen away at the upper arm to bare most of her arm, and the deep v of the neck that had skimmed the tops of her breasts, had been as Dornish as she had dared back then. If it had drawn the king's ire away from any of her siblings who happened to misbehave well, that was simply a side benefit.

Her husband had loved her gown, and had loved it even more after the king had taken one look at it and sneered in digust. It had taken her reminding him of his duty to Jaehaera for him to stop pulling her into shadowy nooks and shoving up her skirts. 

Jaehaera's wedding had gone smoothly, though Rhaenys had been too busy to properly enjoy it. Between keeping the festivities running, making sure there were at least three people in any room with the king and Jaehaera, monitoring her siblings, and dealing with her husband's insatiable appetites, she had hardly noticed anything else.

But by the time that some drunkard began to call for the bedding, she had suceeded in averting any disasters from the kitchens, the king or her siblings and her husband had only coaxed his way under her skirts once since the ceremony had ended. She had sent Aegon, Oberyn and Uncle Lewyn to keep Jaehaera from being stripped or fondled too much, and had joined the procession forming around Viserys to threaten him with her husband if he made Jaehaera unhappy. 

Afterwards, when the newly wedded couple had been locked up together, Oberyn had found her and dragged her off to their chambers. "You've been denying me all day, little one." He had complained, caging her against the door until his hardness pressed against her stomach. "How can you prance around in that delectable gown and expect me to go so long without tasting that sweet heaven between your little legs?"

Rhaenys had been tired and sore from the three times he had had her since they woke that morning, but he had helped her keep Jaehaera out of the king's grasp for moons, and he had been indispensable in keeping her siblings from causing trouble. He had earned it, she had decided. So she had spread her legs and let him take her against the door and then throw her on the bed and take her like an animal on all fours, and then again and again until he had finally been satisfied.

And if her complaints and whines had been perhaps a little less feigned than usual, it was a price she had known she would have to pay. It had been worth it, she had reminded herself. Her uncle had protected her and her siblings from the king, and he loved them all. 

The next morning, she had been reminded yet again why she had chosen him and not any other. She had been sore enough to attend his morning demands with her mouth rather than let him between her legs, an act which he loved and she hated. But afterwards he had gone to his own stores and brewed moon tea for Jaehaera before she had even thought to mention it.

She had rinsed the taste of his seed out of her mouth and felt guilty for being such a recalcitrant wife. He had never forced anything on her, even though he owned her body and her bed according to the law. For all of their arguments on the matter, he had never outright forbidden her use of moon tea, and he had prepared it for Jaehaera of his own accord. 

After all, it was not unreasonable for a man nearing forty to wish for children off his wife. Rhaenys was six and ten, a woman grown in body rather than merely flowered, and her sister was only three and ten, too young to bear a child safely. Their own grandmother had been an example of the dangers of bearing a child too young, with all of her lost children.

If he pressed for children from Rhaenys, with his partial maester's chain, then it was because he knew she could bear children safely. She had swallowed down the guilt with only the slightest twinge. Oberyn's right it might be, but she had still been too afraid of being just another dead body burned on that lonely clifftop to give in. If she had to make up for that through his other rights well, it was a price she was willing to pay.

She had offered to take the moon tea to Jaehaera, rather than sending it with Tremna as Oberyn had intended, and had been relieved to see that it was her sister who answered the door - looking tired and limping a little, but not looking unhappy or in much pain. She had only smiled secretively when Rhaenys had asked how it went, and then had drunk the moon tea before informing Rhaenys that Viserys had promised not to bed her again until she was at least five and ten.

It had eased something tight in her stomach, and she had wept into her husband's shoulder after she had returned to their chambers. He had sat her on his knee and rocked her to and fro and murmured meaningless comforts into her ear until her tears had eased.

When she had recovered herself somewhat, his hands had drifted lower in a silent request, and this time Rhaenys had let him take her, slipping into her as she sat on his lap. He had been gentle, and let her set the pace, and she had peaked to him whispering praise for his little girl into her ear.

As a girl she had so rarely been praised for anything, certainly not by the king or any of his queens. The love-starved, bitter child that never quite left her had always basked in the light of his praise. She would have endured her marriage bed regardless, but the constant outpouring of affection and compliments and love made it so much more delightful. She had discovered after her marriage that she liked being told she was perfect and beautiful and worthy of love and desire. 

By the time that the ship had departed with Rhaella, Viserys and Jaehaera on board, Rhaenys had been restored to her usual unflappable temperament sufficiently to wave her sister off with a smile pasted on her face. The sour look on the king's, as his favourite daughter had been taken out of his reach, had made her smile even more true. 

She had balanced Daena on her hip so that her youngest sister could wave at the departing ship. Her uncle had held Rhaena on his shoulders, and Aegon and Visenya had taken turns standing on a box to pop up above the crowd. It had felt, for a brief moment, as if they were any other family (as if it were Rhaenys and her husband and their children waving off her newly wedded daughter - and the king had nothing to do with any of them).

Rhaenys still had not quite forgiven her grandmother - but she had known full well that if anyone would protect Jaehaera from bearing children too young, it would be Rhaella Targaryen. 

Court had quieted significantly after the wedding had taken place. The nobles had found other sources of amusement, hosting smaller feasts and hunts and fetes that Rhaenys and her husband had periodically attended. Dornish or no, the presence of a prince and the king's eldest daughter was still an honour at a social event, and the scandal of their wedding was forgotten more by the day.

Aegon, slightly adrift with both of his closest sisters wedded, had fallen into drinking heavily. Only in public, though, where he consistently made a spectacle of himself - in his own rooms and the nursery, Rhaenys had never seen him touch anything remotely alcoholic, not even meat which had been cooked in wine.

He had spent most nights with one maid or another in his rooms, which she had known because he had indiscreetly requested moon tea for each one from Pycelle. The Grand Maester, naturally, proceeded to tell the entire court that Prince Aegon had given this or that maid moon tea, just as the entire court knew which woman the king was feeding moon tea (and was therefore likely his mistress). There was a reason, after all, that Rhaenys took her moon tea from her husband's stock and not the Grand Maester's. 

He had made friends with some of the loudest, most obnoxious and least popular lordlings at court, and sunk the majority of his funds into their gambling and racing (though he had always kept enough back that he could give extravagant gifts to his sisters and send long letters to Jaehaera). 

At first she had been horrified by his behaviour, and Oberyn had not helped by dismissing it as a phase all young men went through. She had watched him closely, and seen the slight hitches that only one who had known him from birth could catch. And she had decided that he was putting on a front.

What for, she had no idea. But she had always trusted Aegon. So when his behaviour was addressed to her, she had loudly lamented how difficult it was to control such a wild young man, and how worried she was for him if he continued to act in such a way. Aegon had looked around from where he had been losing thirty dragons to some leering Frey, and winked at her. And she had known that, whatever he was doing, he was still her little brother.

Visenya, Rhaena and Daena had not had the slightest inkling of their only brother's new habits. He had been careful to keep his dissolute ways out of the nursery and away from any event that they had also attended. 

Their concerns had been more childish. Rhaena had not liked the colour of her newest dress, Daena had wanted tin soldiers from the city markets not porcelain dolls from Yi Ti, Visenya's governess had actually made her do her embroidery for once. Simple things. Things Rhaenys could fix, or at least handle. She had bought Rhaena another dress, Daena tin soldiers, and had reminded Visenya that embroidery was a necessary skill in the wife of a Lord Paramount. Invoking Loreon, however, obliquely, was always guaranteed to ensure Visenya's compliance.

But they had all missed Jaehaera. It had been the first time that any of the king's children had been away for more than a night. Even Rhaenys, after marrying, had remained in her apartments across the corridor from the nursery. But now Jaehaera had been taken across the sea to the island of Dragonstone and they had only letters. 

They had adjusted, slowly. Jaehaera's letters had been happy, full of her life on Dragonstone and her adventures among the smallfolk or on the Dragonmont or the rocky beaches, and the tight knot of worry in Rhaenys' chest had eased. It never entirely loosened though, and Oberyn had teased her about being a middle aged mother before she reached twenty. Then he had tried to persuade her to stop taking moon tea and it had taken letting him have her the back way (which had been uncomfortable and odd and painful) to end the argument. 

All of those petty worries had been soon forgotten however, when Agnes went into confinement. Rhaenys had not been one of this stepmother's ladies, but she was still her stepdaughter and one of the foremost women of the court. So she had accompanied Agnes in her confinement, and spent nearly a moon watching her stepmother's skin pale and her cheeks hollow and her hands waste away into claws.

By the time that Agnes birthed a twisted thing with scales and wings and no eyes, she had looked little better than a corpse. She had just heaved dry, hacking sobs as the silence stretched on and on. The king had sworn and slammed the door when Rhaenys told him the child was born dead, and it had fallen to her to burn the pathetic, grotesque body of something that might have been a little sister to love, in a happier world. 

She had long outgrown the fancy that breathing the ashes into her lungs would keep the dead with her. She had done it anyway, and choked on the bitter ash until the tears had finally released and she had wept for the sibling that had never lived. 

Afterwards, she had sent her ladies away and gone to the queen's chambers alone. Her stepmother had been moved there while Rhaenys had burned the body, and now she lay in that great empty chamber, weeping silently. Rhaenys had held her hand and sung to her until she had fallen asleep. Then she had sent for Lady Alla Piper, and left the queen under her blood sister's watch.

In the nursery, she had found that the cradle for the expected child had not yet been moved. So she had rung for a manservant and given orders for the cradle to be put back into storage along with everything else. Aegon and Visenya had understood at once. Visenya had started to cry and Aegon had been absorbed in comforting her, so it had been left to Rhaenys to explain to Rhaena and Daena why they would not have a new sister. 

When all the tears had been shed, the youngest two had been tucked into bed and sung asleep, and their nurses sent for to watch them. Then Rhaenys had seen both Aegon and Visenya to their rooms, and only then had she been able to enter her own. 

Oberyn had been waiting for her. He had opened his arms silently, and she had rushed into them. For once, he had not attempted to turn the physical contact into a tryst. He had simply held her as she wept, rocking her to and fro as if she were little more than a child herself. He had helped her into her nightgown and braided her hair for bed, and his hands had not strayed once.

Instead, he had tucked her into bed and sent for a light supper, which he had fed to her as if she were a newly weaned babe. Then he had blown out the candles and sung 'In Mother Rhoyne's Cradle' until she fell asleep. It had been nice, and she had wondered if that was how a father would have done it. She would not know - the king had only ever recalled her existence in order to hate her.

Of course, her husband had ruined it all the next morning by waking her with the dawn to try and seduce her. She had woken to his hands roaming between her legs and his lips ghosting over her shoulder. For a moment, still so tired she could barely think, she had parted her legs for him on instinct and he had slipped inside of her.

But then the events of the previous day had come rushing back. She had remembered the terrible, twisted thing Agnes had birthed and had felt sick. Her mouth had still tasted of ashes. There were many occasions she had let him have his rights when she had not been interested, but that day she had not been able to make herself do it. Not after watching Agnes suffer so. Not after burning the thing that should have been a new sister. She had pushed him away and sat up, shuddering.

Oberyn, of course, had not taken refusal well. At first, he had kept caressing her, pressing kisses to every clear inch of skin and whispering all the filthy things he wanted to do to his little princess. When she had left the bed and started to dress, he had turned to pleading. When that hadn't worked, and she had made it clear she would be spending the day with her stepmother and siblings, he had gotten angry. 

Rhaenys had gotten angry right back at him. To this day, she cannot remember everything they had shouted at each other. She had called him a sick, sex-addicted pervert. He had called her a prudish, dried up disobedient bitch and then he had called her a tease as if he hadn't known which one was worse. It had only deteriorated from there. Several trinkets and vases had been broken, though she has no idea who had broken them. 

At one point he had seized her by the jaw and kissed her, but she had kneed him in the groin and scrambled for one of the knives he had gifted her after their wedding. By the time he had uncurled, she had gotten the door open and was backing out of it, still pointing the knife at him. 

Then Ser Barristan had stepped between them, and Ser Arthur had opened the nursery door for her. She had thanked them both and closed the door behind her. Oberyn had shouted her name and banged on the door, but Ser Arthur had said something bland about it being a lovely day outside the keep. Her husband had sworn loudly at Arthur, at Barristan, at Rhaenys herself, and then his footsteps had receded down the corridor. 

The servant who had brought breakfast to the nursery had told her that the prince had been seen leaving the keep on his horse, with a face like thunder. Rhaenys had thought little of it at the time. She had just spared a thought to be glad that he was giving her space and continued to cut up Daena's eggs while she ignored her ladies' sympathetic looks.

For the rest of the day, she had put him out of her mind entirely. She had spent the majority of it in the queen's chambers trying her best to comfort her stepmother, though she had also spent some time trying to arrange for the running of court. Her siblings had been a great help with Agnes - between Visenya, Rhaena and Daena someone always had a bright idea. Some of them had even made her laugh, however cracked and broken a sound it was.

When her husband had finally returned to the keep in the late afternoon, he had stunk of sex and cheap perfume. Half the court had seen him stalk through the halls like that, which Rhaenys knew because she had been with Lady Velaryon when it had happened, going over various household decisions that the queen had been in no condition to make. He had stormed right past her, not even pausing to wink at her ladies and set them giggling. 

She had heard the whispers springing up in his wake and had clenched her jaw so hard that a tooth had nearly cracked. Lady Velaryon had said nothing about the hot, humiliated tears springing to her eyes and had only made light conversation about the end of year celebrations until Rhaenys had gained control of herself once again. 

Then she had invited Rhaenys (just Rhaenys and her siblings) and her ladies to supper with herself and Lord Velaryon and their children. She had accepted, after sending a request with Emelia for Lady Alla Piper to sit with her sister again. It had done Queen Agnes good to spend time alone with her sister the day before, and Rhaenys had hoped that it would do so again. 

Ysilla had been sent to fetch Aegon, Visenya, Rhaena and Daena from the nursery, and had reported to Rhaenys in a whisper that the door to her own apartments was shut and locked.

So they had enjoyed a leisurely, companiable supper with the Velaryons and idly discussed the prospect of a match between Monterys and Daena. The food had been excellent, the music equally so, and the conversation just as stimulating. No Velaryon would ever do anything by half-measures. It had been a nice evening, and the children had not seemed to notice the tension that had grown in Rhaenys as time went on. 

Lady Velaryon had wrapped her in a tight embrace as they left, and told her that it was better to get it over with. So Rhaenys had sung Rhaena and Daena to sleep and then told Aegon to put Visenya to bed. He had looked at her doubtfully, but had only kissed her cheek and led Visenya to her rooms by the hand. 

Then she had sent away her ladies, telling them not to return to attend her until the next day. Emelia and Tremna had protested, with even Rhaena, Alysanne and Ysilla looking dubious, but Mara had known Rhaenys from childhood and Roslin had grown up in the Twins with many angry men unused to being denied. Between the two of them, her ladies had curtseyed and left with varying degrees of reluctance, even dear, confused little Sansa who had not yet learned that a royal title meant almost nothing.

Bracing herself, she had nodded to Ser Jonothor and unlocked the door to her apartments. When she had closed it behind her, she had heard the jingle of Ser Jonothor's chainmail as he shifted uncertainly and it had made her feel a little better. If it had not gone well, her husband was not the king and there were no vows preventing the Kingsguard from protecting her.

She had found her husband lounging in a tub of hot water, his eyes closed and looking as peaceful as if the whole day had not happened. That would have been enough to rouse her anger all over again, but it had been enflamed further by the sight of his skin littered in love bites that she had not put there and had been paraded around court.

Giving in to her temper, Rhaenys had taken the ewer of cold water standing beside the tub and upended it over his head. He had shouted, the sound almost as high-pitched as a babe's cry, and thrashed so violently that he had nearly slipped underneath the surface of the water. 

When he had recovered from the shock, he had glared up at her, but Rhaenys had jumped in before he had been able to get a word out. "Well? What do you have to say for yourself, husband?"

He had shrugged and his gaze had drifted shamelessly down her body. She had thrown the ewer into the tub with him, relishing in the choked sound he made as it had forced the air from his stomach. "What do you want me to say?" He had gotten out, after coughing for a full five minutes. "Fucking hell, Rhaenys."

That had set her off. She had started to shout and he had snapped back, and in the back of her mind she had known that Ser Jonothor would be bursting in soon but she hadn't cared. She had just wanted to find that words that would make him smart the way she had when he had paraded himself around the court like some reversed walk of atonement. 

In the end, it had been Oberyn who had brought the burgeoning fight to a halt. He had paused in the middle of a sentence, dashed his dripping hair out of his face and peered hard at her. Something had dawned in his eyes.

"Oh." He had said, and then stood up in the tub, depositing the ewer back onto the floor, and taken her hands in his. "You're angry, but I need you to explain why you're angry, Rhaenys. I cannot apologise if I do not know what I need to apologise for."

Her mouth had fallen open. "I want an apology for shaming me in front of the whole royal court! Is it that hard to understand?"

"And I intend to apologise for that," he had said calmly, somehow managing to keep his dignity despite being naked and dripping wet, "but I know there is something else that is troubling you. I cannot apologise for that if I do not know what it is."

She had stammered something about not knowing in the slightest what he was talking about, but the black eyes they both shared were bent on her and she had stuttered to a halt. 

Oberyn had wrapped a robe (that belonged to Rhaenys) about himself, and then they had had a long, painful conversation which they most likely should have had the morning after their wedding.

She had grudgingly acknowledged that her issue was less the visit to the Street of Silk than the public humiliation - in all honesty she was glad that he had taken his attentions elsewhere, but courtiers had already started whispering when she could not keep her husband to her bed after less than six moons of marriage. Most women could not, but it was not something that men did openly in King's Landing unless their intent was to shame their wife. 

He had apologised, floridly and elaborately, and then she had made him apologise again but actually mean it. To his credit, he had. He had also spontaneously promised to keep his indiscretions discreet - the whole point of their union had been, after all, to have a united front in order to protect her siblings.

Then he had apologised for trying to force the issue that morning, which had nearly spiralled into another argument. Apparently he hadn't realised she truly wasn't in the mood, rather than simply playing their usual game, and then she had said something mean and bitter about her never being in the mood as often as he was, which had sent him reeling.

Then he had demanded to know how often he had forced the issue unintentionally, and that had set off a whole new spiral. She had tried to brush it off because she had grown up hearing what happened when a man truly forced his rights, and even that morning he had not physically forced her to his bed as she knew the king had done often to his queens. Oberyn had turned an alarming colour as if he was about to be ill and told her that rape happened when a woman was coerced not just when she was physically forced.

He had smashed things and cried, she had smashed more things and cried back, and they had both ended up a miserable heap on the bed. There had been silence for so long she had wondered if he had fallen asleep. 

But then, "Rhaenys," his voice had been hoarse, "swear to me that the next time you aren't in the mood you will tell me. If you act no differently to our usual games and just wait for it to be over, I will not know and you will just become more unhappy. Tell me in plain words and I will leave you alone, but just...tell me, please." She had promised and he had cried again and apologised for possibly the sixth time in a row. 

Then they had nearly had another argument over her mother. He had brought it up, his voice turning solemn. "You cannot keep bringing Elia up to make me do things."

She had turned her back to him so he could not see her face. Was it her fault if he was so intractable that she needed to use her mother's memory to manipulate him? 

"Rhaenys."

"She was my mother." She had said mulishly. "I can talk about my own damn mother if I please. She was mine."

Elia Martell's closest brother had snapped as he always did when that sore spot was pushed. "She was my sister first, and your father killed her!"

"Don't call him that!" 

He had opened his mouth to speak, and then taken a deep breath and pulled her into his arms. She had slumped against him and curled into his chest, shuddering. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought up the king, it was cruel. I just...I just want you to explain things to me instead of hiding behind Elia's memory when you think I'll disagree."

And so, hiding her face in his shoulder, Rhaenys had finally voiced the fears which haunted her in the dark. She had told him about Saera's death, cut open like an animal for the prayer of a son not Elia Martell's. She had told him about her faint memories of Cersei, bearing child after child until her body had given out on her. And she had told him about dear, sweet Elerei who had feared childbirth so much that she had killed herself to escape it. 

It had been then, curled up in the dim candlelight with her husband's arms about her, that she had finally found the courage to read Elerei's letter.

My dearest Rhaenys, it had said, her hand as miniscule as ever. The ink is faded now, after years of being read and reread, but it had not been that first time. It had been as stark and black as her house sigil.

I want to apologise for leaving you. You, Aegon, Jaehaera, Visenya and my sweet Rhaena, but most of all, you. Your friendship was the one tolerable thing about this horrible grey land and its horrible grey people.

Without you I would not have lasted so long.

I won't go to the birthing bed again Rhaenys, please understand. I can't. Anything is better than that. Even the prospect of losing your friendship is a price I will happily pay if it means I will not go back into that room.

There. 

Perhaps you are angry at me now. You would be right to, and I am sorry but I will not take it back. I have to get out of here, Rhae, and I cannot leave alive.

Your gods may not forgive me but my goddess understands, and I go to her not to the Seven. 

Tell my Rhaena how much I loved her. Raise her to be as good and kind and clever as her namesake.

I'm sorry

Elerei

She had cried so hard that Oberyn had needed to take the letter away so her tears wouldn't smudge it. Then she had taken it back and read it again, and again, and again. Eventually, she had put it beneath her pillow and Oberyn had held her until she had regained some semblance of peace. 

He had promised her that he would not let her die in the birthing bed. He had enough daughters, if the choice came down to it he would pick her. He had pointed out that the reason she had lost so many stepmothers was her father's refusal to wait between children, leaving their bodies no time to recover. That was something she need never fear, Oberyn had earned his silver link and he would always give her time to rest.

Rhaenys had been comforted somewhat but had refused to budge. Thankfully, her husband had seemed to be wary of starting another argument. He had blown out the candles and they had settled into an uneasy sleep.

After that, things had calmed somewhat. Oberyn had stopped pushing so much, and taken the appetites she could not accommodate to the Street of Silk - secretly, so that the court had nothing to whisper about. He had still prodded a little about the moon tea, he couldn't help himself, but for the most part, things had gotten better. 

Queen Agnes had conceived again, though she had still been dangerously thin and weak and the king had not left her alone even after they had announced the imminent child. So Oberyn, Rhaenys and her siblings had spent much of their time with the queen, Oberyn's maester training proving its use. 

To her credit, the queen had been determined to continue fulfilling her duties, and had used Lady Velaryon as her deputy to oversee the Red Keep from her chambers. 

Jaehaera had returned after six moons, her arm looped happily through Viserys' own, smiling so brightly that she had almost been glowing. He had taken her north, she had told Rhaenys in a whisper, to Winterfell. She had met her Uncle Brandon and his wife Catelyn and her cousins - Robb, Sansa, Lyarra, Minisa, little Bran, and Grover. 

She had not seen any of her numerous bastard cousins, who Brandon fostered with various bannermen, but she had seen Eddard and Ashara and their children - Artos, Meria, Arya and Rickon - on the way past Moat Caillin. Even Benjen had come down from the Wall to meet Lyanna's daughter. 

And she had gone down into the crypts, where her mother's graven image had danced above her empty tomb. "She didn't look anything like the paintings." Jaehaera had said, her voice as hushed as if she had never left the crypt. "She looked like me but kinder and a bit braver. I cried all over Viserys."

Rhaenys, who had never been to Dorne nor seen her mother's face nor met her kin save for Doran, Mellario and Oberyn, had swallowed down her jealousy and held Jaehaera tight. If she could not, at least her sister, her first beloved sister, could. At least her sister had this.

Viserys had not bedded Jaehaera since their wedding night, her sister had reassured her. He had kept to his promise - and even if he had not intended to, Rhaella had quartered them on opposite side of the castle when they were on Dragonstone. She had one son who emulated Aerys, she had refused to have another. 

It had been a glorious two moons, and they had celebrated the turn into 297 before Viserys had whisked Jaehaera back to Dragonstone. Jaehaera had given her a weirwood amulet set with dragonglass and inscribed with the same runes the First Men had used. She had told her it was for protection, and that Rhaenys would need it. 

Court had been quieter without them, but Rhaenys had been unable to feel anything aside from relief that her sister was out of the king's reach once again. Agnes had lost the child one night, and the king had nearly had Pycelle executed when he said that if the king wished her to recover he should let her rest for at least half a year. 

He had compromised, and given her two moons, during which the faintest hint of colour had returned to the queen's cheeks, and she had presided over a feast without having to retire to rest. The meager progress she had been made had quickly been lost after the two moons were up, however, and Rhaenys had appointed Aegon and Daena to keep Agnes company when she was confined to her bed once more after the child bled out. 

Daena because she adored Agnes for whatever reason, and Aegon because the king disliked his only son enough to leave any room the Crown Prince entered. 

After Agnes lost yet another child, her face as white as her sheets, Rhaenys had come to a decision. It had been a very simple decision based on very complicated things. 

She had simply stopped drinking moon tea. It had been almost the hardest thing she had yet done in her life, but she had done it. Her next moon's blood had never come, and she had known her husband's seed had caught. 

He had been overjoyed. She had been terrified but had stiffened her spine and kept going. It had taken the court's scrutiny away from the Queen, and the king had left for a royal progress in a temper to get away from the sight of Elia Martell's daughter swelling with the Red Viper's child. He had not banished her from court, he was too fond of his precious reputation as a kind king and an indulgent father to dare banish her simply for doing her wifely duties, but he had been furious.

Rhaenys had counted on that. The queen was only four-and-twenty, from a fertile family, and had been healthy before she had wed the king. Constant pregnancies and the lack of rest had worn her down but with the king away she had been given a chance to recover. 

She had persuaded Agnes to simply rest and focus on regaining her strength. Rhaenys herself and Lady Velaryon had taken charge of court - the Lord Hand Jon Connington had sat on the Iron Throne in the king's absence but had done little save judge any petitions brought to him. The power had rested, not that he had realised it, with Rhaenys and her husband. 

In the two years since their marriage they had been careful to remain away from the slightest hint of scandal (save for their argument after Agnes bore the stillborn monster), and had shaped themselves into leaders among the courtiers - the queen was too ill to take her place at the head of court, and Rhaenys ranked above Lady Velaryon. 

So they had manoeuvred until the scandal of their marriage had scarcely mattered. Their presence was sought after at soirees and dinners and other entertainments, for Rhaenys had always clawed for any hint of power and Agnes' ill health meant that she was glad to give it to her.

On the occasions that they had entertained, the invitations had always been exclusive and highly sought after. Rhaenys, for all her isolated childhood, had still grown up in court and she had learned how to play the game - she had needed to, for the sake of her brother and sisters. 

The king had tried to avoid his eldest child and her husband as best he could, and he had taken little notice of the women's work involved in running court. By the time he had realised that Rhaenys had somehow taken herself from the king's least favourite child to the most powerful woman in court, it had been too late for him to do anything about it. He had taken the same approach that he always had to things he disliked - he had ignored it, as if ignoring Rhaenys would make her go away. 

It had not when she was a child, and it had not then. It would never have worked unless she had been able to take her brother and sisters with her. Even if she had been banished, she would have taken them with her and the king be damned.

So, with the king away, she had taken the opportunity to indulge them a little. 

The nursery had been redecorated, more nurses hired, Visenya had gained her own household in anticipation of her future position as Lady Paramount of the Westerlands. Aegon had been moved further down the corridor so that Visenya's rooms were between his and the ones Rhaenys shared with her husband. 

She had taken them out into the city, hunting in the Kingswood, sailing on the Blackwater and anything else she could think of. Usually, she had kept them in the nursery as much as she could - the king had mostly avoided the nursery, stuffed as it was with the many daughters he neither wanted nor cared for. If they had not left the nursery, then they had been away from the king and that had always been the best place for any of the daughters he disregarded so. 

But with him away, she had finally given them everything that she had always wanted. The Lord Hand had protested somewhat, but Rhaenys had distracted him with talk of 'women's work' and set her husband on him. He had not said a word against her again, and she had known even then that he would say nothing to the king - he had known as well as any other that telling the king he had been outmatched by Elia Martell's brother and daughter would lose him his position before he finished speaking.

The king had not returned until the beginning of 298, still in a rage because Jaehaera and her husband had been in Braavos when he had visited Dragonstone. It had been, Rhaenys had been proud to note, five moons. Not quite the amount of time the maester had recommended for Agnes to rest, but nearly. 

The queen had been so much improved that she had been able to compete in the archery during the tourney held to celebrate the king's return. She had not won, but that she could draw a bow at all had been a great victory. 

Of course, within a moon or so of the king's return Agnes had another child sucking the life out of her. Watching as her stepmother's skin paled and the flesh melted off her bones, Rhaenys wondered if this was what her mother had looked like when she carried Rhaenys and Aegon and the child that had never lived. She had not asked her uncle. Even for her, that would have been a step too far. 

Unlike her mother and stepmothers, Rhaenys had found that first pregnancy easy. She had felt guilty for it, watching as Agnes threw up everything she ate and wasted away, but it had been true. She had not swooned or been unduly ill, or even overly tired.

Perhaps it had been for the best. Now that his wish was granted and Rhaenys swelled with his child, Oberyn had been at once overjoyed and deeply fearful. He had been unable to keep his hands off her, had showered her with gifts and praise and adoration even more than was his wont. But at the same time, he had insisted on examining her every morning and evening, had charged her ladies with never letting her alone or allowing her to skip a meal, and had forbidden her to ride or practise archery. 

At night she had sometimes woken to find him just watching her, staring at her as if she were already dead and he was committing her face to memory against the long stretch of eternity. She had had little sympathy for his fears. He had wanted this child, and if he had misjudged the price he was willing to pay for it that was not her fault.

Scorning his fears had alleviated her own somewhat, but then Rhaenys had often been motivated by spite. It was a strange, twisted thing that hurt her as much as it helped her, but here it was godsent. Because of it she had shoved her fears aside with the sneer of one who found them childish and idiotic. She had continued to do as much as she had before just to spite her husband's worried dictates. 

As a result, it had been she who had planned Visenya's wedding. When her second sister had flowered, Rhaenys had gone before the king voluntarily for the first time in her life and begged on her knees for Visenya to be given time. 

It had been a stupid thing to do, and a mistake that she should have known better than to make. The king, out of spite, had instantly decreed that Visenya's wedding would take place as soon as preparations could be made. It had been the queen, tired and wilting, who had placed the preparations into Rhaenys' hands. That had not been spite - Agnes had known how much Rhaenys loved her sister, and she had given the handling of the wedding over to her as a gift. 

Just as she had for Jaehaera, Rhaenys had agonised over every detail of the wedding. It was her darling little sister being wed, and even if she had wished that the wedding had been delayed, she had known that Visenya was excited. 

Visenya had been betrothed in her cradle to her cousin Loreon, the firstborn son of her uncle Jaime and Lysa Tully. The few times that the pair had met, they had been friendly and gotten along easily. Loreon had dazzled her with tales of the Rock and her uncle had charmed her with tales of her mother's childhood. 

Her sister had fallen in love with the idea of wedding Loreon - of living across the continent from the king, of bearing children as golden as herself, of being a Lannister bride and not simply another unwanted Targaryen daughter. She had been dreaming of her wedding for years, and so Rhaenys had done her best to make it the wedding she had known her sister wanted. 

She had needed to fight with Visenya over the wedding gown, for her sister had wanted it to be entirely in the style of the Westerlands. "My mother was a Lannister, my husband is a Lannister and my children will be Lannisters. What's wrong with me dressing like a Lannister? You don't even like any of the Valyrian things, Nys, you always dress like a Dornishwoman, why do you want me to dress like a Targaryen so badly?"

Rhaenys had sat her down and explained that the king's pride in Valyria was a strange prickly thing that had to be indulged. If Visenya wore Valyrian style clothes just for the ceremony to keep the king happy, Rhaenys would be so grateful. Her sister had pouted and thought about it but had, as Rhaenys had known she would, agreed.

Then she had added that she had her whole life to dress in the Western style in the Rock where the king couldn't see her. She wanted Rhaenys to visit her though, as often as possible. Rhaenys had cried and Visenya had awkwardly patted her shoulder until Oberyn had come to the rescue, holding Rhaenys until she had calmed. 

So that had been that. Rhaenys had commissioned a Valyrian style gown for the ceremony, and given Visenya almost free reign over the Western style gown she wore for the feast afterwards. Almost. She had needed to veto several elements as being too provocative. They were trying to get through the wedding without an incident, not trying to make the king expire from suppressed rage. 

Aegon had flatly refused to wear red and black, and Rhaenys had not fought him overmuch. There was nothing that Aegon could do to make the king less determined to replace him, and Aegon cared nothing for the king's opinion either way. So she had let her brother dress himself in flame-coloured Dornish silks and kept him as out of sight as possible. 

To make up for it, she had dressed Rhaena and Daena in red and black, entirely in the Valyrian style, and had resigned herself to the same. Oberyn had flatly refused to wear the king's colours, though he had reluctantly agreed to a more neutral Crownlands' style than the Dornish silks he had first wanted. 

Jaehaera, a married woman returned for her little sister's wedding, had worn a Pentoshi gown of cloth of gold to match her husband's golden garb and bound her hair up beneath an equally gold veil. She and Viserys had maintained that the gold was merely in support of Visenya, but Rhaenys had known better. 

The king had liked Jaehaera in grey and white with winter roses on her loose hair, like a ghost of her dead mother. The deep gold had brought out the golden hint in her skin that she did not share with Lyanna, and the style had been entirely unlike the Northern fashions. Most notably, the veil had hidden the garland of silvery scars about Jaehaera's head. 

Rhaenys had said nothing, but had only held her sister tightly. If it had taken Viserys to set Jaehaera free of Lyanna Stark's ghost then she was glad of him. The dowager queen had come - but once again the Princess Daenerys had been left behind due to illness. 

Her ladies had all dressed in red and black, though in the style of their own households. Rhaena had chosen a high collar, unlike her usual low-necked gowns, but Rhaenys was fairly certain that she had a lover so perhaps it had not been that surprising. As long as she didn't have a bastard while in Rhaenys' own service she cared little. 

She had set Tremna to watch her though - if she had taken the wrong lover it could be dangerous for her, or she might be coerced into passing information on the royal family.

The wedding had gone as well as possible under the circumstances, though the king had gotten far enough into his cups that he had thought it was Jaehaera's wedding in his speech. Poor Visenya had flushed crimson, and the Lannisters had looked ready to commit a coup. 

Rhaenys had done her best to smooth things over in her own speech, not because she had cared a whit for the king's humiliation, but because she would be damned if Visenya's wedding did not go well. Thankfully it had soon been forgotten, though she had needed to kick her husband when the bedding had been called for - he had been pointedly dozing off during some dusty old lord's speech. 

To his credit, he had quickly recovered, and had swept Visenya up into his arms before the horde could reach her, and Viserys and Aegon had formed an honour guard to keep their ever-proud little sister from the humiliation of a bedding. Rhaenys had not bothered to join the crowd of giggling ladies about Loreon in her condition. 

In the morning, under the guise of checking on her sister, she had brought Visenya moon tea and made her sister drink it. Visenya had pouted and complained that she wanted Loreon's golden children, but she had agreed that it was more sensible to wait. 

Loreon himself had protested at first, but he had thankfully been somewhat in awe of Rhaenys. When she had asked for a private word he had turned the same colour as cold porridge - when she had smilingly threatened him with her husband should Visenya fall with child before she reached six and ten, he had nearly wet himself. But he had given his word and she had prayed that would be enough. 

To make certain, she had bypassed his parents entirely and contrived a chance meeting with Lord Tywin Lannister in the gardens.

From what she had recalled of the Old Lion when he had been the king's Hand, he had been ruthless and cold but deeply pragmatic. It had been that pragmatism she had appealed to as they walked idly through the gardens with her ladies trailing an appropriate distance behind them. 

After all, Lord Tywin had known his histories - Queen Aemma Arryn had been brought to childbed too early and it had killed her. He had known her grandmother personally and seen her struggles, born of Aerys' abuse but also born of her extreme youth when birthing the King.

He had agreed to keep Visenya discreetly supplied with moon tea until she was of a sensible age for childbearing. In turn, he had demanded a guarantee that failure would not see the Red Viper set on Loreon.

Rhaenys had smiled one of her uncle's sharp smiles, and told him that she expected him not to fail. It had gotten her a look of thoughtful respect, and a reluctant agreement. 

When the Lannister ship had left with Visenya a week later, she had been utterly humiliated to find that she could not quite keep her tears at bay. Visenya had been more embarrassed, particularly when Aegon and Jaehaera also teared up as they held her tightly. But Rhaenys had seen a suspicious glimmer in her sister's mismatched eyes, and known that her second sister had finally realised that leaving the king also meant leaving her siblings. 

Still, as much as she had always wanted to keep her siblings with her, she had also known that they were safer away from court. So she had put on a brave face and waved Visenya off. She did not trust the Lannisters to look after her sister, but she had known they looked after their own and Visenya was their own. Her sister would be fine. 

It had not kept her from weeping all over Oberyn in the privacy of their own apartments, but he had not minded overmuch. In those later days of her pregnancy he had taken his attentions entirely elsewhere, but he had still lavished her with the affection she so desperately craved. He had simply held her and rocked her as she wept, assuring her that Visenya would be well and happy as Jaehaera was.

The king had not come to farewell Visenya, but he had bestirred himself to farewell Jaehaera the next day. Her sister's face had pinched when he had insisted on embracing his favourite child and giving her yet another crown of winter roses.   Rhaenys had embraced her sister as well as she could with her womb so unwieldy, and had told her not to come back for the child's birth. 

Jaehaera had agreed, on the condition that Rhaenys bring her niece or nephew for a visit to Dragonstone as soon as she could travel. As that had still kept Jaehaera away from the king, Rhaenys had promised. 

She had not cried when the ship took Jaehaera, their uncle and their grandmother away. Unlike Visenya, Rhaenys had known that they would be well far away from the capital. She had been, perhaps, the slightest bit jealous that Jaehaera could simply leave it all behind her. But her remaining sisters and Agnes had needed her. She could not have abandoned them for freedom in Dorne, no matter how tempting. 

Three days later, Tremna had approached her grim-faced, reporting that she knew the identity of Rhaena's lover. Rhaenys had felt her stomach sink at the look on her lady's face and demanded to know who it could possibly be that the news was so terrible. 

Tremna had hesitated, her eyes darting away from Rhaenys' own black ones. 

The last time Tremna had looked so, it was when telling Rhaenys that the king's wandering eye had been turning to Ysilla, though they had managed to redirect him to Lucinda Celtigar who had been through more husbands than the king had been through queens.

Without waiting for Tremna to find her tongue, Rhaenys had turned and swept towards the chambers kept for her ladies. She had been in her eighth month then, only a few days before she went into confinement, but she had moved quickly enough that Tremna had been unable to stop her. 

Expecting to find the king in Rhaena's bed, and Rhaena herself unhappy, Rhaenys had marched into her lady-in-waiting's rooms with Tremna only a breath behind her. Rhaena had been there, straddling her lover, riding him as he lay back against the pillows.

The man with Rhaena had not been the king. His hair had been black, not silver. His skin had been bronzed and scarred, not pale and soft. His eyes had been black not purple, the same almond-shaped black eyes that Rhaenys herself bore. 

It had been, in short, her own husband in bed with Rhaena. She had stopped short in the door, feeling as if all the wind had been knocked out of her. Their marriage was not one of romantic love, but for him to take one of her own ladies...she had felt the hot flush of humiliation return.

Rhaena had seen her first, and smiled as she moved atop of Rhaenys' husband. "Hello, Rhaenys."  Oberyn had frozen, and made an aborted move to...something. She never knew what it was, because Rhaena had undulated her hips and he had groaned like a dying man.  Rhaena's smile had widened, and her eyes had silently dared Rhaenys.

Rhaenys had felt herself turn very cold, as if everything inside her chest had been scooped out. Her siblings all had the hot temper of the Targaryens, but Rhaenys had never been able to afford such a luxury. She had turned cold when she was truly angry, and calculating. "Remove your person from my husband, Lady Rhaena."

Cheeky, irreverent Rhaena had frozen and stared at Rhaenys as if she had never seen her before. Perhaps she had not - Rhaenys had never had to go into that cold, empty place where Rhaena could see before. 

Taking advantage of her stillness, Oberyn had separated himself from Rhaena and stood up, walking towards Rhaenys with his hands up as if he were approaching a wild animal. He had started to say something, but she had cut him off. "I wish to speak with Lady Rhaena, Oberyn. We can speak in our chambers later, in private."

Lady Velaryon had once told her that she had her mother's temper - cold and cruel when it was least expected. Perhaps Oberyn had seen her mother in her, because he had just bowed and left, grabbing his cloak on the way out. Tremna had closed and locked the door behind him. 

Rhaena, still unashamedly nude, had unfrozen as the door closed. She had stretched and then sprawled in a way that showed off her slender figure - a figure that Rhaenys, heavy with child, did not have. "Are you going to cry now, Rhaenys? Isn't that what usually happens when a wife finds another woman in her husband's bed?"

There had been a choked off sound of outrage from Tremna, but Rhaenys had ignored it. She had, right up until Rhaena had purposefully taunted her, thought of her lady-in-waiting as a friend. She had trusted her. 

Had Rhaena simply slept with Oberyn, she could perhaps have forgiven it. Not forgotten, but forgiven. She had never laid a claim to his fidelity, only to his discretion. She would have preferred to know that Oberyn had moved from whores to her ladies, but if the choice lay between her ladies and indulging his appetites while heavily pregnant she would pick her ladies every time. 

Had it been simple lust, she would not have minded half so much. She would have been humiliated and angry, but she would not have been betrayed.

She had seen Rhaena's smile when she realised that Oberyn's wife was watching them. Rhaena had wanted to hurt her, for whatever reason. That Rhaena had used her husband, her mother's brother to do so was unforgivable. 

Rhaena's smile had wavered and fallen the longer Rhaenys had kept her cold silence. She had started to babble, trying to provoke a reaction, taunting her with all the things she had done with Oberyn. 

Rhaenys had kept her silence. She had fixed her black eyes on Rhaena and watched as her lady-in-waiting flushed and paled and stuttered to a stop. 

Then, and only then, had she spoken into the silent room. 

"You are dismissed from my service, effective immediately. I shall send a rider to Lord Leyton, who shall most certainly be disappointed in his granddaughter's actions." Rhaena's face had crumpled, but Rhaenys had not been finished. "If I were a crueller woman, I would keep you locked up in here until the bastard my husband has most certainly planted in you was born. As it is, if you hurry you may reach the Hightower before you are too advanced for moon tea. You shall receive none from me or from any in the Red Keep."

She had left Tremna to watch the now-white woman and departed to seek her husband. Rhaena would be sent home in disgrace, most likely too far along to safely dispose of the bastard in her belly, and Lord Hightower would be most wroth with her. It had not sated the snarling creature in her chest, but it had appeased it somewhat. 

No doubt the Hightowers would add to Rhaena's punishment - after all, a maiden in the service of the eldest princess had a significant chance of catching the eye of many a great lord, or even the Crown Prince. She could have made a great match, and instead had turned herself into a whore for another woman's husband. 

No, Rhaenys did not think that her former lady-in-waiting would receive a fond welcome. Perhaps she would send the bastard to be raised with Oberyn's other children in Dorne. They had all been at the Water Gardens, in her elder uncle's care after the death of Lady Ellaria. He had spoken of bringing them to the Red Keep once, but neither of them had wished to subject her cousins to the hellscape that was the king's court.

Her husband had been sitting in their shared solar, thankfully fully dressed. "Rhaenys, are you well? The babe-"

"Is fine." She had said, still as cold as she had been from the moment Rhaena had smiled at her as she fucked her husband. "Little that you care."

"That is unfair." Rhaenys had laughed and demanded how exactly it was unfair if he was fucking her own lady-in-waiting not a corridor away from her own apartments. Her uncle had not found it amusing. "Rhaenys, the only reason I turned to the women in the Keep was so that I was near you, not off in the middle of the city where it could be hours before word reached me if anything happened. I did not want to leave you, darling, I wanted to stay as close as I could."

"So your solution to that was to seduce my lady-in-waiting?" She had not even tried to keep the disbelief away from her face or her voice.

"I meant to find a maid or a groom," he had shrugged, "but Rhaena offered herself. She-"

Rhaenys had cut him off. "If you say a word about how good she is in bed, I swear, I will tell Aegon you slept with my lady-in-waiting and let him cut your throat. You saw the look on her face."

"Yes, I did," Oberyn had raise his hands as if faced with a wild animal, "but I swear, she had done nothing to suggest she felt that way. If she had I never would have touched her. You come first Rhaenys, you know this."

"She did nothing? Nothing at all?"

Her uncle had paused at the look in her eyes and visibly thought it over. "She may have sounded jealous at times, but what woman would not be jealous of you?" He had come over to her, wrapping his arms about her and gods if Rhaenys hadn't let him. He was the only person who had ever held her and comforted her, and even in her turmoil she turned to him. "Such a beautiful little princess I have. Perfect Rhoynish curls, skin like pure gold, eyes so deep a man could get lost in them and a cunt so sweet I could search the Seven Heavens and find nothing to match it."

"You haven't been inside me for a moon, and I am as fat as a beached whale." Rhaenys had tried to pull herself away, but only succeeded in being turned around as her husband had kissed his way down the skin of her neck. "Let me go, Oberyn, I have things to do and now I have to fix the mess you made by sleeping with one of my ladies."

His hands had started to roam, one hand cupping a breast, the other reaching down to rest over her heavy womb. "Rhaenys, the Gods could not have made you more glorious if they tried. You were perfection made flesh on the night of our wedding, and you have only grown lovelier since, is it any wonder I could not keep my hands off you in the first moons of our marriage? And now, fuck, there is no sight in all of the world better than you heavy with my child. Gods, Rhaenys, you don't know what you do to me."

Rhaenys had pulled herself away, trying desperately to keep herself together. "You swore to me you would be discreet, Oberyn. Turning my lady into a whore is not discreet. Making whores of your wife's ladies-in-waiting is what the Mad King did to my grandmother."

Her uncle had stiffened and pulled away. When he spoke again, his voice had been distinctly colder. He had snapped that if he was Aerys then she, with her jealousies and her petty games, was Rhaegar.

She does not quite remember the next few minutes beyond a haze of anger and hurt. What she does recall is when she came back to her senses, finding herself clawing at her husband and screaming for him to "shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!"

Oberyn had only held her to him, gently, to stop her doing herself an injury as he whispered apologies into her hair and pleas for her to calm down, for the child's sake if nothing else. She had done so, reluctantly, letting him carry her over to the bed and set her down. Then he had knelt before her and apologised, firstly for bringing up the king, then for keeping his dalliance with Rhaena from her, and finally for the dalliance itself. 

Rhaenys had tried to be fair. She had forgiven the first, and had forgiven the latter two provided that he tell her if he was toying with any noblewomen. It had not been the infidelity that had wounded her so but the secrecy, and he had sworn not to go behind her back again. Then, and only then, had she finally let him alleviate her fears by examining her - and, as she had known, their child was fine. There was too much Martell in their blood for so small a thing to affect it. 

A few days later, she had gone into confinement. Her ladies had known that Rhaena had been sent away, though only Mara, Tremna and Emelia had known why, and she had not had the time to replace her. 

Instead, she had spent the better part of a fortnight going half-mad, just waiting for her child to be born. When she had attended previous births it had been as a companion, and she had been able to leave and keep busy. As the expectant mother, she had had no such diversion, only to pray and sew and gossip.

She had had her ladies with her, and the queen and Lady Velaryon, and even Visenya had been brought back from the Rock to help her sister. Jaehaera, Rhaenys had been glad to note, had kept her promise and sent a letter pleading illness. 

Oberyn, breaking all the rules, had snuck into the birthing chamber just before two weeks had passed. Her only attendants at the time had been Tremna and Visenya, both of whom had been happy enough to turn their backs on a little rule breaking. She had been miserable and impatient, and he had informed her mischievously that in some parts of Essos they believed intercourse would set off labour. 

She had been desperate enough to agree, and within the next day her waters had broken. (When she had told him afterwards that it had worked, Oberyn had been unduly smug, and she had deputed Aegon to hit him.)

It had taken, she had been told, 13 hours for her first child to be born. It had felt like an eternity at the time, as if she were about to explode, or possibly implode, into a boneless puddle of agony. 

She remembers little beyond a lot of pain and a lot of blood and so much fear that she had nearly drowned in it. This had killed Lyanna, and Cersei, and Saera, and had weakened her mother so much that she too had died. Elerei had killed herself to avoid it. She had clung to Lady Velaryon between pains, begging her to look after her sisters if anything should happen to her.

Somehow, at the end of it, she had been alive. 

Her whole lower half had been in so much pain that it was as if it did not exist, just a formless mass of heat and agony. She had been more tired than she had ever been in her life, but she had been alive and her child had been alive. She had not cared about anything else. She had lived, and that was all that had mattered. 

Oberyn, when he had been allowed in after the sheets had been changed and she had been cleaned somewhat. He had been pale and his eyes had been red, and the embrace he wrapped her in had been almost more gentle than she had thought him capable of. 

They had huddled together, looking at their child, half-laughing, half-crying as the other women had bustled about in an attempt to give them a little privacy. Lady Velaryon had already left to inform the king that his daughter had successfully given birth to a healthy child - not that he had cared. 

"What have you called her?" Her uncle had asked eventually, his voice thick. 

She had exchanged a wicked smile with Visenya, who had been perched on her other side. "Do you want to tell him, little sister?"

Visenya had grinned widely at Oberyn, the gap between her front teeth finally closing. Their uncle, as always, had humoured her and played the guessing game. All of his names had, of course been wrong, and Visenya had started to wiggle with eager anticipation before Mara had stilled her with a reminder not to jostle Rhaenys. 

"May I, Nys?" Rhaenys had nodded, watching her husband's face carefully. "Nys called him Eleryn."

Oberyn had nodded automatically and then stuttered to a halt in the middle of pronouncing it a fine name. "H...him?"

"Yes, him." Tired and in pain as she was, Rhaenys had felt the smile creep across her face as inexorably as a forest fire. "That is how you refer to a son, Uncle."

Eleryn Martell, entirely unaware of the upheaval he had brought into the world, had yawned in his mother's arms. He had been squashed and purple and odd-looking in the way of all newborns, and Rhaenys had loved him then as fiercely as she does now. 

He had been born with an uncle and four aunts all ready to love him enough to make up for the world, but he had also been born with a father and a mother who loved him just as much. And that, Rhaenys had decided, had been enough of a headstart in life for him to do anything that he set his mind to. 

Chapter Text

The king had been furious that Rhaenys had successfully given her husband a living child without dying in the process. That her child had been a son had only made him angrier. 

So angry, in fact, that he had deigned to send for Rhaenys as soon as she had been settled back into her own chambers the following day. Oberyn, though the king's summons had been explicitly for Rhaenys and her child only, had insisted on accompanying her as far as he was allowed.

The White Bull, drawn and grey and unable to meet Rhaenys' gaze, had made only a token protest at Oberyn's presence and the flash of relief in his eyes had sent a cold prickle down her spine.

He had taken Eleryn so that Oberyn could carry Rhaenys instead of making her walk. Her uncle was strong for all his narrow frame, and she had never been very tall, so he had lifted her as easily as if she had weighed no more than a feather. She had looked over her uncle's shoulder to see the aging knight's face break into a delighted smile as he looked down at her son, though she had been too far away to hear whatever nonsense was spilling from his lips. 

When they had reached the king's apartments, she had insisted on entering on her own feet. Oberyn had protested, the whites of his eyes blown wide and bloodshot, but she had made him let her down. She would be damned if she let the king see her weakened.

She had held Eleryn as tightly as her shaking arms were capable of, and she had walked into that room under her own power. It had, unsurprisingly, felt as if every bone in her lower body had been replaced with wildfire but she had done it. The door had closed behind her, separating her from her husband, and she had silently prayed nothing would happen that would lead to a fight - she happened to like the White Bull.

The king had been sitting in the same chair as the last time he had sent for her. He had looked...deeply disappointed when Rhaenys had entered, dressed in her husband's colours. She had limped and her skirts had been stained with blood, but she had walked in on her own two feet. She had smiled and knelt, because if the king intended to play like that then she was going to win. 

The threats he had made the last time he had spoken to her alone were powerless. She was wed, to a man who would be more than happy to commit regicide should the king touch her. And she had the son he had spent her life in search of.

For a long moment, there had been silence. She had wondered if the king had simply sent for her to watch her kneel until she collapsed (it would not be beyond him). But he had stirred at last, and risen from his chair to peer down at Eleryn in her arms. She had not so much as flinched, despite the smell of spirits surrounding him. 

The king had drawn back the swaddling that hid her son's face and his perfect features had distorted into a sneer of digust. He had wondered aloud if the gods had cursed his house to only have sons marred by the Dornish taint. 'Elia's look', he had named it, as if taking after her mother were an insult. 

Then he had turned his eyes upon her. Rhaenys had still been tired from her labour, her body oddly shaped as the space made for her son was suddenly empty.

"He's ruined your beauty," the king had said, peering down at her. "You look like a fat whore now. I suppose you take after your mother - you ruined what little good looks she could ever lay claim to as well. I wonder how many births it will take before the Viper tires of you."

Rhaenys had bitten her tongue and murmured something about being a loyal and obedient wife, which had wrung a high-pitched, cruel laugh from the king. "Oh, I see how it is. You'll pant after the Viper long after he's through with you, hoping he'll put another child in your belly to tie him to you when this one dies. Do you really think he'll have you now?" 

The iron taste of blood had flooded her mouth, but she had not said anything. He had seen something of the dark hatred in her eyes though, and had scowled, flinging himself back into his chair. "Just like your mother," he had spat, and then wondered if her mother had shared the same preference for Oberyn Martell - if that was why Rhaenys and Aegon looked so little like the king himself. 

"I cannot imagine that your Grace would have allowed my uncle so close to your queen." She had said, keeping her head down and her arms tightly about her son. 

"No, I did not. Your mother knew her place at least." Something mean and small and cruel had come into his eyes, a familiar expression whenever his eyes landed upon Rhaenys. "Unlike you. She had the decency to free me of her, something you'll never do. You'll stick around growing uglier and fatter and more unwanted until you die alone and mocked. You never did know when to stop. Neither did your brother. Perhaps this one will know when it isn't wanted. Perhaps it will die and rid us all of the burden of its presence like its grandmother."

He had continued in that vein for some time, his eyes alight with something awful as they ran over her body. But eventually, after what had felt like forever, he had dismissed her. 

Rhaenys had risen, curtseyed and left the room without looking back. Her head had been swimming and her skirts had been entirely red by the time she had left - she had bled all over his expensive carpets which Mara had later told her had needed to be burned. It had been a small and petty victory, but the king was a small and petty man and a victory was a victory.

Outside, Ser Oswell's mail had jingled as his shoulders had relaxed upon seeing her walk out with her head held high. Oberyn had clearly been pacing up and down, his hands straying between the various places she knew he kept hidden blades. 

He had been at the point of turning around when she had exited, and had appeared at her side so fast that she had barely seen him move through the spots in her vision. Wordlessly, he had wrapped his arms about her and just held her, mindful of Eleryn in her arms. 

Rhaenys had hidden her face in her uncle's shoulder, trying desperately to stop the hot tears that pricked at her eyes. Perhaps sensing them, or perhaps feeling how hard she was shaking, Oberyn had taken Eleryn from her and handed him to Mara before sweeping her up into his arms again. 

The sudden change in position had finally succeeded in doing what the king had not, and Rhaenys had fallen into blessed, dark unconsciousness. 

She had woken to find herself in her own bed, in a clean nightgown, one hand held by her husband, who was slumped in a chair on one side of the bed. He had been asleep, but the bruises beneath his eyes had been dark and he had been ruffled in a way she had never seen before. 

Her other hand had been held by Rhaena. Her sister had curled up against her side and draped the hand over her as best she could - as if Rhaenys had been holding her the way she so often did

Aegon had been sat in a chair to the opposite side of the bed from Oberyn, holding Eleryn in the crook of one arm and a sleeping Daena on his opposite knee. He had been singing a lullaby in a low voice to their youngest sister but had looked up as Rhaenys had stirred. 

Her first and closest sibling had smiled, a tension in his shoulders releasing ever so slightly, and she had smiled back. Later, Aegon had told her all that she had missed, and Oberyn had held her to him as if she were no more than a babe herself, and their younger sisters had all cried and clung to her. 

That had been later, however. Right then, it had just been Aegon and Rhaenys and the silence of a room full of children.

After that particular episode, she had been confined to bed rest by Oberyn, who had fussed around her like a mother hen. It had provided her with much hilarity, though she had found it less amusing after her ladies, Aegon, Rhaena and Daena had joined in. 

Possibly the only one who hadn't treated her as if she were made of glass had been Eleryn, who had cried and yawned and fouled himself as if everything was entirely ordinary. 

Her eldest uncle had sent her a long, warm letter and showered both her and Eleryn with gifts. To Oberyn, his brother had sent a stiff note of congratulations on his newest child that had mostly consisted of further remonstrances for getting a child off Elia's daughter.

Two of her husband's own daughters had come to court to bring gifts from their sisters and meet their only brother. Rhaenys had met her cousins once when she was very young, at the tourney of Harrenhal. She had not remembered meeting them naturally, and so had known them only by name, court having been deemed too dangerous for bastard girls.

Obara had been the daughter of a whore in Oldtown, and Nymeria had been born to a Volantene noblewoman, yet Nymeria had obeyed her elder sister with no thought to the disparity of their ranks. Perhaps it was because both were bastards.

They had been very kind to Rhaenys, and she had rather liked meeting more of her mother's kin, bastards or no. She had been predisposed to like her cousins, whom she had known only through her husband's fond recollections, but they had won her entirely over by doting on her son. Neither had spoken to their father a word more than absolutely necessary. 

After a moon, they had returned to Dorne, bringing gifts from Oberyn and Rhaenys to their kin. 

Tremna, Mara and Emelia had remained cold to Oberyn for a long time. He had laughed away the disdain of Mara and Emelia, but she had seen that Tremna, his kinswoman, had struck him nearer than he had let on. 

Alysanne had never liked Oberyn to begin with, and Ysilla had always been reserved. Rhaenys had never known how much the two had been told of Rhaena's disgrace, but they had clearly suspected something like the truth by their attitudes.

Roslin had guessed of course. She had grown up in a cesspit almost as bad as the royal court, and she knew men.

Only sweet, innocent little Sansa had believed the official story - they had told her that Rhaena had found religion and left the capital to retire to a distant motherhouse in pious peace. She had thought it romantic.

All of them had doted on Eleryn though. Rhaenys had never seen anything so lovely as her son. Eleryn had developed the same black curls and dark eyes and bronzed skin as his parents, and the same nose. Rhaenys would have loved her son no matter what he looked like, but she had been darkly satisfied when he had turned out to look nothing like a Targaryen. 

Half a moon after her son's birth, Rhaena's replacement had arrived. Meredyth Tarly had been quiet and dutiful and very much unlike the charming, effervescent Rhaena. Her elder sister had recently been wed to Lord Willas Tyrell, and she had been subtly determined to make an equally good match. 

Rhaenys had respected that ambition, but had not trusted Meredyth. Reachers, as her uncle had always said, were tricky folk.

The king's temper at Eleryn's birth had thankfully taken the form of brooding. He had spent long hours sitting in his chambers, and all but ignored Agnes as the child within her had grown. 

She had been grateful for the rest, and taken the opportunity to simply relax. It had not made her any stronger, not with the king's seed sucking the life from her from within, but she had least not grown any weaker. 

She had been strong enough in her sixth moon, two moons after Eleryn's birth, to take over the running of court when Rhaenys had healed enough to visit Jaehaera as she had promised.

Rhaenys had not been allowed to take her siblings with her, but Aegon had promised to her that he would keep Rhaena, Daena and the queen safe and despite his dissolute habits, she trusted her brother. He knew what he was doing.

Besides, it had only been a short visit - a mere fortnight, for fear that the king would decide to also visit Jaehaera.

The voyage had been smooth and short enough, and the island with its fortress as dark and forbidding as any ghost tale would have it. Rhaenys had wondered how her sister could love the place so much, drawing Eleryn close against her. 

But then she had seen her sister waiting for her on the docks. 

Jaehaera had been bronzed and glowing, and the reason for her heavy veils at Visenya's wedding had been revealed - she had cut her hair scandalously, almost boyishly short. 

It had not suited her face at all. It had made it too long and bony, had revealed the livid scar at the base of her neck and hidden the silvery ones about her forehead. But she had looked nothing at all like Lyanna Stark.

Oberyn had taken Eleryn, which had freed Rhaenys to run down the gangplank and into her little sister's arms. Jaehaera had grown again, until she was nearly a head taller than Rhaenys. Her body had been covered with corded muscle, and when she had smiled she had revealed teeth made crooked by some heavy blow. 

Rhaenys had not been able to help her laughter. "I see Viserys has taken you on a few more adventures than you reported, sister." Jaehaera, tall and bronzed and almost a stranger, had laughed and held Rhaenys so tightly her ribs had twinged in protest, promising to tell her everything that had happened.

Court raised as they both were, protocol had asserted itself long enough for Rhaenys to greet her hosts - her grandmother, who had held herself taller on her own island and with her eyes less like a hunted animal's, who had held her nearly as fiercely as Jaehaera and exclaimed over Eleryn with just as much delight.

Viserys, who had grown as tanned and muscled as Jaehaera, with just as many scars. He too had doted on Eleryn, and had lifted her and twirled her around as if she weighed no more than a feather. 

She had finally met Daenerys, and understood at once why her grandmother had kept her daughter away from court. Her aunt had been young and sweet and sheltered, so much so that Rhaenys would have thought Daenerys far more than two years her junior. But Daenerys had also been a classic Valyrian beauty, with silver-gold hair and purple eyes and an uncanny perfection that she had seen only in the king. 

Rhaenys had imagined the king's reaction should this unwed, lovely sister be brought to court and shuddered. She had embraced Daenerys tightly and exchanged a look with her grandmother over the girl's shoulder. She had found another child to protect from the king.

Her visit to Dragonstone had been short, but wonderful. Jaehaera had told her of all the adventures Viserys had taken her on, and all the ones they planned to go on. She had introduced her to the three orphans that had clung to her like limpets - Garin had been found on the banks of the Rhoyne, Ara on the streets of Pentos, and Netty on Dragonstone itself. They had called Rhaenys 'milady', but they had called Jaehaera 'mother'. 

"It's only been three years," Rhaenys had said, handing Eleryn off to his wet nurse, "how have you managed to do so much?"

Jaehaera had smiled slyly and shrugged. "You can do a lot away from court, Nys. Visit Senya next time you're free, there's a reason they're calling her the Great Lion's favourite cub." Rhaenys had looked so horrified (Tywin Lannister had drowned his most powerful vassals down to the last child) that Jaehaera had been forced to elaborate. "Nothing bad - she's practically taken over the Rock, you know. Her goodmother's no match for one of us, and if she told Loreon to jump off a cliff I genuinely think he'd obey her. Her grandfather dotes on her terribly, from what I saw the last time I visited."

Rhaenys, who's letters from Visenya had all been full of meaningless anecdotes and idle chatter, had resolved to visit her second sister as soon as she made the time. The best Hand the king had ever appointed had been Tywin Lannister, and if Visenya had managed to win his favour then she must have grown far beyond the child Rhaenys had farewelled. 

She had spent a surprising amount of time with her grandmother as well. Jaehaera had spent most of her days, when not catching up with Rhaenys, off with Viserys - they had rambled all over the island whenever they were there, which was considerably less often than court had believed. 

So Rhaella and Daenerys had entertained Rhaenys whenever her sister was not in the castle. Daenerys had shyly given her gifts for Eleryn, and been sweeter than any of Rhaenys' sisters could ever have managed - they had all been born and raised to breathe the insincerity of court, whereas Daenerys never thought to dissemble even the slightest thing.

Rhaella had taken her aside once, and asked her if she knew that her husband was spending long hours in the brothel at Dragonstone's tiny port. Rhaenys, who had not let her husband into her bed since Eleryn's birth, had reassured her grandmother that she knew Oberyn's habits well, and received a fierce hug that left her blinking away tears. 

When they had returned to court, it had seemed strangely dull and colourless. Dragonstone had been bleak and dreary, but Jaehaera had been so happy that it was easy to forget. Court had been a nest of vipers, for all its beauty and vibrancy, and Rhaenys had found it harder than ever to simply bite her tongue and play the game. 

Oberyn had found a favourite bedmate in Merei, a Pentoshi noblewoman who had come with Lady Saera and stayed to watch over her half-sister's daughter. After the one time she had suggested a bedmate for him and he had accused her of attempting to control him, Rhaenys had not openly involved herself with her husband's affairs. 

But she had carefully engineered his meeting with Merei, who was more loyal to Daena than anyone else, and had known well that she owed her niece's continued wellbeing to Rhaenys. He had kept his word and told her of Merei, and she had kept her word and left well alone. 

She had thought that that would be that - they had a son, they were keeping a close eye over her siblings, and they had not loved each other as husband and wife. He had loved her as his sister's daughter, and desired her body, and Rhaenys had been starved enough of affection that she had revelled in both. But if he only loved her as a kinsman, that would be enough. 

That had been how she had assumed they would live from henceforth. They would keep the same apartments but sleep in different bedchambers and her uncle would take as many lovers as he pleased. He would still dote on her and on their son, but they would not share a bed. 

Most of her had been relieved, but there had been a not insignificant part that had been ever so slightly disappointed and not only because of the king's taunts. Whatever else her uncle had been, he had been a generous lover - and when she had been in the mood she had enjoyed the execution of her wifely duties. 

It was that part of her that, when her uncle had entered her chamber four moons after Eleryn's birth and dismissed her ladies, had awakened a curl of tentative heat in her belly. 

She had nodded to them, and stayed sitting before her vanity in silence as they left. Most of them had looked dubious, and Mara had had that look in her eyes that suggested she was ready to empty the decanter in her hand over Oberyn's head. Dear Emelia had walked into him hard enough to make him stagger a little, saying in an entirely unapologetic voice that she had gotten dizzy and lost her balance.

Sweet little Sansa had looked so worried. As the door had closed, her voice had floated through, asking if Emelia's dizzy spell had abated enough for her to watch Eleryn, or if she wanted Sansa to stay with her until the wet nurse arrived.

Oberyn had come up behind her, taking up the hairbrush Emelia had abandoned and pulling it through her hair in gentle, even strokes. 

Rhaenys had watched him in the mirror, but he had seemed entirely focused on a stubborn snarl that Emelia had been threatening to cut out a few moments earlier. Her uncle had never been able to endure silence for long, however. 

"Have you ever thought of inviting another to your bed?"

She had counted silently to ten in Old Rhoynish, and then to fifteen in High Valyrian. "Really, Oberyn?"

Her uncle had placed the brush down with a click and placed his hands on her shoulders, his eyes meeting hers through the mirror. "Do you not think Lady Bar Emmon lovely? She certainly seems to think you are." They had both seen the flush that rose on her cheeks, and his face had split into the wicked grin that sent heat racing through her.

"I don't think-" She had cut herself off as one of his hands strayed from the shift to her bare skin. "Fine, yes she is, but that isn't- what do you want?"

"It's been four moons," his voice had rasped a little, and she had cursed as the blush on her cheeks had deepened, "and you're well healed."

In an attempt to keep the last of her sanity, she had raised her chin belligerently and made her voice as tart as she could. "Between Lady Merei, two stablehands, a scullery maid, a guard or three and whatever whores you pay to frequent your bed, are you really so desperate, Uncle?"

"Jealous?" She had bitten her lip and shaken her head, watching his eyes darken. He had grinned. 

"Would it appease you to hear that none of them are half so sweet as you? That I leave them insulted because I can think of nothing but you?" His voice had dropped to a whisper, and his mouth had been so close to her ear that his breath had ghosted over the shell of it. "We had an agreement, Rhaenys. Tell me you do not want me, and I will leave you alone."

Rhaenys had closed her eyes and tried to think. Did she want him? She had wanted someone, and the heat that grew in her belly had intensified at the thought of letting him back into her bed. He had promised to let her alone if she did not want him, but tonight... "I want you, Uncle, but I won't have you without moon tea."

"Whatever my princess wants.'' He had all but purred, and bent to capture her lips. He had kissed her often since Eleryn's birth, but it had been chaste and innocent - he had kissed her as a kinsman, not a husband. This was no kinsman's kiss.

She had been gasping when he pulled away, and the coil in her belly had wound so tightly she had wondered if she would explode. Her uncle had lifted her easily from her seat, cradling her in his arms as if she weighed no more than Daena as he had sought her lips out again. 

Rhaenys had kissed him back, hard, one arm about his shoulders and the other buried in his hair. He had grown it out a little since Eleryn's birth, and she had discovered that tugging on it made a delicious groan rumble in his chest and out into her mouth. 

She had done it again, pressing herself against him as best she could, and then he had reached the bed, laying her gently against the pillows for all his eagerness.

It had been a flurry of desperate undressing, her shift on the ground in tatters, his robe hanging half off his shoulders, and then he had somehow ended with his head between her legs as she lay back against the pillows. 

Perhaps she should have felt self-conscious. Her thighs and waist had thickened since Eleryn's birth, and odd marks had appeared on the skin. She had torn when her son had emerged, and the stitches had probably left ugly scars there. But she had felt nothing except a burning impatience. 

Perhaps it had been spite for the insults the king had spewed at her. Perhaps it had been because she had known that her husband would fuck anything that would have him. 

She had spread her legs wide with only the slightest twinge of apprehension that had quickly died away under his hungry gaze. No woman could feel self conscious with a man looking at her so ravenously.

He had put his mouth on her and brought her to such a peak that she screamed, and when she had come down he had still been there and thrown her into another in such quick succession that she had seen stars. And then he had kissed his way up her body, praise and compliments tumbling out in between each breathless press of lips to her flesh until he claimed her lips once again. 

She had bucked her hips against his impatiently, pulling away to beg in the way she knew he liked, pleading for her uncle to fuck her. He had hushed her, kissing his way along her jaw. "It's alright, little niece. Let Uncle take care of you tonight. You can be good for me, yes?"

He had not teased her for long, too eager to deny himself for any stretch of time. It had been strange and a little uncomfortable, having him inside her when she had changed so much to birth Eleryn. But he had dropped his head to her shoulder and trembled once he was all the way inside her, and that had made her feel powerful. 

So she had ignored the discomfort, and wrapped her arms about him, feeling how tightly wound each muscle was as he shook like a leaf in the wind. A part of her had softened a little, realising he was trying so very hard to regain enough control to be gentle with her. She hadn't wanted gentle though.

"Fuck me, Uncle." She had breathed into his ear, and clenched down around him until his eyes had rolled back into his head. "Fuck your little niece until she forgets everything but you." 

And he had. The discomfort had passed quickly, and her uncle had coaxed peak after peak out of her body until she had been a trembling, sweaty mess without a thought in her head. After everything, it had almost been a relief not to have to think. She had just let him fuck her, and revelled in the praise that spilled from his lips. 

It had been a very long night, and the next morning Aegon had eyed her wearily across the breakfast table. "Really, Nys? All night? I don't think I got a wink of sleep."

"Not my fault." She had said, feeling unusually cheerful. "Blame my husband, he's the one with something to prove."

Oberyn had reached for her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, black eyes bent wickedly on her brother. She had done her level best not to flush in front of Rhaena and Daena, though her ladies had been torn between giggling and glowering disapproval. 

She had met Emelia's eyes, bent on the bruises her uncle had sucked into her skin, and given up as the blood had rushed to her cheeks. 

That had been the last good morning for some time.

Word had arrived from Lord Hightower. His granddaughter had arrived back in Oldtown with a child three moons rooted in her womb. He had forced the moon tea on her anyway. She had nearly bled her life away as well as her child's, and after she had recovered somewhat her grandfather had sent her to a remote motherhouse. 

Oberyn had been furious with Rhaenys for arranging the death of one of his children. She had protested that she had had no control over Lord Hightower's actions, which he had grudgingly accepted, but he had known as well as Rhaenys herself that she had been expecting something of the sort from a lord so close to the Faith.

An uncomfortable tension had fallen between them, and Rhaenys had never been so glad for the constant pregnancies of her stepmothers as when Agnes' confinement had begun a few days later.

She had attended her stepmother, helped to run the court, and done her best to avoid her husband when she saw her son and sisters in the nursery. He had forgiven her, or so he had said, but it was best to leave the heart time to catch up to the head.

Despite the Maester's many tonics, given by order of the king himself, Agnes had gained little strength by the time her labours began a full moon after she had entered confinement.

It had been...at the time it had felt like an eternity, but later she had realised it had been only a day and a night and half a day. Only was such an odd word for such a long stretch of time. 

There had been so much blood. It had gotten everywhere, all over Agnes and the bed and Pycelle and Rhaenys herself. She had been drenched in the stuff. The salty, metallic taste of Agnes' blood had lingered in her mouth for days afterwards. 

Pycelle had washed the blood from his hands in moments, leaving not even the slightest trace of red in the folds of his wrinkled skin. But Rhaenys had looked at those liver-spotted, fragile hands and wondered how many others could see the blood still on them - the blood of Elia, of Lyanna, of Cersei, of Elerei, of Saera and now of Agnes. He had killed them all as surely as the king.

The baby had been a daughter, not that Agnes had ever known. She had been dead long before Pycelle had torn the child from her body. Rhaenys had named her, for the king had cared little and less for yet another daughter.

The baby had not been the prayer of a son without Elia Martell's taint, and so he had not cared - not even though he had ordered Agnes butchered for that hope. 

She had named her newest sister Aelora, the closest she had dared to naming the baby for the mother she would never know, and brought her back to the nursery. She had given her the same wet nurse as Eleryn, sent her ladies away, and wept into her husband's arms like a little child. 

Oberyn had not said a word, nor asked what had happened, for which she had been grateful. But then, perhaps he had not needed to ask - Rhaenys had still been covered in Agnes' blood when she entered the room.

He had sent for a bath and washed away the blood himself, though the water had needed to be changed twice. Her clothes had vanished, and Oberyn had later told her that he had sent them to be burned for he had thought, correctly, that she could not bear to touch them again. 

He had lain beside her in the darkness and held her, humming an unfamiliar lullaby under his breath until she had exhausted her tears and fallen asleep. 

The next morning, she had arranged her stepmother's funeral. The king had claimed himself too prostrate by grief to attend to the particulars, but Rhaenys had seen a pale Barbara Bracken being led into his quarters. 

So she had sent word to the Blackwoods, had asked the High Septon to bless the new Princess Aelora Targaryen, had overseen the transition of the court into mourning, and the hundred and one other things necessary to keep up the lie that House Targaryen was more than a handful of motherless children united by hate for their patriarch.

It had been Lady Velaryon who had arranged the funerals of the previous queens, but as a woman grown, a mother made and a princess twice over it had fallen to Rhaenys this time.

They had burned Agnes on the same lonely clifftop as so many of the king's other queens. Aelora had been wrapped in the same black swaddlings as Jaehaera had been at Lyanna's funeral, as Daemon at Cersei's, as Baelon at Saera's. 

Rhaenys had held her newest sister and wondered how many more of the king's wives she would burn. 

Aegon had held Rhaena and Daena by the hands, dressed for once in the black of their house. Their sisters had cried, but Aegon had not, and neither had Rhaenys. They had burned too many stepmothers to publicly weep for this one, no matter how dear. 

Both Jaehaera and Visenya had returned for the funeral, veiled in heavy black, still and silent on their husband's arms. Watching her sisters, five-and-ten and three-and-ten, both wives and women grown she had wondered how many more sisters she would watch wed too young. 

She had held some power as the Red Viper's wife, and as the woman to whom the court turned instead of the swiftly changing queens. But what use was power if it was not enough to protect her sisters?

Aegon had been able to protect himself. He had been a man and the undeclared Prince of Dragonstone, and had the king not been so spiteful he would have been a knight already. 

Her sisters had been another matter. Jaehaera and Visenya both had been married off as soon as they had flowered, good marriages that would see them well provided for until the day they died. But what use was such a marriage if it saw her sisters dead in the same bloody bed that had killed so many of the king's wives?

Viserys and Loreon had heeded her and not planted a child in her sisters when they were so young, but the king had announced Rhaena's betrothal to Edric Baratheon shortly before Agnes had entered confinement. Would he heed her as his goodbrothers had? Would Daena's husband? Aelora's?

She had put such thoughts aside that evening, however. Oberyn, ever indulgent, had agreed to spend the evening keeping Viserys and Loreon busy so that she and her sisters could have time together. Most likely, he had taken them into the city, had gotten them roaring drunk and set them loose in one of the nicer brothels - she had never asked, and if her sisters had they had never told her.

All seven of the king's children had eaten their supper together in the nursery, as they had in their childhood. Much had been made of Aelora and Eleryn, who had been passed about from sibling to sibling, adored and made much of. 

Their youngest members had been put to sleep shortly after the meal ended, Aelora in the same cradle they had all used, and Eleryn in the acacia cradle that his uncle had sent from Dorne. Rhaenys and Aegon had graciously allowed Jaehaera and Visenya to be the ones to get the infants to sleep, considering that they had done the honours most nights of their short lives. 

Then it had been Rhaena and Daena's turn to be doted upon by their elder siblings. The two married sisters had soaked up every little anecdote of lessons and mischief that their sisters had been willing to relate, and willingly allowed themselves to be dragged into game after game to make up for all that they had missed. 

Aegon and Rhaenys, who had between them missed scarcely a moon of their sisters' lives, had been more than happy to allow Jaehaera and Visenya their time with the younger girls. They had sat together on Rhaena's bed, curled up like they were children again, and watched their sisters play. 

Eventually, Rhaena and Daena too had tired. They had insisted that they were more than ready to stay up all night, but had been belied by yawns and drooping eyelids. 

Well practiced even after their long absences, Jaehaera and Visenya had wrangled their sisters into nightgowns and into bed, had sung lullabies and told stories until little eyes had closed and breathing had eased. 

Rhaenys had blown out the candles, and Aegon had alerted the children's nurses. The nursery they had left behind them had been dim and silent, and as deceptively peaceful as it had been when they too had slept there. 

Rather than continue their conversations where they could wake their sisters, the eldest four had retired to the apartments Rhaenys had then shared with her husband. 

Jaehaera had regaled them with tales from her travels, Visenya with ones from the Rock, Aegon with anecdotes from the city, and Rhaenys with gossip from court. At first they had poured over it and tried to work out ways to use all that they found out, but that had quickly fallen by the wayside. 

Between siblings who had been separated since Visenya's wedding, they had found more than enough to talk about until long into the night.

In the end, they had been interrupted in the grey hours before dawn by Oberyn returning from wherever he had taken Viserys and Loreon - very drunk and very curious to see if Rhaenys was willing to indulge him. She had not. She never had after he had taken someone else until after he had cleaned up. She had no intention of letting her husband fuck her with another man or woman's essence all over him. 

She had sent him to his own chamber, though he had been unsteady enough that Aegon had needed to accompany him. Their sisters had returned to their own apartments, and Aegon had reappeared long enough to wish her a good night's sleep - such as was left of it.

Jaehaera and Visenya had intended to leave the Red Keep on the evening tide the day after the funeral. Neither of them had wished to remain for long, not even for their siblings. 

The king had forestalled such plans however, by inviting his whole family to a dinner the evening Jaehaera and Visenya had intended to leave. It had been the first time he had ever done such a thing, as his usual approach had been to ignore the existence of any children beside Jaehaera. Occasionally he would acknowledge the existence of Rhaenys or Aegon, though only ever to spite them. 

All of the king's children and their spouses had been commanded to attend, even including Eleryn. Rhaenys had been gratified to see the Old Lion murmuring instructions into Visenya's ear - as little as she had liked Lord Lannister, it had been good for Visenya to have such an ally. 

They had all still dressed in black, with Rhaenys, Jaehaera and Visenya including heavy mourning veils. The more layers between Jaehaera and the king the better, and all of the married sisters dressing the same had masked the intent somewhat. 

Oberyn had insisted that they all carry a bezoar in their pockets, and Rhaenys had arranged for silver stained tableware. One could never be too careful, particularly not when the king was acting oddly. 

It had been, in the end, a surprisingly uneventful meal. The king had focused entirely on Jaehaera, save for idle insults directed at his elder two children and his brother. He had seated his current favourite mistress, Lady Barbara Bracken, in the queen's place and announced his intent to wed her when the mourning period ended. He wanted all of them there for the wedding, he had declared, his eyes fixed upon Jaehaera's face behind her veil.

Rhaenys had not been impressed, but none of the king's children had been at all surprised. The lady in question, a year Rhaenys' junior, had spent the whole evening staring at her plate and hunching her shoulders as if that would hide the bruises sucked into the skin of her neck. 

To the everlasting spiteful joy of Rhaenys and her siblings, Loreon had been entirely horrified. He had never properly met the king before that night, having grown up in the Rock with his parents and grandfather. There had been little for him to hear of the king save his reputation as a just and fair ruler plagued by grief. 

Stories of his dead aunt had alleviated that somewhat, but he had been only six at her death and she had been seldom spoken of afterwards.

Had he not been raised under Tywin Lannister's eye Rhaenys is sure that his jaw would have spent the evening on the table.

His eyes had grown steadily rounder as he had watched the king either ignore his children, insult them, or stare at Jaehaera. The few breaks in his behaviour had been to direct a comment at Lady Barbara, or even more rarely to leer at a daughter who was not Jaehaera. 

Rhaenys and Jaehaera's husbands had learned enough of the Mad King that they had needed no such managing, however angry they grew. Loreon had been born too late for such lessons. 

Thankfully, he had been sat far enough from the head of the table that Visenya had been able to stamp on his foot without being spotted the one time the king's gaze had turned to her.

Rhaenys had watched the king lose the future loyalty of the Westerlands in a single evening and mentally tipped a glass to Aegon. Her brother had done excellent work - first by planting the idea of a dinner in the king's head, and then by ensuring that the king's goodsons were also present. 

That night, Oberyn had not vanished to spend the night with whatever whore or servant he had planned to take to his bed, or even to spend it with Merei. 

He had gone to his own chamber long enough for his body servant to remove his evening finery, and then returned to her chamber. He had even brought her moon tea. 

She had been tired from the tense evening, but in the way that had left her tense and full of nerves. So she had taken him into her bed. 

Oberyn had always been possessive after they had spent time with the king, and Rhaenys had never objected. The Red Viper's touch had felt as though it cleansed the king's gaze, had reminded her she was a wife and a mother with nothing to be ashamed of and little to fear.

He had been gentle for once, so gentle she had nearly cried. It had been oddly nice, but not enough to relieve that jittery tension filling her body. He had never been so gentle with her before. She hadn't been used to it.

So after he had pulled out of her, she had coaxed him back to hardness and then ridden him until he had gotten the message.

He had taken her like a whore, the way she had wanted - hard enough that all the thoughts whirling around her head had been silenced. There had only been him inside of her and the praise he whispered in his ear, for how well his little niece was taking her uncle's cock, how perfect she was, how much he loved his sweet little princess.

The next two moons had been taken up with hasty preparations for the king's seventh wedding, scheduled for the day that his mourning period ended.

The hasty remarriage had elicited much murmuring, which had in turn brought back whispers of how hasty the king had been to wed before. Hadn't he wed Lyanna Stark before Elia Martell's ashes were cold? Hadn't he announced his intent to seek a new bride at Cersei Lannister's funeral? Hadn't he sent for Saera Toparen a fortnight after Elerei Ormollon's death? 

Rhaenys and her siblings had watched the whispers race from one pair of lips to another and felt deeply vindicated.

Eyes had turned to them, and murmurs had sprung up - hadn't Princess Rhaenys been given charge of her siblings when she was only three and ten? Come to think of it, it was always she in charge of the royal children during feasts. Had the king ever been seen holding any of his children? Princess Jaehaera yes, but any of the others? Prince Aegon had never been officially named Prince of Dragonstone had he? Had they seen the scars on Princess Jaehaera's forehead? Oh my, had they seen that look directed at her by the king? And there was that odd affair with Princess Rhaenys' marriage to Prince Oberyn - why had they stayed in court when they could have eloped to Dorne? Her sisters had been eager enough to leave court with their husbands...and didn't that say something? Why were they so hasty to leave anyway? 

The first Aegon had taken Westeros with dragons. This Aegon, never to be the sixth, was taking it with words.

"Remind me to dismiss Varys and make you Master of Whispers." Rhaenys had breathed into her brother's ear one evening, and received a sharp smile in return. 

Jaehaera and Viserys had retreated to Dragonstone for the interim, returning only the day before the wedding - none of them had been prepared to risk Jaehaera being in such close quarters with the king for such a long period of time.

The bulk of the preparations had, as she remembers, fallen to Rhaenys herself. Lady Barbara had been the third daughter and seventh child of a powerful house, expected to live a life as a court ornament and the wife of a middling lord. She had not been raised to be queen or to oversee a royal wedding. 

To her credit, she had learned fast. Lady Velaryon had been training Rhaenys to run the Red Keep and control the court since before she had flowered - between Rhaenys and Lady Velaryon they had taught Barbara well enough that by the time the wedding took place she had been somewhat ready to take on her duties. 

Rhaenys had finally understood Lady Velaryon's reluctance to relinquish her role to each new queen - after all, they had been at court long enough to know how it all worked. It had been incredibly frustrating to watch each new queen have to go through all the same mistakes. 

Rhaenys had made one thing very clear to Barbara - the king's children, her siblings, were hers.  No one else had loved them or cared one whit for them. They were under her case and she would not surrender that care to anyone no matter how many brothers and sisters the new queen bore.

Very much in awe of the elder, capable princess, Barbara had meekly agreed. Rhaenys had liked her even less for that, but had pitied her more.

When the wedding had finally arrived, all of the king's children had worn mourning black from head to foot. The court had mostly been in half mourning, even Barbara, who had argued that it was wrong to be wed in maidenly white when half of Westeros knew she was no maiden.

So Barbara had been married in grey and violet for a queen she had hated, and the Seven Kingdoms had whispered behind their hands. Rhaenys had not particularly liked Barbara, who had regretted pushing herself into the king's bed only long after she had made Agnes' life a misery. But Barbara had become her stepmother, and she had seen what those whispers had done to Elerei all those years ago. 

She had been powerless to do anything about it as a child. As Oberyn Martell's wife she had possessed the status to come forward and link her arm through Barbara's with a friendly smile. She had turned that smile on the whispering courtiers and it had sharpened as they had stuttered and fallen silent. 

Perhaps she had not had the power to protect her sisters from the king then, but she had been able to protect her stepmothers from the court. That had been something.

There was little she had been able to do to thwart the king, but Barbara had been dealing with the king's attentions for years. It had been nothing new to her though it had given Rhaenys another thing to think of.

She had always been aware of the king's wives, but had known little of his mistresses as a child. Even after marrying, she remembers that she had given little thought to them - she had sneered at them for falling into the king's bed and pitied them but no more. After all, her own husband had treated his mistresses rather well.

It was after the king married Barbara and made a queen of one of those mistresses that she had realised how dangerous they could be and, more importantly, how in danger. 

She had sought them out, each one, and found them much the same as his queens with one key difference - the mistresses bore him no children. Nor had they had the public scrutiny and protection of a crown, such as it was. 

Some of them she had sent home where she could, some she had arranged marriages for with lords who proved surprisingly possessive, and for some she had only been able to hold them as they wept. Her husband's silver link had come in very useful in those days. 

And so, time had passed. Rhaenys had watched her sisters grow - had watched Aelora sit up, take her first steps, start to speak. Her first word had been 'Rhae', as had so many of her sisters. Eleryn's had been 'dadada', and she had dearly tried not to hold it against her husband.

She had hoarded every letter sent to her by Jaehaera or Visenya, as fiercely as she hoarded the fading letter from dear, dead Elerei. Just as fiercely had she hoarded the sisters who remained to her. They had been hers, always - it had been she who had loved them first, and none of them had ever forgotten that. They were all that the others had in the world. 

Aegon, a man grown, had been entirely out of her control for several years by that point. She remembers him then as living a complete double life. By day, in public, he had been a wastrel and a dissolute, an utter shame upon their family. But by night, and in private, he had ever been her dear sweet brother, though only their family and her more trusted ladies had seen the truth of him. 

She had wished Aegon well with his attempt to convince the kingdoms that he was an unworthy heir simply by his behaviour - she had known even then it would not work.

If the Unworthy had still become king, if Maegor, if Aerys, if any number of other kings including the current king had gained and kept their titles than nothing Aegon could stomach would have been able to disinherit him. Or so she had thought then. 

All she had cared was that he lived. That alone had always been enough. She had always loved him, even before she had known what love was - her first and closest sibling.

Rhaena had argued with her betrothed three times over the course of a visit from the Baratheons. When Rhaenys had taken Edric to task for his attitude towards a princess, Lady Delena had forestalled her and complained to the king about Rhaena's nagging of her poor little boy. 

Thankfully, the king had turned the matter over to Edric's father, and Lord Robert had been easily managed. Oberyn had taken him out into the city for a full night -  when the two had returned in the early hours of the morning they had been best of friends and Lord Robert had been more than willing to amend his son's behaviour. 

It had been better after that. By the time the Baratheons had returned to Storm's End, Edric had presented Rhaena with a slightly bruised flower and blushed bright red when she had thanked him with a kiss to the cheek. 

The king had finally bent to the polite siege of the Velaryons and betrothed Daena to their heir. Monterys was a sweet boy, if slightly cowed by Daena's tantrums, but Rhaenys had been deeply relieved that her wild sister would be wed to a man who would not force her into childbed too young - she had still been deeply afraid for sweet Rhaena under Edric Baratheon. 

Sansa and Meredyth had both flowered within a sennight of each other. As their mistress and their guardian, it had fallen to Rhaenys to write to Lords Stark and Tarly to inform them that their daughters had become women - Tarly had sent a brief acknowledgment, Stark had sent a slightly longer one that had included the well wishes of Sansa's siblings.

And so time had gone on. Barbara had grown thinner and paler the longer her body had not distorted around a child, the king's displeasure painted in bright colours across her skin and the skin of his mistresses. 

Rhaenys remembers little of that time. She had been so busy watching over her son, her brother, and her sisters that moons had simply slipped away without her notice. 

Before she had realised it, preparations were being made for the grand celebrations of the three hundredth year since Aegon's Conquest. The king's seed having finally taken root, Barbara had leaned heavily upon Rhaenys for the organisation. 

Rhaenys had done her best not to resent the extra burden. It had been difficult - Barbara was queen. She had slid into the king's bed to get that crown and only regretted it once she had seen the consequences it would have to her. She should have done her duty as Rhaenys always had. 

Perhaps she had resented it more because her husband's seed too had caught, yet it had been she and Lady Velaryon who had taken the brunt of the work.

Oberyn had, oddly enough, not pushed for another child as she had expected him to. The few times she had summoned the will to refuse his rights, he had quietly kissed her cheek and taken himself elsewhere. It had been very strange. 

She had known that he had still desired her as much as he ever had. Merei had not spoken to her or Oberyn for near a moon once because Oberyn had called out her name in bed, and she had caught similar looks from various servants she had known he had taken to his bed. When she had let him have her, he had been as eager as he had been on their wedding night and ever rougher.

But he had let her be when she wished, and it had felt oddly good to know he would grant her that. 

It had been she who had decided not to take the moon tea that time, feeling maudlin as she had watched Aelora and Eleryn running about the nursery after the cradles had been put away. 

He had been more than happy to fulfil her wish for another child, however, and had been near as ravenous for her as he had been immediately after their wedding. She quietly thought that it had most likely not been necessary to take her multiple times a day. Her husband's seed was strong, and had probably taken root as soon as the moon tea left her body. 

She had resented Barbara using her condition to make Rhaenys to twice as much work when all of the work should have fallen to the queen. 

But in the end, Barbara had been forced to take more of the work of preparing the keep for the celebrations. Rhaenys had not found herself able to feel vindicated then, or now, so many years later. 

She had been nearly four moons along, and had been expecting to quicken any day. She remembers little of what had happened, beyond waking suddenly in the night in more pain than she had felt since Eleryn's birth. 

Perhaps she had moved or made a sound because her husband, who had not sought another woman's bed that night, had also awoken. He had always been a light sleeper, because of his time as a sellsword he had told her once.

She remembers him leaning over to light a candle, and the terrible sound he had made when the wick had caught. The bed had been soaked with blood, red and dark and glistening, and it had gotten all over them both. 

"Rhaenys." He had croaked. "Oh Gods, Rhaenys."

Her hands had been red, she remembers. Red with the blood of her child that had never lived. Had this been how Cersei had lost that son so long ago?

Her ladies had arrived at some point. Meredyth and Sansa had left almost as quickly. Oberyn had sent them to look after her sisters. 

Aegon had been there. She had sent him away. She hadn't wanted her baby brother to see. She had sent him to the nursery. 

Her uncle hadn't let Pycelle touch her. He had held her to him, and had told the maester very calmly that every finger laid on Rhaenys would be a finger he would lose. 

The maester hadn't come back that she recalls. Perhaps he had tried and whichever Kingsguard had been at her door had sent him away. It had been Ser Arthur, she thinks.

They hadn't needed Pycelle. Oberyn had never completed his chain, but his silver link had been well earned. 

She does not remember what he had done. She only remembers clinging to him, afraid and weeping, and him holding her as their child bled out from her body.

He had sung to her, Rhoynish lullabies, and she can recall now that his voice had been choked and broken though she had not noticed then. 

She doesn't remember how long it went on for. It had been as painful as Eleryn's birth, only there had been no promise of a child to love at the end. 

All she remembers is that eventually there had been a body the size of her hand amid the wash of blood and agony. She had cried until she had fallen asleep. 

When she had awoken, it had been almost evening. The sheets had been changed, and she had been washed and put in a fresh nightgown. She had ached all over, and her heart had ached more fiercely than anything else. 

Oberyn had been there, nodding off in the chair beside her bed. There had been dark bruises beneath his eyes, and red rings, and she could have sworn that there had been more grey in his hair than there had been the previous day. 

She had lain there, staring at the canopy of the bed, until he had stirred. Then she had pretended to be asleep again. It had been easier that way. 

He had been forced to leave eventually. Mara had marched him out to eat something and bathe. 

Emelia had taken his place, her hands cool and soothing against Rhaenys' own. She had opened her eyes and asked for Eleryn. 

Dear Emelia had brought him without a word. Rhaenys had held her son and wept. 

At least he was here - strong and well and so full of life. He was alive.

Her little boy had hugged her back with confusion written all over his face, had kissed her cheek and begged her not to cry. She had dashed the tears away and done her best to smile. "As great a healer as your Papa,'' she had managed, "I feel all the way better, Maester Eleryn."

When he had returned to the nursery, she had cried all over Emelia until Oberyn had returned.  

The next day, they had burned what would have been their child. She had forced herself to stand on her own two feet, but it had needed to be Aegon who had lit the flame. Neither she nor Oberyn had been able to bear it. 

Afterwards, her husband had demanded she take time to recover. Barbara was the queen, he had said, she could do her own river-forsaken job and what she couldn't do Lady Velaryon would fix. 

Rhaenys had been unconvinced, but had given in. She hadn't felt like fighting. She hadn't felt like doing much of anything. 

It had been Oberyn who had wanted Eleryn, and he had lived. But when she had wanted this child it had died. Even now, years later, she can remember the sick feeling of creeping doubt - had she killed that child by asking it of her husband? It was the husband's role to decide when and how children were born, not the wife's. 

She had attended the celebrations as she was expected to. Rhaenys had been the eldest daughter of a king and the wife of a prince, the woman to whom the court looked before the brief, transitory queens over even Lady Velaryon.

So she had worn fine Essosi silks in fiery reds and oranges and golds, and adorned herself with equally flamelike jewels and had Emelia pat rouge onto her cheeks as if that could disguise the grey cast which had lingered in her skin. 

She had danced and feasted and laughed as she had been expected to. She had kept her sisters and son arrayed in finer raiment than any of the visiting nobility, had doted on them and showed them off proudly.  

She had kissed Barbara's cheeks and complimented her on how marvellously she had pulled everything together. That had only been half a lie, Barbara had done well enough but the brunt of the work had been taken by Ladu Velaryon. 

The true lies had come when Barbara's child had kicked, and Rhaenys had fussed over her and congratulated her and offered all the insincere compliments that one did on such occasions. And she had told Barbara that she was perfectly fine.

Of course she had. Barbara had sat beside the king, and Rhaenys had never been able to allow the slightest hint of weakness to slip past her lips near the king. That had been trained out of her along with relying on her wet nurse for sustenance.

She had danced with hundreds of nobles, each one wanting something from her that she could only sometimes grant. She had talked politics over canapes with powerful lords. She had been bright and noticeable and as perfect as she had ever been. 

She had needed to be - every Great House and most other houses had sent at least one member. House Targaryen had ruled the Seven Kingdoms for three centuries, and the celebrations had been glorious. No one had dared to miss it. King's Landing and the Red Keep had been full to bursting.

The Starks had thanked her for her care of Sansa and doted on Jaehaera, down from Winterfell for the first time in years. They had left the third Ranger brother to keep their pile of frostbitten stone, which had sorely disappointed her sister. 

The Lannisters had all danced to her other sister's tune, little as some of them had realised. Even the Old Lion had softened somewhat towards her. Lady Genna Frey, the Old Lion's sister, had quietly told Rhaenys that Visenys was the image of the late Lady Joanna. 

The Arryns had sent their heir Denys and his family, the old lord having not descended from the Eyrie in years. She had charmed the Arryns as best she could and dangled sisters in front of them without promising anything, and she had not missed Denys Arryn's eyes roving lower than her face.

The second night she had spoken with them, she had worn the same dress as she had the night she and Oberyn had eloped, the one that Oberyn had told her had set half the hall praying for it to slip. It had been a little tighter than the last time she had worn it. Lord Denys hadn't stood a chance. 

She had set Aegon to the Greyjoys. Lord Balon had been entirely unreceptive to anything that left her mouth. His brother, the Crow's Eye, had been worse. She had kept her sisters away from any of the Ironborn, though she had agreed to take Yara Greyjoy as one of her ladies. Neither she nor Yara had been pleased by that. 

Then there had been the Tullys, their heir still unmarried and rather disappointed he had been passed over in consideration for the hands of her first two sisters. Rhaenys had prayed for Rhaella to forgive her and dangled the possibility of Daenerys in front of him. He had bitten of course, but she had made no promises.  

And the Tyrells, Seven help her. Clearly Lady Alerie had heard something about Rhaena's disgrace because she had visibly snubbed Oberyn and given Rhaenys the barest courtesies. The rest of them had been politer, marginally. Lady Olenna had agreed to take tea with her in the gardens and spent the entire time insulting the city, Rhaenys' husband, the king, the queen, and anything else that had taken her fancy. She had quite liked Lady Olenna. 

Thankfully, her husband had already befriended the Tyrell heir, so she had set him on that and washed her hands of the roses. She had been able to discard similar politics with the Martells and even the Baratheons to an extent.

After all, the Martells were her kin and the Baratheons were too, albeit slightly more distantly. All that was needed to handle them was to leave Edric to Rhaena and keep Lord Robert well supplied with drinks and the occasional whore.

Her uncle Doran's gout had not allowed him to make the long journey, but he had sent his heiress. Arianne had been much of an age with Rhaenys, albeit unmarried. They had gotten along famously as long as she did not mention Oberyn. Her cousin had, apparently, been much put out by her uncle's marriage outside of Dorne. 

Rhaenys had caught a few looks at her husband when Arianne thought she was not paying attention and laughed at the irony. Two nieces, and her uncle had chosen the one he had hardly known. At least her cousin had had the decency not to try and bed Oberyn. She had taken Aegon to bed, though the two had been discreet at least.

Beside the unspoken rivalry over their uncle, Rhaenys and her cousin had gotten on famously. 

Putting aside the Paramount houses, the moon of celebrations had been an everchanging whirlwind of faces. Brackens vying to put their people in positions of favour at court, Blackwoods determined not to be displaced by the Brackens, Freys pushing unwed girls on every free man, Umbers accidentally knocking over smaller nobles, Yronwoods jockeying for a hold over the Martells, Florents making the tired old bleat about the Tyrells with added taunts about their pillow-biter third son that had incited Baratheon rage over the implied insult to their pillow-biter third son. 

And Rhaenys had ended up managing it all. Lady Barbara had apparently considered the preparations her fair share of the work and had spent the next moon doing the bare minimum while reuniting with her family. The more fool her - Rhaenys had taken on the nobility of Westeros and won. 

None of them had spoken much of the queen. The name on every tongue had been Rhaenys, Rhaenys, Rhaenys. It had been her triumph not the king's and she had gloried in it, but she had been very glad indeed when the year had finally changed and the various nobles had left the court one by one. 

Two and a half moons after they had burned the child that never would be, Oberyn had come to her again. He had promised her moon tea and to let her be if she did not want him, and she had thought of that bloody bed and sent him away. But she had felt a little better afterwards. A little closer to normality.

She had breakfasted in the nursery with her sisters the next day and gone over budgets with Alysanne, and been fetched to advise Barbara on half a dozen minor decisions. 

By the end of the day she had felt almost back to her old self. So much so that when Oberyn had, for once, made to tactfully withdraw from their shared solar as the evening drew to a close, she had fisted her hands into his hair and turned his kinsman's kiss to a lover's kiss.

Rhaenys had been dimly aware that he had paid for a whore to be brought discreetly to his bed that night. She had not cared, because she had known well that if it were a choice between her cunt and any other hole he would choose hers. 

She had been right. He had been surprised at first, but then his hands had slipped from her shoulders to roam up into her hair and down to pull her against him until his hardness pressed into her stomach. "Are you sure, little one?"

She had kissed him harder and pushed herself against him. "Yes, I'm sure."

"No moon tea. I want to see you full with my child again. I want to fuck another baby into my pretty little niece. You can take that, can't you? A prince or princess for my perfect princess?" She had not even thought before nodding. Perhaps if the next child were instigated by her husband it would live. She had survived the birthing bed twice. If she were to die like her mother at the third attempt, she had not wanted to draw it out. 

Oberyn hadn't bothered to move them to her bed. He had shoved her shift up and had been fucking her against the wall almost before she had finished agreeing. He had been oddly silent for once, so eager that he had not even spoken, only groaned wordlessly when she had clenched down on him. It had been uncomfortable again, because the last thing inside her cunt had been the dead thing that might have been a child. 

But she had just closed her eyes and clung to him until he had shuddered and peaked with a cry as his seed had filled her. It had dripped down her legs when he had slipped out of her. She had hated that sticky, messy feeling but it had been part of being a wife. That was how it went.

So she had widened her eyes and pressed herself impossibly closer to him and begged for her uncle to give his princess a peak. And he had. He had taken her to the bed and toyed with her until he was hard again, pulling one peak after another from her body until she had screamed. 

Then he had slipped inside of her again. He had whispered praise into her ear this time, for her perfect cunt and her perfect tits and her perfect mouth. His perfect little princess, he had called her again, his darling niece. He couldn't wait to see her full of his child again, round and glowing and so beautiful. She was perfect, but he had missed seeing the perfection of her when he had fucked a child into her.

So he had taken her half a dozen different ways, and she had only needed to whimper and beg and complain like the little girl she had never gotten to be. When he had finally exhausted himself, they had curled up together in the darkness and slept.

In the morning, he had not brewed her moon tea and she had not asked. Instead, he had taken her again and sent her to her ladies with his seed running down her legs. Thankfully it had been Tremna and Roslin dressing her that day, neither of whom had raised an eyebrow at Rhaenys looking like she had fought a wild beast. 

By the time Barbara had gone into confinement, her uncle's assiduous efforts to plant another child in her had born fruit. She had been sick every morning of her stepmother's confinement, and had very nearly been sick when her newest sister was born. The long-familiar smell of blood had turned her stomach.

Barbara had named her daughter Shiera for the Unworthy's bastard and placed her in the same cradle as her elder siblings. The king had made her change it to Shaera for his grandmother, and then ignored her for six weeks until Pycelle had agreed she was healed enough to resume her wifely duties. 

Within three moons she had been with child again. She had wept long and hard, and had not even objected when Rhaenys had taken Shaera into her household. 

The queen had been young and exhausted and afraid. She had had little time to love her daughter. So Rhaenys had done it for her. She had held Shaera and rocked her and loved her enough to make up for the world.

All of the king's children had doted on their newest sister. Her married sisters had sent showers of gifts, and her brother had sung her to sleep at night. Her sisters and nephew in the nursery had played with her and told stories and held her as gently as if she were made of glass. And Rhaenys had watched it all, holding each one of them tightly in her heart.

Rhaena had been moved into her own chambers when she had reached ten namedays, and given her own household. Most of her ladies had been from the Stormlands, but Rhaenys had done her best to seek out the few Lyseni servants who had come to Westeros with dear, dead Elerei. One of them had been made Rhaena's lady's maid and the rest had been assigned places that allowed them to serve her. 

When Eleryn turned three, Oberyn had given him a kitten. It had been small and black and had sparked a faint memory in Rhaenys of chasing a similar kitten. When she had mentioned it, her husband's face had lit up. "Balerion! I gave him to you when Aegon was born - I wonder what happened to him."

Rhaenys had no idea where the cat had gone. When the choice had been between her brother and her kitten, there had been no choice at all. She had not even remembered Balerion until that moment. 

Perhaps in a world where Elia Martell had lived, or a world where another man had sired her, she would have loved Balerion. Instead, she had loved Aegon - then Jaehaera, then Visenya, then Rhaena, then Daena, then Eleryn, then Aelora and now Shaera. She had been a mother from the time she could walk. She had never been a child who possessed the leisure to play with kittens. 

Oberyn had perhaps read something of her thoughts on her face. He had wrapped his arm about her and rested it on her swelling stomach as they had watched Eleryn and Aelora chase the kitten about with excited squeals. "I could find you another kitten, if you wanted. A pussycat as sweet as your pussy."

She had half choked on air, and elbowed him in the side. Her uncle had grinned that awful, wicked grin, and pressed a kiss to her forehead as she had flushed while he continued. "Aegon has the children well in hand. We could slip away for a moment or two, if you wanted. All this talk of pussies has made me hungry for my favourite."

As if sensing what they were talking about, her brother had looked up from where he was lecturing Eleryn about not pulling the kitten's tail. He had frowned at them, and she had pulled away. 

"Not now, Oberyn."

"Tonight?"

She had rolled her eyes at his insatiable appetites and agreed. She hadn't wanted him in anyone else's bed that night. 

Two moons later, she had entered confinement. Barbara had not attended her, claiming her own new pregnancy and her duties as queen, but Rhaenys had cared little. 

She had spent the time with her ladies, her sisters and Lady Velaryon. Unlike her confinement with Eleryn, she had not allowed her husband to sneak in to see her. It would set a bad example for their son, and she had quite enjoyed the rest from his attentions. 

They had all sat and sewed together, or Rhaena had read to her, or they had done each other's hair, or simply slept beside each other, and it had been little more than a week when her time came. 

Once again, there is little that she recalls of the birth itself. She remembers pain, and the sharp tang of blood, and the feel of Emelia's hand in hers. She remembers...she remembers Rhaena had needed to be sent out because she had grown hysterical. 

But mostly she remembers that moment of relief when the pain ended and her child's cry filled the air. Then she remembers the strange, almost disappointment. She had been so prepared for this to be her last act that to find herself alive on the other end had been quite startling. 

There is a gap in her memory after that. One of mild aches and the sheets being changed, of her and the baby being cleaned, and of the other ladies flitting around in all the myriad myriad tasks necessary after a birth. 

And then she remembers lying back against the pillows as Lady Velaryon nestled a bundle of gently stirring blankets into her arms and Mara begrudgingly opened the door for her husband. 

"I have learned my lesson." He had said, kneeling beside the bed to peer at their child with the same wondering eyes as he must have greeted each child before it. "I shall assume nothing. What have you decided?"

Rhaenys had been so very tired, and everything had hurt. She had thought this through during her confinement however, and she had names ready. She had barely had to think. "Aemma."

He had not remarked on her deliberate skirting of the king's dictate that his house would bear only Valyrian names - Aemma had been a Targaryen queen, but she had been an Arryn first. (And Rhaenys would be a Targaryen queen, but she was a Martell first) 

Instead, her husband's smile had widened and he had cooed down at the tiny figure of their second child. "A daughter? Excellent, I know how daughters work. Our son is ever a mystery, I fear."

As if summoned by the mere mention of him, Eleryn had been led in by Rhaena. He had stared goggle-eyed at the new baby, poked the blankets with a tentative finger, and then offered to let her play with Nymeros if she wanted. 

The same games that had played out after Eleryn's birth had unfolded after Aemma's. Congratulations had flooded in from nobles who wished to secure a princess for their own son someday in the future, and her kin had showered her in gifts.

It had been Tyene and Sarella who had arrived to meet their newest sister that time, a septa's daughter and a captain's daughter.

They had been warmer to their father than Obara and Nymeria, and just as kind to Rhaenys and her children. She had liked these cousins rather more than taciturn Obara or sly Nymeria or Arianne with her eyes that had followed Rhaenys' husband. 

The king had not bothered to send for her or even acknowledge his granddaughter's birth. Instead, he had executed one of his mistresses, a hedge knight's daughter who had been pretty enough and unlucky enough to catch his eye. She had, or so he had said, been found in bed with Ser Arys Oakheart, who had been a candidate to replace the ageing Ser Oswell when the time came. 

Both had lost their heads, despite pleas to the king not to execute the son of a noble house. He had ignored them all. 

Rhaenys had written to her sisters and told them not to visit her. She would find time to visit them, but she had refused to bring any more of her kin near the king than she had absolutely needed to. It was, her uncle had told her, rather like watching the deterioration of the previous king and everyone knew of King Scab.

She had kept Shaera and Aemma in the nursery, as well as Aelora and Eleryn. Aegon, Rhaena and Daena could not be kept in a single room, but she had cautioned them to be as careful as they could manage. 

With regard to her ladies, she had done her best, but a king was a king and if it came down to protecting her ladies or the children in her care it would be the children every time. Roslin had needed to be sent back to the Twins and a marriage arranged for her with Lord Piper's third son, but her replacement, Amerei Frey, had been sent expressly to be a mistress to the king. 

Ysilla had left the same year for her wedding to Jasper Redfort, to whom she had been betrothed for years. She had told Rhaenys not to come to the wedding - to save risking the king's wrath for when her kin needed her. Rhaenys had agreed and given her enough Dornish muslin to make up an entire trousseau. Ysilla had taken the gesture for what it was. 

Her replacement, Thea Waynwood, the granddaughter of Lady Anya Waynwood, had been shy and much overawed but friendly enough. Rhaenys had appointed Sansa to keep her out of the king's view until her naivety had worn off somewhat. 

It had been a good decision, as it had fallen out. Sansa had once been similarly sheltered and unprotected, and had known exactly how to keep Thea safe. She had, oddly enough, turned to Aegon to help her. Rhaenys had not known that the two were even friends, but they had seemed very close indeed when gently explaining to Thea which corridors and halls to avoid.

By the time that Barbara had entered confinement, Aemma had been sitting up on her own. Like her brother, she had taken after her Martell kin, with the same black hair and eyes and the same bronzed skin. Rhaenys had loved her as fiercely as she had loved all of the children in her care. 

They were hers to love and cherish, and she would be damned if she let any man or woman touch them - even the king. Barbara's child had been another girl, born with a dead brother. 

The queen had named her daughter Naerys, the king had cursed and sent for Amerei, and Rhaenys had settled her newest sister in the nursery while arranging to burn her dead brother. She had wondered then, what curse the gods had set on the house that all of her brothers save one had died. 

They had needed to commission a new cradle for Naerys. Shaera had still slept in the same cradle as her elder siblings, and Aemma had been in the acacia cradle sent by Doran Martell. 

It hadn't been necessary in the end. As winter had swept over Westeros, a fever had swept through the court as they so often did during the change in seasons. 

Rhaena, no longer sleeping in the nursery, had caught it from Edric. She had given it to Daena, and every royal child had caught it. 

Most of her sisters and children had fought it off as they had so many other childish fevers. But Shaera had sweated and cried with fever until she had grown too weak to do even that. 

Rhaenys had held her and sung lullabies as she wheezed, had shoved down her little throat every tincture that her husband had handed her. It had done nothing. 

In the end, all she had been able to do was sing until the laboured breaths had stopped. She had kept singing, rocking Shaera to and fro, to and fro, curled up in her bed with her sister in her arms, until the little body had gone stiff and cold. 

Oberyn had taken Shaera's body from her, and she had gone to inform the queen that her daughter was dead. The queen had wept inconsolably, the king had executed all of the royal wet nurses, and Rhaenys had burned her sister's body on the lonely clifftop that had seen so many of her family crumble to ash. 

Naerys had lived. So had Aemma, and Eleryn, and Aelora, and Daena, and Rhaena. They had lived. 

She had wept for her little sister, and then dried her eyes. Naerys would need her now more than ever, with the queen grieving a child she had hardly cared to know. 

She had given Naerys the same cradle as her elder siblings and tried not to think of it as a curse. She had lived. So had Aegon, Jaehaera, Visenya, Rhaena, Daena, Aelora. Perhaps Rhaella, Daemon, Baelon and Shaera had died in it but that had not meant that Naerys would. 

Naerys had not. 

Her littlest sister had thrived, growing strong and healthy and in all ways unlike her namesake. Her cheeks had grown round and rosy, her eyes had turned deep blue, and her hair had come in - a light, coppery brown that was almost red. 

Word had come from Casterly Rock that Visenya was with child, and Rhaenys had dreamed every night of her sister's death in the bloody bed that had claimed the lives of their mothers. 

"You know," Oberyn had said to her one day as they sat in their solar together, "you could take a lover too, if you wished. I would not deny you what I cannot deny myself. I would name any children you bore as my own, and I would love them as my own."

"Would you now?" She had asked amused. Her husband had been generous and could be kind, but she had also found him intensely prideful. She had not thought that pride would stand letting his wife's bastard be called by his own name.

Her uncle had shrugged carelessly. "You are Elia's daughter, your children would still be my blood whether they came from my loins or no."

"You are serious about this?" Rhaenys had stared at him, wondering if her ears had been working. "You want me to take a lover?"

"You do not ask my fidelity, I will not ask yours. Think about it, Rhaenys." He had asked, his dark eyes bent on hers.

She had stuttered and eventually spluttered out, "You want me to break my vows?"

"Not break. Bend a little." He had paused, before continuing softly, "It might make you happier."

"I am not the king." Rhaenys had said coldly. "I will not break vows made before the gods."

It had been the wrong thing to say, of course. Her uncle had stiffened. "Are you calling me an oathbreaker?"

"No. No of course not."

"Yet if you did the same thing, you would call yourself an oathbreaker."

She had looked away, towards the fireplace and hoped that his voice was not loud enough to pass the door. "Why are you pushing me to take a lover so hard? What does it matter to you?"

"I thought maybe someone else could remove the stick up your arse," her uncle had sneered, angry now, "gods know I can't."

His temper had incited hers in turn, and she had snapped back at him."I see, you want me to break my vows so you feel less like the king whenever you see him with his mistresses while his wife sits in silence."

"Oh, so now I am the king?" Oberyn had stood and started to pace up and down, gesturing angrily with his hands. "First I was your uncle, then your grandfather, now your father. Gods, I'm your whole fucking ancestry at this point, that's sick even for you. Tell you what, we'll try for all the highlights, I'll be Maegor while I'm at it."

"Fine. Take another wife. Marry Arianne. Maybe she'll be perverted enough for you, Gods know I'm not." Rhaenys had looked away from him, and had not seen the dark expression that had crossed his face. 

When he had spoken again, his voice had been deadly soft. "Arianne has a father who'd geld me if I married her, unlike your father. I don't think your father would care if I killed you."

"Don't call him that!" She had bitten out, suddenly cold all over. 

"Shit." An arm had wrapped about her, a kiss pressed to her hair, anger forgotten as she shook. "Shit, Rhaenys, I'm sorry." He had held her until she had regained some semblance of control, and given her his handkerchief. "Look, I just want you to be happy. I want someone to love you."

Rhaenys had turned her face into his shoulder. He had smelled of spices and bitter herbs and leather. "You love me."

"Not in the way a man loves a woman. It is a big, beautiful world Rhaenys - you deserve to love and be loved by more than just the tiny fraction of it bound to you by blood." His voice had been very steady and very even, and that had given away exactly how much it had meant to him. 

She had promised to think it over, and then had put it out of her mind. Between her siblings, her children and her husband, she had more than enough to do. There had been no need to add yet another demand upon her time and her heart. 

Instead, she had written to Jaehaera. Her sister had obediently written to the king, requesting to be allowed to travel to Casterly Rock with her siblings for Visenya's confinement. The king had never said no to Jaehaera, and with Rhaenys, Oberyn and Aegon away there was no one to subtly thwart him when it came to his queen or mistresses. Of course he had let them go.

So Rhaenys had taken her husband, her brother, her sisters and her children. She had left Lady Velaryon to support the queen in her duties, and the better part of her own ladies to act as a buffer for Lady Velaryon's support staff. She had brought with her Mara, Tremna and Emelia naturally, and Sansa at Aegon's request. 

They had sailed to the Westerlands rather than riding, making port briefly at Dragonstone for Jaehaera. Viserys had accompanied her of course, and surprisingly so had Rhaella and Daenerys. The voyage had been easy, with smooth seas and swift winds, and they had made good time.

The ship had docked at the harbor carved into the Rock itself, where the Lannisters had waited to welcome them. Rhaenys had wondered how similar it all was to the last time her husband had been there. She had never asked - he had visited with her mother, and Elia Martell had always been a sore point for both of them. 

Lord Tywin's presence had kept the greetings formal, and Lady Lysa's had kept them short. That formality had been maintained all the way up the Rock to the guest chambers, where Visenya had dismissed the other Lannisters and shown them to their quarters herself. 

She had been glowing, bright and golden as she had never been in King's Landing. She had worn the red and gold of the Lannisters in the Western fashion and looked well in it, and most of all she had looked happy. 

Rhaenys had been greatly relieved. Her fears had been alleviated further over the course of their visit. Lady Lysa and Lord Jaime had been deeply self-absorbed in entirely opposing ways and done little more than the basics of their duties. The rule of the Westerlands had remained in the hands of the Tywin Lannister and his sister Lady Genna, but Visenya had picked up a remarkable amount of power, which the Old Lion had greeted as fondly as he was capable of. 

Visenys's goodsiblings, Myrcella, Robin, Tommen and Cersei, had all been as golden as she, sweet and a little spoiled. She had doted on them, and had confessed to Rhaenys that she had been trying to make up for all she was missing of her own siblings. 

Most importantly, Visenya's husband had worshipped her. He had followed her around like a little lost kitten, tripped over himself to fulfill her slightest wish, and once she had entered confinement he had spent most days sitting dolefully outside of the door. 

Visenya had been in confinement only a fortnight when her labours had begun. That fortnight had been spent with Rhaenys, Jaehaera, Visenya and Rhaena curled up together, doing their level best to make up for a separation that would endure for their whole lives. 

They had mostly just spoken, but Rhaenys had often been prevailed upon to sing her sisters to sleep. She had revelled in having all of her siblings in one place away from the stifling air of court, and her sisters had been equally happy to meet Aemma and Naerys. 

The only thing worse than giving birth herself had turned out to be watching her sister give birth. Rhaenys had spent her life making sure that her siblings were all as safe and well as she could possibly make them. There had been nothing she could do, however, for childbirth. 

She had helplessly let Visenya cling to her, had automatically soothed and encouraged her, and when her sister's little boy was born she had nearly been ill with relief. Gods, she had thought, was this what it had been like for Oberyn?

She had not been ill. Visenya had stared at her child in undisguised wonder, and Loreon had nearly cried. Rhaenys had bundled up bloodstained cloths and Lady Genna had informed Lord Jaime that he was a grandfather. 

Visenya had named her son Daeron, a name that previous lords of the Rock had born, but still a name that would pass the king's scrutiny. The raven announcing Daeron's birth had recieved a brief response, of which the most part had been taken up with the king demanding Jaehaera return to King's Landing with her elder sister's household immediately. 

It did not do to ignore a summons from the king. They had bid Visenya and Daeron farewell, taken their leave of the Lannisters and sailed back. As she remembers, that voyage had been far more difficult. 

They had left Rhaella and Daenerys on Dragonstone, and resolved to let Jaehaera spend as little time as possible in the capital. 

The king had hosted a family dinner each night of their visit. Jaehaera had worn shapeless gowns that reached her chin and heavy veils, until the king had issued an order that they all conform to court dress with its square necklines and tightly laced bodices.

He had, thankfully, done little more than look but they had always all lived in a state of constant anxiety when Jaehaera was at court.

A fortnight after they had arrived, one of the king's mistresses, a pretty woman named Alys, had declared that she carried the king's bastard. In the resulting uproar, Viserys had taken Jaehaera and slipped away to Braavos.

The king had executed Alys and half a dozen others, and his temper had been painted across the skin of his queen and his surviving mistresses. It had worsened when he had realised that Jaehaera and her husband had disappeared, and no one had known where they were. 

Still, time had gone by. Things had eventually settled into the uneasy watchfulness that the court had become so accustomed to.

Four moons after their return from the Rock, Queen Barbara had lost the child she was carrying. In a fury, the king had declared that if his wife failed again to give him a living son, he would turn to his mistresses to give him the sons his wives could not. 

If anyone at court had found aught save dread in the king's declaration, they had kept it silent. There were plenty who recalled the chaos of the Blackfyre Rebellions, and more who remembered their histories. A king who disliked his heir and was willing to turn to bastards to replace him? 

If he had fathered any bastards by that point, none had been acknowledged and for good reason. But a bastard raised at court? By a king determined to replace his heir? 

Murmurs begun with the king's execution of Arys Oakheart had rippled and spun out across the kingdoms. 

Rhaenys and Aegon had immediately done their best to capitalise on the rumours. They had split, Rhaenys remaining at court to whisper into the ears of nobles, and Aegon visiting the various dissolute friends he had made across the continent. If he had spilled a few unsavoury truths while drinking with old friends, well, it was hardly his fault that there were so many of them.

The rumours flying about the realm had multiplied and grown, until even Varys had been unable to trace them back to their source. That had been just as well - no one had wanted to know what would happen should the king hear what Elia Martell's children had been doing.

Inside the Red Keep, however, things had not been so positive. Barbara, perhaps because of the pressure she had been under, had not conceived for six full moons. After the fifth time her moon's blood had arrived, the king had beaten her half to death and forbidden Pycelle to attend her. 

Oberyn had done so instead, though they had needed to smuggle him into the queen's chambers - the king had ordered Ser Barristan not to let any past him to give Barbara aid. So Mara had drawn her uncle into reminiscing about his time in the Stepstones and Barristan had barely paused as Rhaenys and Oberyn had passed him. 

Thankfully for all concerned, the king's seed had finally taken root within the next moon. Barbara had been as pale and drawn as Agnes had often been, but with a child in her the king had mostly left her alone. 

In Barbara's fourth moon, Rhaena had come to Rhaenys in tears, with blood smeared across her nightgown. She would have done better to send for Rhaenys, for the Kingsguard had seen her and so Rhaenys had had no choice save to inform the king. 

Presumably somewhat aware of the murmurs against him and attempting to distract the rumours, Rhaegar had declared that Rhaena and Edric would be wed three moons later.

Rhaenys had gone straight to Edric Baratheon and told him exactly what would happen to him if he got her sister with child a day before she turned six and ten. Edric had gone the colour of old porridge and nearly wet himself, but he had not gone running to his mother. 

The court had been thrown into chaos trying to prepare for the wedding in such a short space of time. Barbara had helped them but little, though Rhaenys had begrudged it less than on previous occasions. Her pregnancy had been difficult, and she had often been ill. 

It had been Lady Delena that Rhaenys had clashed with. Lady Velaryon had long been accustomed to leaving the royal children's affairs in Rhaenys' hands, long before Rhaenys had assumed control of the court itself. 

Lady Delena, however, had been equally long accustomed to having full control over the affairs of her own children. She had contested every decision Rhaenys made, from musicians to seating plans to soups. 

But Rhaenys had been born and raised in the most poisonous place in Westeros. She had known how to get her own way from the time she could walk, and Lady Delena had spent most of her life in Brightwater Keep or Storm's End. She had not had the same experience of court intrigue. It had been simple enough to work around her, to smile and defer to the elder lady and then slip through her own choices.

So Rhaenys had given Rhaena, dearest, darling Rhaena, the daughter of dear, dead Elerei, the wedding she had always wanted. Her sister had looked like the Maiden incarnate, so very beautiful that her breath had caught. What she would not have given for Elerei to see her daughter that day.

Oberyn had known the new maester of Storm's End from his own days in the Citadel, and only a single raven requesting that he keep fresh stocks of moon tea discreetly available for Rhaena's use had been needed. The maester had sent back a dry reply reminding Oberyn that his lord was Robert Baratheon who's conquests required moon tea in bucketloads, and that had been that. 

The marriage had been consummated, and Rhaenys had brought her sister moon tea. Rhaena had been blushing, smiling even, not in the least upset or unhappy. 

It had made Rhaenys slightly less anxious about sending her sweet, delicate sister off to gloomy Storm's End. Lady Delena, uncharacteristically kindly, had promised to look after Rhaena as if she were her own. 

A moon later, Barbara had entered confinement. Rhaenys and Daena had attended her with most notable ladies of court, though Sansa and Thea had stayed with Aelora, Eleryn, Aemma and Naerys in the nursery. 

It had taken barely a fortnight before the queen's labours had begun. They had not been swift or easy, and Daena had needed to be sent away after a full day and night had passed. 

But in the end, both Barbara and her child had lived. Perhaps Barbara would have preferred it otherwise - her baby had lived, yes, but was not the boy the king had so desperately sought. 

She had named her Vaella and held her head high as the king raged at her. It was the first time Rhaenys had felt something like respect for her. 

Barbara had recovered well from Vaella's birth. She had refused to let Rhaenys put Vaella in the nursery with her sisters, and Rhaenys had reluctantly respected the queen's wishes. She was, after all, Vaella's mother. If Vaella's mother actually wanted her, who was Rhaenys to interfere?

The king had visited Barbara a fortnight after Vaella had been born, though not, thankfully, to claim his rights. To speak with his queen, he had said. 

Rhaenys had been there when he had entered, and had been dismissed with the usual sneer aimed at Elia Martell's children. She had obeyed, and regretted it bitterly ever after. 

When the king had left, it had been late in the evening and Rhaenys had already retired for the night. Mara had reported that he had sent for Jenny Buckler, his current favourite mistress. 

In the morning, Rhaenys had taken breakfast in the nursery with her sisters. It had been a quiet meal, in anticipation of an entirely ordinary day, broken by screams after the queen's ladies had entered her chambers to help her dress. 

Queen Barbara had died by her own hand, the maester had claimed, poisoning herself and her newborn daughter due to mother's melancholy. Because she had killed a princess of the blood and committed suicide, her body had been thrown into the sea rather than burned. 

Rhaenys had seen the queen's body before it had been disposed of, but she would not have needed the bruises around Barbara's neck, or the fear in her staring eyes to tell her what she had already known. She had burned her sister's body and made Aegon swear to her that they would wait for an opportune moment to claim their vengeance. 

The king had taken his time finding his next wife. He had claimed it was due to trying to find one capable of bearing sons, but Rhaenys had known it was because there were few fathers in Westeros or Essos willing to sell their daughters to be the eighth wife of a king famed for killing his wives in childbed.

He had, at least, decided against fathering a bastard on any of his mistresses. Apparently none of them had been worthy of bearing the next king of Westeros. Rhaenys, and most of Westeros, had simply been relieved. 

Out of what Rhaenys was certain was spite, though Oberyn denied it to the present day, her husband had suggested they have another child. It had been quite out of the blue, as they had watched Eleryn's first arms lesson while Aemma's nurse had tried to hold on to the squirming toddler and the full grown cat in her arms. 

Thankfully, Aelora had been much more biddable, standing wide-eyed with one hand clutching Daena's skirts and the thumb of the other in her mouth. Daena had held Naerys on her hip and visibly bitten back sharp comments aimed at her nephew. 

Aegon had stood behind his sisters with his arms folded and a broad grin on his face, glowing with pride. He had had Sansa on his arm, Sansa having been Eleryn's favourite of Rhaenys' ladies and so the only one her son had begrudgingly allowed to attend.

Rhaenys and Oberyn had watched it all playing out from the window of their apartments that overloojed the courtyard, where they could see but not put Eleryn off.

He had been such a good, dutiful boy even then, but he had only been five and much in awe of his famous warrior father. She had, she would like it noted, been much opposed to beginning his training so young but martial education belonged to the father and Oberyn had begun at the same age.

Up in their solar, they had been able to indulge their desire to watch their firstborn without disturbing him. Oberyn had also been interested in indulging other desires, but that had gone without saying and he had been surprisingly restrained, only holding her against him and kissing her. 

Perhaps because Aegon had known they were there and as much as he loved his uncle, he loved Rhaenys more. 

"Aegon and Sansa look rather comfortable, don't you think?" Her husband had mused in her ear. "A little too comfortable for mere friends." She had ignored him. What Aegon did was none of her business, and there were few maidens at court who could truly claim the title - if Sansa's maidenhead had been given to Aegon, that was better than the king taking it. 

The king had passed the yard with a nervously giggling Jenny Butler on his arm, sparing not a glance at his grandchildren or his children, and only a brief one at Sansa. Oberyn had tensed and hissed, the rush of air tickling her ear and sending prickles down her spine. "Rhaenys, my little niece, what do you say to another babe? It's been too long since the last time you had one in you."

His hand had slid around to press over her flat stomach as if imagining her swollen and heavy with his child, or imagining fucking one into her. Perhaps both, knowing her husband.

Rhaenys had thought for a little, watching as the arms master brought the lesson to a close with a few rapid fire questions on the various types of weapons he had pointed out to Eleryn.

Neither of them had breathed a word of children since Aemma's birth. Court had been far too tense. But Aemma was three and Naerys had been weaned, and there was no cradle in the royal nursery. 

She had turned about in her husband's arms as Eleryn rushed off, followed by the family members he had allowed to watch. "Alright." She had said, twining her arms about his neck and tugging lightly on his hair until he shuddered. "We could do with another and I'm sick of the taste of moon tea."

Oberyn had, of course, needed no more encouragement. He had swooped forward to kiss her almost before she had finished speaking, hands already pushing her skirts aside as he backed her against the wall until she had felt cold stone against her back. 

She had not let him have her for some days, sending him off to take his pleasure in Merei or Larra or any number of whores or servants or guards. Despite his many and willing partners, he had been as eager to have her as ever he had been. 

Before they could do more than kiss, however, the door to their solar had flown open with a bang. Oberyn had obliviously continued to fumble under her skirts, his back being to the doorway, but Rhaenys had half choked and started to pull away as best she could when she was pressed between her husband and a wall.

"Mama! Papa!" That had gotten Oberyn's attention, and he had sprung away from her as if burned. "Ser Aron let me hold a spear! And a whip! And I answered all his questions right and- what are you doing?"

Rhaenys had glared at Oberyn as she had tried hurriedly to rearrange her gown. He had shrugged and stridden across the room to toss Eleryn in the air. "Showing your mother the love she deserves, as is my duty as her husband. Mama should be loved, don't you agree?"

Her sweet innocent son had agreed that Mama deserved all the love in the world of course, and she had sighed as Oberyn had sent her a heavy and deeply inappropriate look over Eleryn's head.

"Why thank you sweetheart. I love you very much as well." She had taken Eleryn and settled him on her hip with a grunt. "My, how big you've gotten. Mama won't be able to pick you up for much longer. Now, tell me all about your lesson."

He had babbled away in the half-intelligible tongue of small children, and they had both listened carefully as if they had not been watching every moment of his lesson. Aegon had arrived then, with all of their siblings and her children in tow, his eyes scanning her ruffled hair and crushed skirts knowingly. 

Eleryn's chatter had increased tenfold with Daena, Aelora and Aemma present to embellish and quarrel. In the end, they had all taken supper in the solar, and the children had remained until they were yawning. 

Then Aegon had slung a protesing Daena over his shoulder and carted her off to bed. Rhaenys had taken Eleryn's hand and held Naerys, while Oberyn had put Aemma on his shoulders and let Aelora curl her hand about his fingers. 

They had handed the children over to the nurses, sung lullabies and given kisses all round. Then and only then had they been able to retire to their apartments in solitude. 

Naturally, after several hours of restraint, Oberyn had pounced upon her as soon as the door had closed. Possibly before. Between his lips on hers and his hand in her hair tilting her head up to his and his other hand pulling up her skirts, she hadn't been paying much attention. 

To the surprise of no one at all, she had missed her next moon's blood. 

The king had turned purple when the news was brought to him, but it had been in full court and he had not been so far gone then as to spill whatever vitriol had been burning on his tongue. 

Her siblings and children had been excited for the most part, though Aegon's excitement had been put on for the sake of the children. Her brother had seen as many women die in the birthing bed as she, and had known it was a thing to fear. 

Her ladies had been divided. Some had been overjoyed for her, some merely politely congratulatory, and some ready to geld Oberyn. Emelia, dear Emelia, had been one of the latter, but then Emelia had always been so very protective of Rhaenys. 

The court had ostensibly taken its cue from the king and awkwardly pretended that nothing had changed where the king could see and hear. In private, matrons and maidens had congratulated her and wished her well, and lords and knights and squires had complimented Oberyn on his achievement. 

Lady Velaryon had looked mildly disapproving, but then that had been her default expression whenever she had laid her eyes on Oberyn. She had embraced Rhaenys warmly however, and told her that whatever happened, she was hoping for the best.

Even Merei, who had become a lady-in-waiting to Daena after Daena had reached ten namedays, had come up to Rhaenys and claimed she was delighted for her.

They had had an odd relationship, Rhaenys and her husband's favoured mistress, but there had never been any dislike between either. After all, neither had laid any claim to his fidelity. But Oberyn had learned from the Rhaena incident and Rhaenys had been the one to bear his children, which had been a sore point for Merei.

Rhaenys had been glad of it - she had wanted no Blackfyres to challenge her own children in the future. The Sand Snakes were Dornish through and through, but any bastards fathered in the capital would have been dangerous.

Merei had understood this. More importantly, she had understood that a challenge to Rhaenys would endanger Daena, and Daena had been the centre of Merei's world.

So she had kept her silence, and even helped to ensure that none of Oberyn's other mistresses managed to hide a Waters. Still, there had always been tension there, especially whenever Rhaenys was with child.

Without a queen in the Red Keep, its rule had devolved fully upon Rhaenys and Lady Velaryon, but with her newest pregnancy Rhaenys had returned some of the power to her former mentor. 

After what had happened with Barbara, Oberyn had been deeply concerned about the lengths to which the king would go. 

So, in her seventh moon, Rhaenys had requested a private audience and knelt before the king as best she could when her whole body was contorted around a child.

"Your Grace," she had said, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor, "my husband has decided to return to Dorne for my lying in. I would petition to transfer care of my sisters to Lady Velaryon until our return, as I do not think I will be able to adequately care for them from Dorne."

In her childhood, the king had been neglectful at best and cruel at worst, but always in control of himself and always with his brilliant mind ticking through the balances and counterbalances of each action. Like his father before him, however, the king's mind had deteriorated.

He would never have fallen for such an obvious ploy when she was a girl, or perhaps she had simply been more afraid of his seeming omniscience and omnipotence as a child.

Regardless, his eyes had taken on the spiteful, petty glint that had so often appeared whenever he had looked on his firstborn. He had refused her. Instead, he had decreed, Rhaenys would take all of her siblings to Dorne including her wastrel of a brother.

She had summoned all the exhaustion that she had usually kept hidden and begged him to reconsider. He had not.

So the Princess of Sunspear had set sail for Dorne with Rhaenys, Oberyn, their children and her sisters on board. 

Dorne had been wonderful. Her confinement had taken place at the Water Gardens, where every Martell since Daenerys had given birth. It was where her mother had been born, and where she would have been born in a world where the king were less...himself. 

Her uncle Doran had been much diminished from the assured prince of her childhood memories, his hands swollen by the gout, his lower body hidden by silk blankets, and confined by his weakened legs to a wheeled chair.

But he had been very kind to her, greeting her with a kinsman's kiss and bidding her to be welcome to the palace that should have been her second home. Perhaps it had just been because she was with child, but she had nearly cried. He had been so very kind. 

Princess Mellario had been much unchanged from the last time Rhaenys had seen her, doting upon Rhaenys, her siblings and her children with seeming impartiality. But both she and Prince Doran, for all their clear affection for Oberyn, had looked at him with something between disgust and disappointment whenever their eyes had landed on him.

Rhaenys had thought it cruel to still hold their marriage against her uncle. It had been nearly ten years, and if she had been just as willing to be Oberyn's wife at four and twenty as she had been at five and ten then an uncle who had not seen her once in all that time had no business claiming the moral high ground. 

Arianne had been married at last, to Lady Dinah Wyl's younger brother Olyvar, though that had not prevented her eyes wandering to Oberyn. She had still been warm to Rhaenys, despite her looks, and Rhaenys had not challenged her. 

Arianne's brothers and their shared cousins had all been warm and friendly. Aegon had instantly befriended Quentyn, and their uncle's bastards had doted upon their younger siblings. 

Time seemed to have erased the misgivings of the Sand Snakes regarding their father's marriage as it had failed to do for Doran and Mellario. Each one had been delighted to see Oberyn, and he had showered them in gifts. 

Even better, her uncles had secretly arranged for Jaehaera, Visenya and Rhaena to visit Dorne as well. Jaehaera had brought her five fosterlings, husband, grandmother and aunt, Visenya had brought Daeron alone after her miscarriage the previous year, and Rhaena had complained to Rhaenys that Edric hardly touched her he had been so shaken by her threats.

It had been a wonderful time, far away from court and all the responsibilities that came with it. She had swum in the pools of the Water Gardens, or sewed, or read, or explored the palace that should have been as familiar to her as the Red Keep, or half a hundred other idle amusements.

Mostly, she had spent time with her sisters and cousins, revelling in their presence without the pressure of court to distort everything out of shape. 

Mellario had been shocked at the energy she possessed so late in her pregnancy, but that energy had been cultivated from the day her mother died so that she could continue on regardless of her own condition. She had not had another choice. 

Yet there, in the pleasure palace of the Martells, Rhaenys had had no responsibilities, no duties, and no urgent claims on her time. For the first time in her life, Rhaenys had been bored.

She had gone into confinement a fortnight after her arrival, accompanied by not only her sisters and her ladies, but her cousins and her aunt. 

It had been a lively, bustling room for the fortnight before her pains had started, and she had enjoyed it more than any of her previous confinements. 

Perhaps because she had been so relaxed, with no duties or stress to press upon her even in confinement, the birth had passed far more quickly than Eleryn's or Aelora's. 

Yes, there had been pain, and it had seemed to last forever, but Oberyn had told her that he had been waiting outside for only seven hours. And at the end of it, she had been handed another perfect daughter. 

Oberyn had left the name up to her again, utterly enraptured by his tenth daughter. Rhaenys had named her Daenaera.

She would have chosen Daenerys in honour of the ancestor for whom the Water Gardens had been built, but there had already been a Daenerys present so she had chosen Daenaera to avoid confusion. 

Daenaera's bastard sisters had adored her,  as had her trueborn siblings. The entirety of House Martell, as well as House Targaryen (save for the king) had lavished upon her all the love that the king's children had never felt.

Six weeks after Daenaera's birth, Rhaenys had drunk far too much at the feast to farewell them from the Water Gardens. So had her husband. 

As he often did when inebriated, he had sought out her company. Rhaenys had taken him to her bed, and the next morning they had both felt so terrible while taking ship that neither had remembered moon tea. 

When her bleeding had not resumed over the next two moons, she had thought little of it. It had taken three moons after Eleryn. She had always been irregular in any case, which Oberyn had put down to the stress of court. 

Three and a half moons later had marked well over four moons since she had given birth, and she had grown concerned. Her husband had examined her, and then had started to curse violently. "Oberyn? What is it? Am I unwell?" 

He had turned his back to her for a moment and she had seen his shoulders rise and fall as he had taken in a deep breath. Then he had turned back around, taking her hands in his. "No, you are not unwell. It..." He had paused, looking rather at a loss for words. "Did you, by any chance, forget to arrange for moon tea?"

"You haven't been in my bed since Daenaera's birth, and I have no other man." She had said, unimpressed and a little confused. Then she had paused, remembering the drunken night in Sunspear. "I forgot. Daena and Aelora were misbehaving and...shit."

Her hand had flown to hover over her womb. Six weeks after a previous birth. Too soon for another child to be advisable, the same length of time that had killed so many of her stepmothers. Three and a half moons. Too late for moon tea unless she was willing to bleed out or lose her ability to bear children. 

At least, Oberyn had looked as shocked as she had been. If he had been anything else she might have clawed out his eyes. 

Aegon had nearly done it for her, when he had been told she was with child again. That it had been an accident had only partially appeased him, and Sansa had needed to pull him away to give him time to calm down. 

Her method of calming had involved rather more kissing than Rhaenys had felt comfortable seeing when one of the participants was Aegon, but she and Oberyn had likely done far worse so she had kept her peace.

Their married sisters had written long letters that combined injunctions to take care of herself and threats toward Oberyn. The sisters in the Red Keep had been young enough simply to be excited, as had their children.

She had been far more tired and far more ill than with any of her other children, before or since. Understandably so, and Oberyn had insisted that she leave the majority of her duties to Lady Velaryon. 

At first she had protested, but by her sixth moon she had been exhausted enough that Mara handing her list of tasks to Lady Velaryon had been a welcome thing indeed. It had been the only time Mara had agreed with Oberyn since they had confirmed she was with child again. 

Dear Emelia had threatened to geld him if he had touched Rhaenys again, though Rhaenys had been forced to intervene. After all, she had rather enjoyed having her husband nearby and intact when she was carrying. It was not as if she had been able to get more pregnant after all.

He had enjoyed it too, once the first shock had passed. He had always loved having Rhaenys, and especially so when his seed had caught. As always, as soon as she was visibly pregnant, he had been unable to keep his hands away from her, or at least, even less so than usual.

She had done her best to appease her ladies by telling them to consider it his reparation. 

She had been in her seventh moon when it had happened. They had been making arrangements for her coming confinement, and she had intended to ask Sansa to take charge of the nursery while she was indisposed. 

The door to Sansa's chambers had been shut, and Ser Jonothor had been standing outside. Assuming that he had been assigned to Aegon that day, she had moved to brush past him with hardly a thought. 

Instead, he had caught her elbow. "I'm sorry, your Highness. I cannot let you in there." Rhaenys had paused, staring at the knight in absolute incomprehension for a moment.

Then it had clicked. The world had spun, and she had felt as if the bottom had dropped out of her stomach. Surely not. Sansa was the daughter of a Lord Paramount, lady-in-waiting to a princess, surely she had the status to protect her from the king? But then, the king's own daughters were not safe.  

"Who is it that you are guarding today, Ser Jonothor?" He had not met her eyes, and that had been answer enough. She had lunged for the door, but Ser Jonothor had caught her, gently, about the arms. 

"Princess, princess there is nothing you can do, please, just...stop." She had ignored him, twisting in his grasp like a madwoman. "Princess, don't make this any harder than it has to be, please, stop, ouch, stop struggling. For your child's sake, if nothing else." 

That had gotten through to her. She had stopped straining for the door handle, and he had let her go, a wary look in his eye. But Rhaenys had mastered herself again, and realised that there was a more pressing need than bursting in on the king to get all of their heads chopped off. "Fuck." She had sighed, drawn a breath in and released it. "Fuck you, and your oaths, false knight."

She had left him there, eyes wide and stricken, and hastened to the training yards where her husband would be with all the speed she could force from her heavy body. She had never made it there. 

Halfway there, she had happened on her brother, steps light and easy, clearly on his way to see Sansa. She had made to intercept him, and been interrupted by a sudden, intense ache as every muscle in her belly tightened. "Aegon!" She had meant to greet him calmly, to draw him aside and speak in private. Instead, his name had tumbled from her lips in a frantic cry. It was too early. Gods, it was too early. 

Aegon had been across the corridor in a second, catching her as her legs gave out beneath her. After that, it had been a blur of shouts and people running and steadily growing pain. 

She remembers that Oberyn had arrived before they had reached the birthing room. She remembers grabbing his sleeve and making him promise not to let Aegon kill the king. He had been puzzled but, thank the Gods, had promised her and kept his promise.

That had been all she had had time for, swept away in a tide of pain, relief, pain, relief, pain, pain pain pain painpainpainpainpain

Chapter Text

Her child had lived. Barely. Emelia had, reluctantly, told her that he had been silent when he slid from her womb, and when he had cried it had been thin, weak. 

Rhaenys remembers, vaguely, the horrible moment without a sound from the little blue body. She remembers pain, and a thready cry as the soft blackness finally enveloped her, but perhaps that is just her imagination.

By all accounts she had bled nearly to death. Certainly she had been unconscious for long enough that it had transitioned into a deep, exhausted sleep from which she had not surfaced for nearly a full day. 

Apparently the only thing keeping Aegon from killing the king during that time had been an equally strong urge to kill Oberyn which had kept him torn in bloodthirsty, grief-stricken indecision. In his mood, Tremna had told her later when they were alone, Oberyn might even have let him. 

"Let Aegon kill him," Rhaenys had asked, "or the king?"

Tremna had shrugged, setting the dangling chains of her gown's shoulders jangling and dancing. "Depends whether you lived or not."

She had lived of course. Dying would have been the easy way out of her mess, and Rhaenys Targaryen had never taken the easy way. She had woken to the fiery blaze of a sunset and more pain than she had ever felt, but she had lived. 

It was more than her mother had done. More than Lyanna or Cersei, or any other of the tragic women reduced even in her memory to nothing more than a bloody bed. What had made her so special? What had kept her alive longer? Did she provide more sport for the gods to laugh at?

She had named her son Aenar, for the Exile, the man who had outlived a continent. He was so small and pale and quiet, he would need all the strength that his name granted him. 

Oberyn had not even let her hold him by herself. He had slid behind her instead, supporting her body with his and her arms with his own. How terrible had it been, to shake the Red Viper so? She had not dared to ask, and there had been no time to do so anyway.

Poor Sansa had been still trembling, with bruises about her wrist and a hoarse rasp to her sweet voice. She had been flinching away from even Aegon, never mind any other men in the room, and Rhaenys had just held her as if she were one of her little sisters. 

Perhaps it was the situation, or that fact that Sansa was Jaehaera's younger cousin, but it had felt much like holding Jaehaera.

Forcing her mind to focus instead of wander down the winding paths that pain and exhaustion drove it to, she had demanded to be told what had happened while she was indisposed and sent Mara to the ravenry for the Winterfell raven so she could inform Lord Brandon of her failure to protect his daughter. 

They told her that the king had put new guards in the nursery and on the doors of the royal apartments. Not Kingsguard, who's vows could theoretically bend for the children they had watched grow up (not that they ever had, not that the Kingsguard had ever done anything other than watch), but unfamiliar faces lined with cruelty and heavily armed even in the nursery itself.

He had cited a need to increase security, but when there was a man with a sword standing over every crib there was little hiding the true intent.

Rhaenys had nearly been sick then, and even now the mere thought of that time can make her hands tremble.

Daena had been given her own rooms by then but Aelora and Naerys had still been in the nursery. So had her own children. Eleryn, Aemma, Daenaera and her new son, all of them had been in the nursery because that was where the royal children went, she had not even thought before placing them there.

The nursery had always been safe, but somehow she had been too stupid and naive to see that the sanctuary had only been the illusion of one granted by the king's disinterest. He was the king and the Red Keep was his seat. Of course the nursery had not been safe.

How easily children could die. Even Oberyn, as fast and strong as he was, would not be able to save all of them should the king give the order.

Perhaps she had underestimated the king. He had not cared enough to turn his mind to his children before, but apparently he had known them well enough that he had understood what Sansa had meant to them. He had known too, what to threaten to keep them in line without even needing to speak a word.

Mara had returned from the ravenry with lips pursed thin and white, and the news that the raven for Winterfell was gone. They had moved too slowly, too distracted by her son's birth, her near death, and Sansa's shame and fear. The king, unhampered by such petty concerns such as the lives of his daughter and grandson or the spirit of his son's lover, had gotten there first. 

Strangely enough, that had not made Sansa crumple further as Rhaenys had expected. She had shuddered and wiped her eyes, and then pulled herself away from Rhaenys.

Despite her red hair and blue eyes, Rhaenys had suddenly understood how the Starks had held the North for eight thousand years - if any of them had possessed a fraction of the incredible will currently turning Sansa's spine to steel, they would have been invincible. 

"I need to speak with Aegon." She had said quietly, to stop her voice rasping. It had not hidden how firmly she had spoken. "In private, if it is possible."

Oberyn had offered his own chambers, mostly used for dressing - on the nights that Rhaenys let him have her, he had always slept in her bed. Rather than gliding over to Aegon as she usually did, perhaps because of her limp, Sansa had marched to him and led him out by the hand. 

Even years later, Rhaenys had never known the details of that conversation. She had never asked Sansa, and it was one of the many things that Aegon had never volunteered. 

Still, she knows that when Sansa had come marching back out and announced that she had missed her moon blood a week ago, Aegon had not startled in the slightest. So she must have told him. Perhaps that was why the conversation took so long - Aegon had always been terrified of being a father. Almost as much as he had feared being a king. 

"Can you kill him?" She had said, as quietly and calmly as if she were asking if Rhaenys would wear a particular dress. 

Rhaenys had reached out and taken her hands. "Of course. Oberyn just needs to find the right poison. It will be half a moon at most."

Sansa had shaken her head. "I want you to wait until after my child is born." She had hesitated, and her grip on Rhaenys' hands had grown crushing. "I have to do this Rhaenys."

"No." Rhaenys had breathed, "No, Sansa, this is idiotic, I forbid it."

"You cannot. I have already been dishonoured, but if I do this, my child will have a royal name instead of a bastard's. My family will not support the daughter who threw away a queen's crown in favour of dishonour. Besides, a royal wedding is the best possible time for you to gain support. Think about it, the whole realm will be there."

They had all stared at sweet, naive little Sansa who's spine had overnight become one of steel. Who had, when none of them were watching, grown into a woman as fearsome as any of her forebears. 

It had been a long argument, so long that their voices had gone hoarse and silent, so long that Rhaenys had seen spots swimming before her eyes. In the end, they had relented. Sansa had been convinced that there was no other way that would provide them as much opportunity, and they had discovered that even the famed Martell stubbornness was no match for the Stark determination. 

Sansa had asked for only one thing - that as soon as her child was born, possibly sooner, the king would die slowly and painfully. She had not had any intention of letting her child have any memories of the king. 

They would have done so anyway. They would have killed him the moment he touched Sansa had he not threatened their children.

Aegon had come to her a few days later, sneaking into her chamber during the day when the children were in lessons and her husband vanished into thin air, most likely beating any unfortunate idiotic enough to cross blades with him into a pulp. 

She had taken one look at his wide eyes and ashy face, and sent her ladies away. Only to the solar, for Sansa's sake, but she had known from her brother's face that the conversation to come was not one to be had in public. 

Rhaenys had opened her arms and he had curled up against her in the bed as he had when they were but children, silently shaking. She had just held him and waited for him to speak. 

"How did you bear, it Nys?" His voice had been so quiet that she had been almost unable to hear it, strain her ears as she might. "How did you become a mother when the only parent we ever knew was the king? Were you not terrified?

She had shrugged and then winced as the movement jostled her brother against her aching body.

"I was more afraid of dying, I think. By the time I could think about being afraid of becoming like the king, Eleryn was already born and everything fell into place. Being a mother is not very different to being a sister. Perhaps the same will go for fatherhood."

Her brother had shaken his head, eyes turned away from her as if fearing judgement.

"I don't know how to be a father, Nys. What if I...what if I get it wrong? What if I hurt my child? Sansa's child - what if it grows up to hate me like I hate the king? I couldn't bear it

"You love your child already," Rhaenys had murmured into his ear as soothingly as she could manage when she was so tired she could barely croak. "That is half the battle won right there."

Aegon had laughed, an edge to the sound that worried her. "It is the other half I fear. Do you not understand? Of all of our siblings, the one the king has damaged most is the only one he loves. What if I become like that? 

"Well," she had said as lightly as she could manage, "don't emulate the king. We know other fathers - try to follow their example. Lord Velaryon, or Oberyn-

"Gods, you think that helps?"

Rhaenys had stared at Aegon in astonishment. He had pulled away from her, rolling off the bed to stalk about the room like a caged lion. "Wh- I don't understand...Aegon?"

Her brother had raked his hands through his hair. "Fine, let me spell it out for you. Our uncle abandoned eight daughters in Dorne with barely a thought, and yet he proclaims to love them. He is a loving father. Can you not see? A father's love is poison, Rhaenys."

"I-" Rhaenys had felt off balance, her head spinning and her body aching and her hands shaking. She had tried to tell herself it was merely her physical weakness, but she had known even then that it was a lie. "Aegon, the Sand Snakes were safe and happy, are safe and happy. He came here because we were in danger, and our mother, his sister was dead and could not defend us."

"Rhaenys, listen to me, not what you think I am saying. Our uncle abandoned eight daughters he allegedly adored in favour of fucking his niece of five and ten. In no world will I ever model myself after him in matters of fatherhood."

"He saved us." Rhaenys had managed, trying desperately to keep her composure, folding her hands one on top of the other as if that could stop them trembling. "Aegon, stop. "

Something cruel had twisted her brother's lips, and she had realised for the first time that he had the exact same sneer as the king. The thought had set her shivering as if she were in the North, not sunny King's Landing. "No, I cannot. We do not know any fathers who have not been cruel or negligent to their children. None. Not one. Sansa's father sold her to the king, Oberyn abandoned his children, the less said about our own father-"

"Shut up! Just...shut up, shut up Aegon, please, stop." She had clamped her hands over her ears and curled up, despite the ache in her lower body as she did so. There had been a noise outside, but she had not cared. 

Aegon had not stopped, caught up as he was in finally giving words to the dark things that had been simmering within him for Gods knew how long. "He killed our mothers in pursuit of a son who was not me. He hates us, Rhaenys, our own father. What kind of man looks at his own flesh and blood with hatred? What kind of man threatens his daughters the way he threatened you and Jaehaera? Gods, even Visenya, even Rhaena. That is our father, that is from whence we come. Is it any wonder I am afraid of becoming a father when our own father is-"

The door had slammed open, and Aegon had cut himself off almost before either of them had registered the sound. It had been habit.

Oberyn had stood framed in the entrance, still in the battered leather armour he wore when practicing. His eyes had been flashing, his lips pressed together in a thin line. "I heard raised voices. Are you alright, Rhaenys?"

Under ordinary circumstances, Rhaenys would have schooled her face into a false smile and forced some idle, placating nonsense past her lips. She had not done so that day. She had been so tired still, trying to organise the court while still so very wounded by Aenar's birth. 

She had just stayed curled up, humiliated by the sharp pricking behind her eyes that had threatened to burst forth with each passing moment. 

"Nys!" Aegon had finally been shocked out of himself enough to reach for her, but Oberyn had reached her first. He had tucked her face into the crook of his neck, pulling her to him and shutting out the rest of the world so that all she could hear or feel was him. Just him.

"I think you have done quite enough today, nephew." Her husband had said as coldly as he was capable of. "There are some squires in sore need of correction outside, perhaps you would like to do the honours?"

Aegon had sworn at their uncle, but had obeyed, flinging himself out of the room and slamming the door behind him. 

The last of her control had departed with her brother, and Rhaenys had leaned into Oberyn's embrace as the tears finally broke through. She had been shaking, the tips of her fingers numb, something tight about her chest stopping the air entering her lungs. 

What was wrong with her? That the mere mention of her kinship to the king could reduce her thus had been beyond pitiful, no matter her exhaustion. 

Oberyn had held her, pressing his lips to the crown of her head for a long moment as she had shuddered and wept into his shoulder. 

She had been somewhat less hysterical by the time evening had come around. Oberyn had sent for the children at supper time, warning them sternly not to jostle her before he had allowed them to climb up onto the large bed. 

She had embraced her sisters and her children, ignoring it when Aelora's knee had jammed painfully into her tender body and Daena's weight about her shoulders had twisted her spine awkwardly, and Aemma's arms about her neck had cut off her ability to breathe, and Naerys had-

Oberyn had physically pulled the children away from her, dangling Naerys upside down as she had shrieked with laughter. 

Eleryn had been so very careful, her sweet thoughtful boy. He had tucked her in as best he could, and kissed her forehead and told her to be careful. He had fed Daenaera himself as well, spooning mashed vegetables into her open mouth as seriously as if he had been a king passing judgement. 

He had shepherded his sister and aunts, which Daena had thankfully found amusing rather than irritating. Rhaenys had later thanked her for not causing trouble, even when Eleryn had shooed her off the bed after she had bumped Rhaenys. 

Aemma's lips had wobbled every few minutes, and Aelora had whispered to Rhaenys that Aemma had been crying 'all the time'. Rhaenys had remembered being four, when the king had married Cersei Lannister. She had given Aemma a berry tart and kissed the crown of her curly head and promised never to leave her. 

It had gotten her a teary, wobbly smile, and she had been forced to be satisfied with that. 

It had been a nice evening. Loud, and full of accidental knocks from children who meant well but didn't quite understand what was needed. Aegon had not been there, and she had felt his absence. He had always been there, and when he was not, it was so strange. 

Aegon had apologised the next day, with more sincerity than she had seen him use in a long time for anyone other than Sansa. She had accepted his apology and held him for a long time. She had been calmer by then and oh, how her heart had ached for her baby brother's fears.

Nothing she could say could comfort him, even though she had known that he would he a wonderful father - well, to the world a stepfather, but still. A father.

The king had ordered all of his children to the Red Keep for his wedding.

Sweet, dutiful Rhaena had arrived first with her husband's party, her cheeks rosy with health against her pale skin. The Baratheons had kept their end of the bargain - Rhaena's husband had taken his rights only thrice since the wedding, and she had been given moon tea each time. 

Visenya's party had taken far longer to arrive. The Westerlands was farther from King's Landing than the Stormlands, and she had been with child as well, necessiting a slow, easy journey particularly as it had been her first pregnancy since her miscarriage. Daeron, her only child then, had been a darling boy, plump and rosy and golden, more than happy to play with his aunts and cousins.

Eleryn had been an excellent host, helped by Aelora. The two had been inseparable from birth, and Rhaenys had wondered if Aelora would make him a good queen. Even Daena had remarked on their fondness for each other, and it had taken Visenya only a glance to ask if Rhaenys had intended them for a betrothal.

Perhaps if they had been in other circumstances she would have seriously considered it. But Eleryn would need an alliance, and even when the Targaryens had possessed dragons polygamy had never been tolerated.

So she had sighed and shaken her head. Aelora would have a fine match with a great lord, and Eleryn would have some Andal for his queen - a third generation of Rhoynish matches for the crown had been out of the question.

Despite Dragonstone being only a day's hard sail from King's Landing, Jaehaera had taken the longest to arrive, half a moon after Visenya. The Queen Dowager had sent her regrets, but she had been ill and required her daughter to nurse her. Prince Viserys had relayed his mother's words to the king with the most innocent face any courtier had ever seen. 

Jaehaera had worn only wimples and heavy veils the entire time she had been in the capital. She had claimed to have become more pious in her time on isolated Dragonstone, but in the privacy of Rhaenys' chambers had removed her wimple to reveal hair even shorter than the last time Rhaenys had seen her, and dyed bright blue. A Tyroshi custom, she had told her sisters, one that she had fallen in love with. Her newest fosterling had introduced her to it. 

She had showed miniatures of her fosterlings to all of her siblings. Garin, Ara and Netty had been there the last time Rhaenys had visited, but her sister's little flock had grown in the seven years that had passed. 

Phocles, a Meereenese slave boy, had been smuggled out of the city in their baggage. Reina had been selling dyes when they had found her, and in her spare time had been making new ones for Jaehaera. The youngest had been a six year old named Lya, the daughter of a Northern whore.

Rhaenys had looked between this last painting and her younger uncle, had noted the jawline, the ears, the nose. Jaehaera had looked back at her calmly with a defiant light in her eyes, and Rhaenys had let it go.

She would have died rather than raise her husband's bastards in her own house, but she had been away from Jaehaera too long to start a fight. Jaehaera had been a woman grown, and had long possessed the right to make her own decisions.

The king had, as he always had done when Jaehaera was at court, summoned his children for a meal together. 

It had become, over time, a custom for the king's elder children to gather together in Rhaenys and Oberyn's apartments prior to these meals. They had found it easier if they all entered together, rather than hoping that each of them would manage to be punctual. 

Before her sisters had begun to arrive, Oberyn had given her a tiny vial, looking for all the world like the ones he had given her for the dizzy spells that had begun after Aenar's birth. It had not been one of them, she had known, because she had already had one that day and he had been very clear that he would never give her more than one within a day's span.

She had not needed that, however, to know that this was what she had asked for.

"What is it." She had asked curiously, turning it over in her hand. He had not taught her as much of poisons as he had of healing, mostly because it had always been easier to find practical experience for healing than poisons.

"I think it best if you do not know." Oberyn had said slowly. "To blame it all on me if it should come to that. It will kill him slowly and painfully, that I can promise." She had not needed any more assurance. 

That night, Sansa had been sat on the king's left as protocol demanded, very pale and straight backed. In defiance of protocol, the king had commanded Jaehaera be sat on his left.

By rights, it should have been Aegon, as the highest ranked man in the keep after the king. Then Oberyn, his goodbrother, the husband of his eldest daughter and a prince in his own right. Then Rhaenys, Oberyn's wife, the eldest princess, and the foremost woman of the court in the absence of a queen. Followed by Viserys and then Jaehaera. 

Instead, Jaehaera had sat beside the king, then Viserys, then Rhaenys and Oberyn with their children. Aegon had come after them, sitting with their younger sisters on the king's left hand and glaring into his wine glass as if it had done him a personal wrong.

It had been a quiet, awkward evening, with little more than the clatter of silverware against imported Yi Ti porcelain. In private, the king had not seen the need to try and keep up the pretence of the meal being anything save a time to stop Jaehaera disappearing every time she was within spitting distance of him. Nor had he seen the need to keep up the pretence of caring one whit for any of his children save Jaehaera. 

So they had all eaten in tense silence, Rhaenys and Jaehaera practically vibrating as they had waited for the right moment. 

It had come eventually. The king had decided to play the harp, choosing a song he had written for Lyanna after Harrenhal more than twenty years before.

Rhaenys had slipped the little vial into Jaehaera's hand beneath the table halfway through the song. Her sister had taken the king's goblet and emptied the poison into it under the guise of filling it from the carafe. Then she had risen from the table and swept over to the king as he had finished the song. "That was lovely, Father." She had said. "Your throat must be so dry after singing, here. Look after yourself."

He had taken the goblet and downed it, thanking his sweet little winter rose for caring for her old father. 

That had been all. 

It had been so very simple. Rhaenys had wondered for years afterwards if she could have stopped so much suffering, just by doing that before. It had always seemed so impossible, and yet they had managed it so smoothly, so very easily.

Within a week, his hair had begun to thin and recede, looking brittle and split where it had previously been so fine and strong. His trim figure had begun to soften, his white teeth to blacken and his eyes to yellow. It was as if age had touched him early, bringing with it aches and coughs and clumsiness. 

Rhaenys had listened to reports of him being sick well into the night, of coughing up blood, of pissing blood, of nails breaking off and taking flesh with them, of bruises that had appeared and refused to leave. She had been careful to only smile in her own chambers.

The Starks had been the first nobles to arrive for the wedding, before even Rhaena and the Baratheons. Lord and Lady Stark had brought their children and neither of Lord Stark's brothers. Sansa had told Rhaenys that they had been commanded to remain in the North after a terrible fight over Lord Stark agreeing to the king's match.

Lady Catelyn had been cold and beautiful, whispering in corners with her sister as they snuck glances at various lords and ladies. Years in the North had spoiled her, Rhaenys had decided, if she was so obvious about her gossiping. Lady Lysa had always been a hopeless case - there was a reason Visenya had ruled the Rock with an iron fist from almost the day she had arrived, and it had not been entirely due to Tywin Lannister's indulgence.

Lady Stark had been very happy to break her eldest daughter's betrothal to Domeric Bolton in favour of the King of the Seven Kingdoms.After all, Sansa was from a family of many sons, and for all the king's efforts only one son had lived to adulthood. Life was perilous in Westeros - should something happen, Sansa could be the mother of the next king.

It would take only one life. 

If they had been planning to let the king survive past the birth of his newest grandchild, perhaps they would have worried.

As it was, Sansa had played the blushing, embarrassed daughter and avoided speaking overmuch with her mother. With either of her parents. She had decided of her own volition to go through with it, rather than running away with Aegon, but it had still been Lord Brandon and Lady Catelyn who had agreed to wed her to the king in the first place.

It had been they who had sent their daughter to the capital alone at only ten. It had been Brandon Stark who had signed her off to a man old enough to be her father, and Catelyn Tully who had sent Sansa a letter congratulating her on her wit and good fortune.

Sansa had wrung a promise from them that, should anything happen to Aegon before she bore a son, they would support Rhaenys as heir over Jaehaera or any daughter of Sansa's. Clearly thinking that it was unlikely, Lord Brandon had sworn in the Red Keep's godswood with an easy, indulgent smile and patted his daughter on the head as if she were no more than a silly girl still.

After the Starks had come the Lannisters, and then noble after noble flooding into the capital. The Red Keep had been full, so full that they had needed to buy several more manses in the city proper to house all of the guests.

It was, so Lady Velaryon had told Rhaenys, the most extravagant wedding the king had held since his marriage to Cersei Lannister. Rhaenys had wondered if it was because the king had wanted to display to the realm that Sansa was his, and not Aegon's. It would have been petty enough for the king.

The day of Sansa's wedding had dawned bright and clear, and by the time Rhaenys had arrived to help Sansa prepare she had already heard three separate groups claiming it was a good omen - a fair start for their fair new summer queen, with winter finally over. 

Sansa had refused to wear maiden white no matter what arguments were brought to her. "I am doing all of this for the greater good." She had said to Rhaenys, lip trembling a little. "Surely I can have this, at the very least?"

Rhaenys had remembered the bright eyed child of ten who had arrived in King's Landing all those years ago when she had married Oberyn and gained her own household. Then she had looked back at the tall, pale woman standing before her and relented. 

Sansa had arrived at the sept for her wedding dressed not in demure maidenly white but in the cold, grim grey of her house. She had pinned her hair up tightly beneath her veil of Rhoynish muslin and worn thin lace gloves that had reached to her elbows beneath the tight sleeves of her gown. 

Against the grey of her gown, the gold and rubies that the king had sent her had looked out of place and tacky, overdone in a way that elegant Lady Sansa had never been known for in all her years at court. 

Her head had been held high as Lord Brandon had handed her off to the king, her spine as straight as if it had been forged out of steel, her face as smooth as the porcelain dolls so highly priced by Yi Ti traders. She had been as cold and unyielding as ice as the vows were exchanged and the king had cloaked her in the heavy black and red cloak that he had used six times before.

At the feast afterwards, Aegon had left almost before the toasts had finished, having almost bitten through his tongue in his efforts not to draw attention to himself. 

It had been, Rhaenys remembers, a glorious feast indeed. Seventy courses, with entertainment between each one - fire eaters, tumblers, singers, mummers of every kind, even a display of water dancing from Braavos and warlocks visiting from Qarth. 

All of the pomp and glamour, however, had served merely as a distraction for the true purpose behind the ceremony. Every great noble house in Westeros had been invited, to bring them within easy reach for Rhaenys. 

She had dealt with the wives where she could, but had found it easier to speak with the lords. After all, it was a rare wife who could be swayed by a dress cut a hair too low, and a rare husband who could not be swayed by such. 

It was a game she had learned almost before she flowered, to dress and move just so and have men three times her age and size eating out of her hand in moments. She had not been the type of beauty lauded in songs, the slender, pale maidens who blushed at the mention of a kiss - she had been full figured and darkly lovely in a way that had turned men's heads as much for the temptation of the forbidden as for novelty. 

So she had draped herself in flame coloured silks, which had hinted at whatever they had not revealed and men had tripped over their words as she passed. The king had been so busy gloating over Sansa at his side that he had barely spared Rhaenys or even Jaehaera a glance. 

Lord Denys had already been half-obsessed with her from the celebrations of House Targaryen's third century, and it had taken little to have him falling at her feet again.

Aegon had complained, reminding her that Lord Denys might have had enough ill luck that his only son was Eleryn's age, but he was still older than their father. Rhaenys had cared little. 

She had smiled just so, and sat just so, and moved just so, and promised her Aemma for his Ronnel. He had promised her his armies and his support for whatever she desired, though she had led him to believe it would be Aegon he would be marching behind.

Edmure Tully had been even easier, his father having died a few years before and left him entirely without an advisor to keep him from being manipulated like a piece of wet clay. She had promised him Daenerys, and he had agreed so quickly it had almost been embarrassing.

The most difficult part had been persuading her grandmother over raven that at one and twenty, Daenerys was more than old enough to marry. Rhaenys had been six years younger when she had wed, she had seen little reason for Rhaella to disagree. The dowager queen had, reluctantly, agreed that a Lord Paramount was worthy of her only daughter. 

Daenerys had been delighted at the prospect of finally leaving Dragonstone, though the wedding had needed to wait until after their plans were carried out - the king would never have allowed such a thing. She had demanded to be allowed to marry her daughter to Eleryn's son, and Rhaenys had agreed. Neither of them had seen the need to inform Lord Edmure, who had been told only of the need to support Elia Martell's line.

The closer she tied the realms to her, the better, but it had needed to be a balance of making sure their loyalty was to her while not pushing too hard. As long as they believed they would be supporting a rightful heir against a tyrannous father wanting to deny him his rights, it would be easier. Besides, in the Dornish view Rhaenys had been the rightful heir from birth. Had there really been any lie in what they had said?

She had promised lesser things to a hundred other lords, lands and titles and positions at court. Some had wanted a favour at a tourney, or support against an enemy. It had been simple enough to have them all dancing to whatever tune she desired.

Had she not learned at five and ten that she could have her own uncle, should she play her cards right? What was a minor lord to that?

The only man she had not managed to twist about her finger had been Willas Tyrell. The crippled young lord had turned all of her tactics back onto her with a blithe smile, and kept his wife firmly on his arm. Rhaenys had sent her husband in her place. Lord Willas had bent more easily to his long-time friend than to a strange woman, and when Oberyn had returned to her he had born a verbal agreement to betroth their Eleryn to his Rosamund. 

Talla Tarly's daughter had been a sweet girl then, with tawny hair and eyes and a smile that hadn't quite learned to hide its edge. 

She had felt little remorse for the matches she made. Had not she been wed at five and ten to a man twenty years her senior? Oberyn had done his best by her, and she by him. But she had not made any such unequal matches for her children or her aunt. 

They were good matches. Solid ones. With luck, love would grow. She would have preferred to wed Eleryn to Aemma or Aelora, to keep the line strong, but politics trumped tradition. Those alliances had bought her armies, and more importantly they had bought her loyalty. They had bought her a Tyrell for her son, and Tyrell men and supplies to support them when the Iron Throne fell empty. 

All she had needed to do was to smile and simper and sit just so. It was an old game, one that she had learned to play as soon as she had bled. 

Letting men with egos bigger than their brains stare at her like a piece of meat had been a small enough price for their armies.

If she needed to let arrogant men stare at her like a piece of meat in order to get the revenge that had been more than twenty years in the making.

Rhaenys had been grateful enough that she had allowed him to drag her away from the feast, despite how conspicuously he had done it.

She had noted all the eyes following them, all the men wishing that they could take Oberyn's place - after all, men wanted nothing more than what was forbidden. There was little that was more forbidden and tempting than a half-Dornish Targaryen princess wed to the Red Viper.

It was not about Rhaenys herself, or her body, but about what she represented. The prospect of touching something so clearly belonging to such an infamous prince drove men mad with the challenge. 

Oberyn had noticed them as well, and had found it amusing. She had wished a little that he would have been jealous - did her fidelity matter so little to him? The only time he had been at all unsettled by another man's eyes on her had been when the eyes belonged to the king, and that was more a matter of his dislike for the king. Did she matter so little to him?

She had swallowed the thought down and smiled up at her husband when he asked if anything was wrong. Then she had let him make her forget everything she was trying not to think of, all the hundred and one things she had needed to keep track of, all of the worries and fears, and Sansa, most of all Sansa.

The king had not touched Sansa on their wedding night, too delighted by the idea of his seed taking root in the woman his son loved to risk losing it. Instead, he had returned to his own chambers, sending for Lady Gwyn Lancett as he did. 

Rhaenys had seen the woman being led from his apartments the next morning, her head held high despite being wrapped only in a light cloak. She had bitten her tongue and sent moon tea for her, as well as Tremna.

Her cousin had been the lady-in-waiting to most take to Oberyn's hasty instruction on healing, and had tended to most, if not all, of the king's mistresses by that point. It had made her oddly close to Amerei, who had spent enough time recovering that she had almost never done any of the duties that had by rights fallen to her as a lady-in-waiting of the king's firstborn.

After the wedding, Sansa had taken on few of the queen's duties. She would not be queen for long, she had argued. If she had taken power for the few short moons it was hers by rights, it would only have to be handed right back to Rhaenys and cause further upset.  

So Rhaenys had continued to run the court as she had when the king had no queen. Sansa had begged her condition and had kept for the most part to her chambers, save for her visits to the Sept every few days. 

Time had passed. Sansa's seclusion had worked in her favour, so that few people had seen her womb swelling a little too early. When visiting the sept she had worn heavier gowns suitable for the solemnity of the holy place and had gone mostly unnoticed. 

By some miracle, Sansa had not gone into labour until the day before she had been due to go into confinement. 

Rhaenys had been terrified. How many women had she seen die in that bed? Too many, from the time she had been too young to understand what was happening. But this was the first time that she had seen a woman under her protection brought to the bloody bed. It had been different with Visenya - Loreon had been young yes, but kind and very much in awe of his golden dragon bride. Visenya had not been under the king's power in the same way. 

So Rhaenys had held her lady-in-waiting's hand and said nothing as Sansa had gripped it harder and harder until the bones had ground together audibly. This had been the least she could do for putting Sansa in that position. 

Beyond that, Rhaenys remembers little. Only that Sansa had lived. By the grace of the Seven, she had lived. 

Her child had been a daughter, thankfully, not a son who could grow up to challenge them. A beautiful girl with a full head of deep red hair that had curled as soon as it dried and skin ever so slightly golden. 

The king had been so disgusted at the news of yet another daughter that he had simply walked off. He had not even looked at her - which had most likely saved all of their heads. Like most of the king's daughters, Helaena had taken after her mother more than anyone, but it was a risk none of them had been willing to take.

Sansa had held her daughter, face pale and eyes cold. "He has to die now, Rhaenys." She had said, rocking the baby. "Before she looks like a Martell."

They had given Daena pig's blood, which she had smeared over her nightgown and then had run through the halls to Rhaenys. She had not managed to mum tears, but she had seemed appropriately distressed. 

The king had commanded her marriage be set, though she had only been ten and one. Lady Velaryon's lips had thinned and she had made plans to leave court for the first time in over twenty years. 

Daena being the fifth daughter, the wedding had been much simpler than the king's to Sansa (though it had been the king's seventh wedding). It had at least been well-attended, most of the nobles not having returned to their homes yet. Jaehaera and Rhaena had been called back to court for their sister's wedding, lips pursed and eyes wary. 

Despite knowing that it was best to get her sister away from King's Landing and that Lady Velaryon had promised to keep her safe, Rhaenys had felt ill watching her sister being cloaked by Monford Velaryon. 

They had been children, both of them, their faces soft with puppy fat and their bodies still androgynous in their youth. 

It was necessary, she had reminded herself. Monford was yet young to be interested in his rights, and Lady Velaryon had promised. The elder woman had never yet let her down. It was the only way to get Daena out of King's Landing before she did something that got the king's attention on her. Daena would be safe on Driftmark, far away from court and the king.

There had been murmurs among the crowd of nobles as well, remarking on how very young indeed both bride and groom were. Especially when the king had called for a bedding.

Then, even the harder warriors had hesitated, the general assumption having been that the consummation would wait until the newly weds were no longer children in body. But then, the general assumption had been based upon general knowledge. Most had not then realised how little the king cared for the wellbeing of his daughters. 

Rhaenys had placed Daena and Monford in one of the chambers that had an entrance to Maegor's tunnels. Once enough time had passed, she had slipped away from the feast with Oberyn and snuck into the tunnels. 

The two had been in their nightclothes, sitting cross-legged on the bed as they played a card game that had involved a lot of shrieking and slapping. Rhaenys had admonished them to go to sleep in good time and handed Daena a vial of blood to smear on the sheets. 

The next morning Daena's limp had been only slightly overdone, and there had been bruises littered over her shoulders that she had confessed had come from falling off the bed onto Monford's toy soldiers. She had shrugged it off. "At least I look like you after you spend the night with Uncle Oberyn."

The Velaryons had given them half a week before leaving for Driftmark. Rhaenys had felt oddly bereft without Lady Velaryon there for the first time in her memory. If Driftmark had needed ruling, Lord Velaryon had temporarily returned to address whatever issues his half-brother had been struggling with before returning to court. 

Shortly after the Velaryons had departed, Visenya had gone into confinement. Three days later, she had given birth to a tiny girl with a halo of golden fuzz on her little head. 

She had been named Rhaelle, and Rhaenys had been very glad indeed to see Loreon holding his daughter as his eyes had blown wide with awe. He had adored Rhaelle as soon as Visenya had handed her to him, so much that he had only reluctantly relinquished her to Daeron. It had settled something else in Rhaenys, knowing that her sister's husband had not turned on her for a daughter as the king had to so many women so much better than he.

The king had only deteriorated further after that, his skin wrinkling and sagging, his eyes becoming bloodshot and yellowed, his teeth rotting and beginning to fall out. It was as if the youth and beauty he had kept so long had finally abandoned him, and the truth of him had been emerging. 

Whispers had gone around the court, noting that the king's deterioration had coincided with his desire to wed the Lady Sansa. Had she not been seen often with Prince Aegon? Perhaps the Gods had been punishing the king for turning his eyes to that which had belonged to his son. 

Varys had reported whisperers to the king, who had ordered their tongues cut out. That had not stopped the whispers, only fired them further. Arys Oakheart's execution had been brought out again, and the king's many dead wives, and his mother's continued absence from court. Queen Rhaella had been wed to a Mad King, they had remembered, would not she be the most qualified to see the signs of another?

It had all been going so very well indeed. The king's health deteriorating by the day, and his mind with it, the realm turning against what had seemed to be the emergence of another Mad King, four sisters married and away from King's Landing. They had been so close.

It had taken only a single moment for it all to turn sour. 

The day before they had intended to put an end to it all, Sansa had gone to the Sept of Baelor to pray as had been her custom for the decade she had lived in King's Landing. Every other day, she had taken candles and lit them for each of the Seven, save for when she had been in confinement. After her marriage, it had become one of the few places she could snatch a moment to speak with Aegon.

The king had gone after her for some reason best known to himself. Perhaps his sudden illness had alerted him to the dire state of his immortal soul, and he had intended to cool his afterlife down a little. Perhaps the Spider had whispered something in his ear. It wouldn't be the first time - had he not done the same at Harrenhal, when only Rhaenys and Aegon had been born?

Rhaenys had sent Jaehaera after them, because Jaehaera was the only one whose presence would not push the king further into rage. All that Rhaenys had been able to do was pace and wait and fret, sending her ladies to ensure that as many people as possible would see the king's return. 

She had heard later from Aegon and Sansa what had happened. 

None of the messengers had reached them in time. 

The king had found them together in the crypt where the urns of the Targaryens were kept. They had only been speaking quietly, standing before the tiny tomb of Elia Martell's thirdborn, never born child. Aegon had not touched Sansa since the day Rhaenys had born Aenar - Sansa had refused even a kiss, memories of the king's touch shutting her away even from Aegon. 

All they had been doing was speaking, but it had been enough. The king had ordered them seized. He would have had their heads right then and there, but the kingsguard had hesitated. 

The king had lunged forward, attempting to kill them himself, but an old septon had gotten in the way. He had begged the king not to spill blood in the holy house of the gods, to have mercy and act justly as he had sworn to do before gods and men.

Rhaegar Targaryen had slit his throat without even pausing.

In the stunned horror that had followed, Jaehaera had arrived, falling to her knees in the septon's blood and begging the king not to let his anger rule him. She had clung to her father's stained hands, pleading for him to let them stand trial for their wrongs. 

"If you kill them here, Father," she had said, pressing her scarred forehead to the hands that had scarred it so tenderly, "the realm will only condemn you. Give them a trial. Let their treachery be known to all the world, let the kingdoms bay for their blood too."

The king had never said no to Jaehaera, and he had not begun that day, with her white gown and wimple dappled in the old septon's blood. Aegon and Sansa had been thrown in the cells, and the king had nearly thrown Helaena in with them. 

Jaehaera had once again intervened, and sent the baby to Dragonstone where Rhaella could care for her. "You will never see her again, Your Grace, I swear this to you."

He had threatened to imprison Rhaenys and her husband as well. After all, had the child not been kept in the same nursery as their own children? Could neither of them recognise Elia Martell's stamp in the babe? 

But Doran Martell had arrived just in time, as cold as any Stark and a hundred times as cunning. The king, Rhaenys had realised, had always been a little afraid of his first good brother. He had reluctantly conceded that Sansa had been very careful to let none see her daughter, and that if he, the alleged father, had not noticed then how could a woman five-and-twenty years the babe's senior? Rhaenys had long had a household and a family and a life of her own, well apart from her sisters or her transient multitude of stepmothers.

By the guards set outside her apartments, she had known the king had not truly believed the alibi. Her children had been put under Jaehaera's care, along with her sisters, ostensibly due to Rhaenys' ill health. 

Jaehaera had brought the children to visit her when she could, but Rhaenys had put a stop to it after the second visit. "Send them to Dragonstone, sister." She had said, pressing Aenar back into Jaehaera's hands with as much firmness as she could muster, pressing kisses to Eleryn's cheeks, crushing Aemma to her and cradling Daenaera. "They will be better for leaving this pit of snakes for a little."

So they had joined Rhaella, Daenerys and Helaena on Dragonstone, and Rhaenys had breathed a little easier. Without the children in the nursery, where the king could reach them for any misdemeanour, things had gotten much easier.

It had still ached like a wound to have her children so far away from her. Her sisters she had long expected to lose to marriage and husbands, but she had hoped to keep her children close for at least a little longer - the king would not have pressed for marriages for grandchildren he barely remembered existed, and so she had clung to them more and more as each sister wed and left her. Yet now her sisters had gone, and not even her son had remained. 

The king had summoned every noble in the realm for Aegon and Sansa's trial, though between his wedding to Sansa and Daena's wedding the majority of the nobility had simply never left King's Landing. It had made it far more easy to 

The king had not recused himself even after Jaehaera had begged him. He had sat in state over the whole trial, though he had conceded to name two judges to sit beside him in at least lip service to the old traditions.

He had appointed the Lord Hand Jon Connington and Lord Roose Bolton, Connington having not removed his tongue from the king's boots in over thirty years, and Bolton having held a grudge for the Starks breaking his son's betrothal to Sansa. 

The king had admitted carelessly to killing the septon, and had pushed for not only the deaths of his wife and son but the death of his wife's bastard. That had done most of the work for them. 

Helaena had been only three moons old - even the harshest lord had been taken aback at their king demanding the death of an innocent babe. Hidden away on Dragonstone and secluded by her mother before that, the court had had almost no chance to note her resemblance to her 'half-brother'. The king's assertion that Helaena was the image of Elia Martell had seemed only the ranting of a mad man (even Queen Sansa's stepdaughters had admitted quietly that the child's hair was red and her eyes blue).

The rest of the work had been easy enough. Rhaenys had stayed by her husband's side as he had bemoaned her ill health which had led the king to put their children under her sister's care. Even a blind man could have seen that Rhaenys was in better health than the king, and Jaehaera had always been pale and slender enough to look rather unwell beside her bronzed, full-figured elder sister.

"Your children were taken away?" Lady Lysa had gasped, one beringed hand draped over her heart. "Oh my dear Rhaenys, how dreadful."

Rhaenys had summoned a tremulous, brave little smile. "Only temporarily, I hope, until the king judges me well again."

Witnesses and evidence had been brought out one after another, a parade obviously arranged by Varys. Some had indeed been true - Aegon and Sansa had been discreet following the king's intervention, but prior to that they had seen no need. The few pieces of truth, however, had been drowned by the clear falsity of most of the evidence presented.

Varys never had known when to stop and that would be his downfall. Had he simply stuck to the evidence and witnesses that had been true, perhaps it would have been different and the realm would have been convinced of their guilt. But so many obvious lies had made the truth so very hard to believed. 

If Rhaenys had not hated the eunuch so much, she might have thanked him for making their job easier.

Aegon and Sansa had been questioned separately, and their testimonies written down before being signed and presented the previous day. Both had been full of lies - again, Varys had weighted the dice too heavily.

They had allegedly confessed to trysting on multiple occasions during Sansa's marriage, to sleeping together on nights when at least one other person had known their whereabouts, to attempting to poison the king so that Aegon could take his father's crown and queen. 

Rhaenys had been questioned as well, as had her husband. She had answered as truthfully as she had been able, that her brother and lady-in-waiting had been lovers for a year or more but that after the king had announced his intent to wed Sansa she and Aegon had not touched each other. She had said nothing of the rape or the power plays or the petty abuse. 

On the third day of the trial Prince Aegon had been brought out and Rhaenys had nearly been sick. Her brother's frame had been shrunken by hunger until every bone was visible, his jaw and cheeks sharp enough to cut glass. He had been covered in bruises, one eye swollen shut and his nose crooked, with blood staining the ragged shirt he wore until its original colour could not be identified. Worst of all, he had not been walking under his own power - his legs had been angled oddly, broken by some heavy force. 

She had clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle a cry that she was too controlled to ever let slip, and had let a single tear overflow her eyes to trail down her cheek. 

Around her, people had whispered and shaken their heads. Perhaps the prince had slept with his father's wife, but it had not yet been proven. If the king could do so with his own son and heir, what would he do to a noble? Was no one safe? 

Queen Sansa had been little better. She had been walking, but bruised and starved as Aegon had been, her head held high despite her tattered shift. Rhaenys had remembered the sweet child of ten that had arrived at the capital and felt sick.

Had it been her fault that this had happened to Sansa? Or had it simply been the viper's pit of King's Landing, which had twisted any man or woman brave enough to set foot in it?She had not known and that uncertainty had burned alongside the bubbling guilt. 

The king had stood to pronounce whatever sentence he had devised in his head, but her brother had beaten him to it.

"I demand a trial by combat." Aegon had declared, black eyes meeting the king's with as much steadiness as they ever had. The king had smiled, a nasty one showing all of his yellowed, blackened and missing teeth. If he had been trying to recall his own father to the popular mind, he could not have done a better job. 

"The Crown's champion shall be Ser Arthur Dayne." The king had said, leaning back on the throne before wincing as a darker shade spread through the red damask of his sleeve. Ser Arthur, standing at the foot of the throne, had kept his face impassive for the most part, though his pursed lips had said all that a scowl would have. "The valiant and righteous Sword of the Morning. Who do you name as your champion, adulterer? You cannot fight with your legs broken."

Aegon had looked across at them with a glint in his eye. Rhaenys had felt her stomach sink and grasped at her husband's arm, but he had already nodded. "My goodbrother, Prince Oberyn Martell."

"I accept." Oberyn had said, standing forward, shaking her hands from his arm. "I will be my nephew's champion." 

Rhaenys had stood there without making a sound, all at once entirely alone. She had bitten her tongue hard enough to bleed and for the first time in many years, had prayed. She had not known to whom she prayed, only that she had been desperate enough to ask. Please, she had begged, don't make me lose them too. Protect them.

The trial by combat had been set for two days after the trial, to allow both combatants time to prepare. Neither Oberyn nor Rhaenys, on virtual house arrest as they were, had been allowed to visit Arthur. 

But he had, by some strange twist of logic, still been set to guard them the night before. Perhaps the king had believed Oberyn would murder his childhood friend and render it all null and void? Perhaps he had thought Arthur would kill Oberyn to be done with the fight in advance. Perhaps he simply had not noticed

Whatever the reason, Arthur had been standing outside of their apartments. Oberyn had invited him in as he often had when Arthur had been appointed to them - though Arthur had never before accepted. Perhaps that should have tipped them off.

Rhaenys had sat and sewed by the fire to keep herself from spitting anything to the knight that would have been meant for the king he was championing. She had left the talking to her husband.

"I want you to poison me." the Sword of the Morning had said, a candlemark in, sitting calmly with his hands folded. "Just a little. Enough that I can honestly say I lost to you." 

Oberyn had sneered down at him, reaching for his half-empty cup of wine. "Will that assuage your honour?"

"What little is left of it, I hope."

"No." The knight had looked stricken, and Rhaenys had nearly bitten through her tongue but had kept her silence as Oberyn had continued. "For more than twenty years you have been tainting your precious honour. Poison leaves traces, I will not jeopardise us like that. You know how to throw a match without seeming it, you have been doing so since we were children. Do it yourself."

There had been a long, tense silence. Arthur had looked down at his hands. "I understand. Very well, I will not put the burden of the victory on you. At least you have enough of a reputation that a defeat is not beyond belief."

"So you will not attempt to take the victory?"

Arthur had shaken his head. "How can I? I can do basic arithmetic, your Highness. Queen Sansa's child must have been concieved before she was betrothed to the king. There was, therefore, no wrongdoing on the part of any party."

"Except the king." Rhaenys had said, her temper finally breaking the constraints she had set on it.

"Well," the knight had stammered, "I-"

"You have your vows." She had interrupted, ignoring Oberyn's hand on hers in favour of finally trying to make the knight bleed for all the days and nights he had ignored the suffering of the women, the children and the innocent under his protection. "The same vows that saw you all stand outside my grandmother's room as her husband raped her. The same vows that saw you do it again with every woman brought to the king's bed. What will it take for you to think of anything other than those vows?"

She had stood and left the solar, curling fully dressed upon the large bed, waiting for the voices in the solar to die away. At some point she had fallen asleep, because her next memory is of her ladies shaking her awake to undress her for bed, the fire having been built back up. 

They had helped her into bed, and Emelia had offered to be her bedfellow as she often had done on nights when Oberyn had sought other company. The other ladies had left afterwards, and Rhaenys had closed her eyes and tried to sleep. 

Oberyn had entered the room only a few moments later, offering to let Emelia join them before she had covered herself with her robe and made her escape. Rhaenys had intended to pretend to be asleep, but by then her husband had known her far too well. He had slid into the bed beside her and draped one arm over her body, tucking his chin over her head. 

She had stayed still, her breathing even, but his hands had started to wander anyway. "I know you are awake, little one," he had breathed in the quiet dark, ''and I am not ready to sleep yet. For all Arthur's promises it may yet be my last night on this earth, and I do not wish to spend it with any save you."

A pause, as his hand had reached her breast, brushing over the nipple. Her intake of breath had been audible in the silent room, and she had felt the smile that had spread across his lips. "Rhaenys, my darling niece, my sweet  princess, my perfect little girl, would you deny me tonight of all nights?" He had still been speaking in a whisper, as if afraid to break the spell of the dark room. 

She had given up, opening her eyes and turning over to face him. "I would not deny you tonight." She had said, matching his whisper. "But it is not your last night with me or any other."

Oberyn had not replied, only claimed her lips and rolled them over, bracing his elbows on either side of her. "If it is, I shall make it one you will remember for as long as it takes for you to join me."

He had made to slip inside of her then, but she had not been wet enough, and it had been uncomfortable. So he had instead kissed her, fingers playing with her until she had screamed his name loud enough that the guards would have heard her. It had made him laugh, an odd sensation when she was so sensitive down there. 

He had not turned to the more adventurous bedsports he had habitually favoured, that time. He had instead fucked her while she had lain on her back, the way she had preferred it, peppering kisses down her neck. "I want him to know." Oberyn had murmured against her pulse point. "I want him to know you're mine. Even if I am not there, you are a Princess of Dorne, Rhaenys, my perfect niece, my darling princess. You will be protected, I promise. Doran has arranged it all."

She had been glad of the darkness then, glad that he had not seen her tears. He had known they were there regardless. She had wrapped her arms about his shoulders and just breathed, letting him fuck her however he wanted with only a dim awareness of gratitude because he had been fucking her in all the ways she had enjoyed the most.

"It won't be the same." She had whispered while they had been curled up together afterwards. "Eleven years of marriage leave a mark, Oberyn. Even without that, you are my uncle, my kin. It is not only the protection you can offer me, you do know that? No one could replace you."

The next day had been hot and dry, which would have given Oberyn the advantage had his opponent not been a fellow Dornishman. Still, he had worn his customary scarred leather armour, while Arthur had been in the full white plate of the Kingsguard to pander to the king's ego. He had always relied on being lighter and faster.

They had fought in a large open courtyard, the same one that had so often held larger gatherings and even small tourneys. Rhaenys had looked at the brownish-red dust staining the bottom of her saffron gown and wondered if she would ever be able to look at the courtyard in the same way again. If she had watched her husband's blood water the ground, would this part of the keep become as haunted for her as the birthing room? As the queen's chambers? 

Somehow, the entire court had packed into the space, the air flush with the scent of a hundred expensive perfumes. Rhaenys had watched her sisters in the royal box, wondering if the scent of the king's rotting body had overpowered all of the perfumes it had been doused in. 

Oberyn had stolen the goblet of wine in her hand and finished it, pulling a face at the taste of Arbour Gold. "The last wine I may ever drink, and you chose that bodiless rubbish from the Reach? I thought you loved me, darling."

"I thought it might stop you drinking before such an important fight." She had said, mustering as much of a smile as she could. 

Her husband had smiled back, rather better than she had, and wrapped his arms about her waist, pulling her to him. "Never." And then he had bent to kiss her. 

She had let him, had clung to him a little and chased his mouth back as he had pulled away - she had not wanted to admit it, but she had been afraid. Morals or no, Arthur Dayne had still been the Sword of the Morning and Oberyn had been only two years shy of fifty, no longer as fast or strong as he had once been however much he had denied it.

Without him, without Aegon, she would be in a far worse position than she had ever been - utterly defenceless, a widow with six children to care for (not all of them her own), and most likely the person the king hated most in the Seven Kingdoms. So she had let him kiss her hard, had tried to commit to memory everything about him in case it was the last thing he gave her. 

Aegon had cleared his throat after what had felt like only a few moments, but judging by his face had been more. "Must you?"

"I may very possibly die for you today, nephew." Oberyn had said, one arm still about Rhaenys' waist. "And you wish to spoil the last time I may kiss my wife?"

"You would claw your way back from the dead to snatch 'one last kiss' from Rhaenys, forgive me for not being sympathetic." Aegon had said, and their uncle had laughed. It had been infectious, a little hysterical, and Rhaenys had joined in. 

It had been Aegon who had sobered first. He had sighed and drawn one hand across his bruised, broken face, his nose no longer looking even faintly like the distinctive Martell nose that they had all once shared. "Good luck, uncle, and...thank you for everything. For taking care of Rhaenys."

Oberyn had nodded and clapped Aegon on the shoulder. "It was my honour, nephew, and my joy. If Lady Luck wills it, it will be my honour and my joy for many years to come."

They had exchanged a long look, and then her uncle had pulled his hand away and turned to Rhaenys. She had leaned up and kissed him one last time, hard enough that she had hoped to remember it forever if she had to. 

"Good luck, uncle." She had said, pulling away just enough to breathe, her words spoken against his lips. "Don't leave me." It had felt more like the plea of a frightened child than the grown wife and mother that she had been, but she had not been able to take it back.

Oberyn had stolen one last kiss from her, tasting of the sweet Arbour Gold he had pretended so much to hate. "Today is not the day I die, little niece. We will raise our children and grow old in the sun, and one day you will laugh when I remind you of this moment."

Then he had taken his spear from his squire and sauntered out into the ring to a veritable wave of cheers and shouts. Arthur had entered from the opposite side, quiet and contained to Oberyn's capering and flashfire smiles. 

When they had both reached the centre, silence had fallen. They had bowed to each other, both in the elegant, elaborate Dornish style that had existed before the Rhoynar had sailed from the ruins of their cities, before turning in unison to the royal box.

Rhaenys had held her breath, waiting for the king to begin the match. At length, Rhaegar had raised one swollen hand and dropped it again. 

At once the two men had exploded into action, a flurry of action and reaction that had danced them all around the ring in moments. No combatant, Rhaenys had hardly been able to keep up. 

Oberyn had explained to her years before that the first few exchanges were always more a test than a true battle, no matter how often one had fought the opponent. A way to settle into the rhythm of the fight. 

She had not paid much attention to his lessons in martial theory, having known that there was no place secret enough to hide something like a princess learning to fight. She had needed to be perfect, and the arts of the warrior had not been included in the list of ladylike virtues. 

But then, watching as people had reacted and cheered to currents that she had not entirely understood, she had regretted it. 

First blood had gone to Arthur, slipping under the long reach of Oberyn's spear to nick her uncle's forearm. Rhaenys had fallen back to the little table on which the wine had sat, desperate for something solid to hold onto that was not her brother's mangled fingers. 

The two men had stopped playing then. They had slipped apart, circling for what had felt like an eternity before an unseen signal had set them racing back towards each other, clashing with a great screech of metal against metal. 

Oberyn had been faster, she had begun to see, his leather armour not weighing him down half so much as Arthur's heavy plate had weighed him down. That had begun to show more and more as the fight had drawn out, as both men had begun to tire and feel the weight of their bodies more. 

Second and third blood had gone to her husband, the Sword of the Morning's side and his shoulder. Flesh wounds both, but still bleeding. 

She had lost count of the wounds after that, both men soon bleeding from what had seemed like a hundred different little wounds but had most likely been no more than a dozen split between them. 

When Arthur had knocked off Oberyn's helmet, she had nearly screamed, seeing visions of Dawn punching it's way through brain and bone and obliterating her husband's head. It had not. She had dreamed of it for years afterwards regardless. 

Thankfully, that seemed to have made her husband careful. Perhaps the alcohol had been wearing off. Perhaps he had gained his second wind. He had pulled away from Arthur, and she had seen his mind working as he had circled Arthur. 

When they had dashed together again, his steps had been heavier, kicking up the dull dirt that had sat so lightly upon the dry ground. He had come from exactly the right angle for the sea breeze to catch the dust and hold it in the air. 

The haft of his spear had come around while Arthur had been trying to see the trap hidden in the dust and knocked the Sword of the Morning's feet out from under him. Arthur had gone to his back with a heavy clatter of plate as loud as any tourney. 

To his credit, he had been up again almost as soon as he had hit the ground, but by that point Oberyn's spear had been back around, and Oberyn had disarmed him with a tricky twisting move that had set Aegon whistling with something of his old vigour. 

For a moment, the two men had simply looked at each other for a long moment in silence. It had felt as if the world had been holding it's breath. 

Then the Sword of the Morning had knelt in the dust, which had streaked all over his white cloak and armour and mingled with the blood leaking from his wounds. Above him had stood the Red Viper, resplendent in his copper chainmail and billowing sandsilk cloak, pointing both Dawn and his own spear at his opponent. 

And the king's champion had bowed his proud head. "I yield."

It had been like something out of a song, the crowds that had burst through the barrier and lifted the victorious prince on their shoulders. "The Gods have spoken!" The High Septon had cried. "Prince Aegon and Queen Sansa are innocent!"

Then the king had stood, his face twisted into something barely recognisable. The sheer hatred written clear over it had silenced the crowd as well as a dragon's roar. 

"The Gods have spoken, but I am still king. For my respect for our faith, I shall not execute the accused but for their crimes, Aegon Targaryen and Sansa Stark are banished from the Seven Kingdoms with their bastard. Should they return, or remain within the Seven Kingdoms after a seventy has passed, that mercy will be rescinded. They may have no contact with Westeros, no support from their innocent kin, and may be given none of the benefits of the station they have abused. I strip them of their titles and privileges from this day until their last day."

Had it been possible, the silence would have become more absolute still. The High Septon had started to sputter something about the sanctity of the ritual of trial by combat.

"Am I not still master in my own house, Septon?" The king had hissed through blackened teeth. "Am I not the king?"

The old man had subsided, and the king had turned away. He had not seen the dark look in the High Septon's eyes - His High Holiness had not forgotten the blood of his man, shed on holy ground and forever tainting the Targaryen crypts. 

A murmur had run about the crowd. Had not the gods declared Prince Aegon innocent? Who was the king to punish him for a crime even the gods had not believed him to have committed?

Rhaenys had pressed her lips together. How nice it would be if the king held by his word and truly let Aegon and Sansa leave the realm with their daughter. She had watched him and known that the Spider would be arranging a shipwreck or bandit attack even as she thought it. 

No, this would not stand. He would have to die - and soon.

The king had thrown a feast to celebrate the banishment of his son and wife, despite his rotting body.

"I must remarry again, it seems." He had said, his mood the only happy one in the whole hall. "Brother, what age is our sister?"

Viserys had paled, and glowered until Jaehaera had shoved her elbow into his side. He had winced and then arranged his face into a painful looking smile. "One and twenty, Your Grace. But our mother relies greatly upon her in her illness, and-"

"Any half-wit peasant can fuss over an old woman." The king had flapped a hand dismissively. "Have her sent over within the moon, it is past time I had the sister-wife I was due."

Rhaenys had wondered if she would see the king's throat cut open right there and then, if his blood would wash over the white table cloths and the white hands of the nobles eating there. But Viserys had mastered himself with some effort, helped, Rhaenys was sure, by Jaehaera's heel grinding onto his foot. "Of course, Your Grace. May the Princess Rhaenys and I be excused to make arrangements."

The king's face had twisted at the mention of Rhaenys, but he had grunted agreement and turned back to listening to the drivel the Lord Hand Connington was spewing. Rhaenys had stood, pressed a kiss to her husband's cheek, and accepted the arm her uncle and goodbrother had offered her. 

He had moved at an unhurried pace, but as soon as they had reached the ravenry he had spun around and dropped his blank mask. "You must speed up your plans, Rhaenys. This has gone far enough. I held my silence when Lady Sansa was dragged to the sept but I will not wait for whatever slow plots you have in motion to consume my sister too."

"I have no plans anymore." Rhaenys had admitted, the words heavy on her tongue. "They were all shattered when the king found Egg and Sansa in the sept."

Viserys had stared at her as if she were as mad as the king. "Then make some. Seven save us, will you wait until every woman in Westeros and Essos has died in his bed?"

The next day, Oberyn had arranged for some of his friends from the Second Sons to break Aegon and Sansa out of the Black Cells, and take them to Essos via Dragonstone so that they could bring Helaena with them. Rhaenys had not known the details of that plan, nor had she wanted to. If her part had failed, the less she had known about the more important aspects the better.

Her sisters still in King's Landing had been invited to the apartments that she and Oberyn had kept, them and their husbands. 

She had wrapped herself in a black cloak that had once belonged to her mother, pulled a pair of black gloves onto her hands and slid the poison into the pocket tied around her waist beneath her blood red dress. 

There were few times in her life that Rhaenys Martell had voluntarily worn the colours of House Targaryen. The day she killed the king had been one of them. 

She had crossed the hall to the queen's rooms, which had stood empty and without a guard. It had been Ser Arthur guarding her rooms that day - he had not stopped her. 

The door between the king's chamber and the queen's had been unlocked - what cause was there to lock it? The king had been preparing to install his current favourite mistress there until Daenerys arrived, Amerei Frey who had still been one of her ladies then. 

She had slipped through the door, closing it quietly behind her. 

The king's rooms had been as dark and dreary as ever, but that last time she had entered them they had smelt stale and foul, as though the king's very sickness had hung in the air. 

He had been sitting by the fire in his chair, wearing his nightshirt and a black robe, his face drawn and haggard.

She had slipped from the shadows into the firelight, and taken a vindictive joy in watching the king's eyes widen, watching what little blood had been in his cheeks draining away.

"Elia." The king had rasped, flinching back so forcefully that his chair had rocked. "What do you want this time?"

Rhaenys had stayed silent. 

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I had to make sure you wouldn't talk." He had been almost babbling, his fingers fumbling in his robes, presumably looking for the dagger that she had made damn sure his maidservant had taken while dressing him. 

The plan had been to get in, give him the poison, and get out. But Rhaenys had heard her mother's name and Seven help her but she wanted to know. If all went well, this would be her last chance. "Talk about what?" She had said, imitating her uncle's accent and praying that it passed well enough. 

"About killing the king for me." She had been so relieved it had worked that she almost hadn't realised what he had said. "I'm grateful, I swear I am, as grateful as I am for all the others. But I had to be sure. The others wouldn't get us both killed for regicide, please tell me you understand El."

Rhaenys had felt very cold. She had only had one clear memory of her mother - shrunken and ashen, swamped by her rich black gown and elaborate jewels.

There are fragments of memory, few and far between. She remembers a soft voice humming a lullaby and calloused hands stroking her hair. Mostly she had remembered the scent of sun and sand and spices. 

Until Oberyn had taken her to Dorne for Daenaera's birth, her only reference for her mother's face had been her own.

She had always thought it a tragedy. That the king had been at fault for forcing another child into her that had left her too weak to fight off a fever. She had wondered why she had felt no surprise. Perhaps she had known the moment she had seen Barbara dead of the same supposed fever that had taken her mother.

She had poured the powder into the goblet on the table and mixed it with the wine in the decanter. Then she had pressed it into the king's hand. "Drink."

The king had taken the goblet and drunk, almost dreamily, his eyes fixed on her. 

She had smiled. That had been a mistake. Her smile was one of the few things that she had inherited from the king and not from her mother.

He had choked and lunged for her, dropping the goblet as he had knocked the hood from her face. It had fallen away, and in the brighter light it had been clear that she was not Elia. She had always had just enough of the king in her to keep her face from being a true doppelgänger.

"Rhaenys." The king had snarled, coughing wine and blood. "I should have known. What was in that? What the fuck did you give me?"

She had smiled into his face, the nasty one with teeth that she had inherited from him. "The same thing my prince once gave to Lord Yronwood for raping his paramour. We thought it poetic."

The king had slammed her head against the floor and hissed at her as if he were truly the dragon he had claimed to be. "Give me the antidote."

"No."

He had slammed her head against the floor again. "Give me the fucking antidote, you disobedient bitch."

"No."

"You will give me the antidote." The king had said, the effect somewhat ruined by the panic in his voice. "Or I will have you right here on the floor like the whore you are. Then I will pass you around every soldier, every tradesman, every noble, every beggar in the kingdom who wants a taste of a royal cunt. Then I will have your daughter. Aemma wasn't it? Like the queen who had her king's spawn fucked into her until she died? Would you like that to be your daughter's fate?"

Rhaenys had lifted her leg and driven her knee into the fork of the king's legs. As he curled up in agony, she had pushed him off her and slammed him into the floor.  "You will not touch me." She had said, feeling as if she was burning with the need to make him hurt for what he had threatened to do to her child. "And you will not touch my daughter. You will not touch anyone ever again."

The king had bucked against her, but the first poison had done its work well enough. For the first time in her life, she had been stronger than the king. 

She had reached into the pocket of her dress and found the second vial of poison Oberyn had given her. A Braavosi specialty, just as the one given to Aegon and Sansa's guards would be. 

She had wrapped her hands about his neck and squeezed until his mouth opened in a soundless gasp for air. Then she had emptied the vial into it and clamped her hand over his mouth to keep it shut. 

When he started to struggle, she had given enough ground that she had had space to kick him in the dick again. It had done its work, and he had swallowed almost on instinct, distracted by the pain. 

She had stood back as he doubled over, brushing her hands on her skirts. Touching the king had made her feel dirty, she had discovered. She had not known that before. She had never touched him. It had always been the other way around.

He had pushed himself up on one arm, his eyes streaming and his mouth fixed in a snarl. "I will have your head for this bitch"

"No you won't." She had said softly, and watched as the arm gave way beneath him and he had fallen to the floor again. 

Unlike the previous poison, the one she had given him then had been almost unnaturally fast acting. Acidic, Oberyn had told her, warning her not to get so much as a drop on her skin. That was why she had worn the gloves. 

It had worked by melting every part of the body it came into contact with. She had thought it magic, though her husband had promised her it was but simple science. She had cared little, as long as it meant that the drinker suffered.

The king had doubled over, his body twisting into an unnatural shape as a scream escaped his throat, hoarse and ruined already. 

She had stayed to watch for a little longer, as he began to vomit blood and half-formed lumps of flesh, as his ribs began to soften and lose their shape, as his tongue had fallen from his mouth and he had continued to scream without a tongue. 

Then someone had knocked on the door, sounding deeply unconcerned. "Your Grace? Is everything well?"

The king's penchant for having screaming women in his bed had worked against him, she had realised, and nearly laughed at the realisation. 

"Goodnight, Father." She had said to the pitiable form on the ground. "Sleep well. I'm sure your bed will be very warm indeed."

Then she had slipped through the door into the queen's chambers. She had waited until she had heard the doors to the king's chambers open, and then dashed across the corridor into her own chambers. Ser Arthur had, conveniently, gone with whichever Kingsguard had entered the king's rooms. 

She had closed the door behind her, half laughing, half panting, knowing that she looked as wild and dishevelled as a woman who had just committed the twin sins of killing both her king and her father. 

She had run through the solar to her bedchamber, where Tremna and Emelia had helped her to change from the uncharacteristic black and red to her customary flame-coloured silks. They had pinned up her hair in her usual style, ruffling it a little so that it looked like she had been sitting and drinking with her sisters and their husbands, and quickly hidden the black and red in their usual places. 

Then she had re-entered the solar, letting Oberyn tug her down onto his lap with a kiss. Her sisters had shouted their disgust, and she had winked at them, before slipping away from her husband as his hand reached the neckline of her dress.

It had been light and untroubled, as if Rhaenys had not just killed a man. The only ones tense and somewhat unhappy had been Edric and Monford, but that had been easily explained away by them being uncomfortable in the company they had been expected to keep. Viserys and Loreon had been taught well by their wives and Rhaella, and Rhaenys had known that all would be well.

It had, in the end, taken half a candle mark for someone to bang on the doors calling for her. She had pushed Oberyn off her, to exaggerated sighs of relief from the others in the room, and waved Emelia to let the knocker in. 

It had been Ser Jonothor who had entered, his greying hair ruffled and his white armour speckled with blood. 

She had seen his gaze flash about the room as he fell to one knee, taking in the half empty carafes on the table, Edric and Monford sitting awkwardly to the side, their wives sitting and giggling by the window, the elder three sisters and their husbands sitting by the fire. She had seen how his eyes had darted about her, aware that he was meant to look at the woman he was addressing while the red blush rose in his cheeks at seeing her swollen lips and the disarray of her gown and her husband's arms still about her.

"The king has been attacked, and" he had hesitated, and she had seen the indecision behind his eyes over the appropriate titles. "your brother and Lady Sansa have disappeared, with Lady Sansa's daughter. All the signs point to the Faceless Men."

"Egg and Sansa are gone? The..the king?

"Dead. Your Grace."

"I'm not the heir, Ser Jonothor. Aegon-"

"Has been banished and stripped of his titles, Your Grace. And is missing besides, most likely dead. You have no other brothers, only sisters. The king is dead - long live the queen."

Rhaenys had raised a hand to her mouth, opening her eyes wide. "I-Oberyn?"

She had noted the approval in the Riverman's eyes as her first instinct was to turn to her husband. A dutiful, submissive wife and mother thrust into a role she had not expected would always gain more sympathy than a princess and Dornishwoman accepting her due with ease.

"Would you leave the Iron Throne empty, Rhaenys?" Her husband had pressed a kiss to her forehead. "This is your duty, and your calling now. The Gods have appointed you queen and you cannot gainsay them."

She had been led to a room where the king had been laid out in state, or what remained of him.

The king's body had been even worse than the last time she had seen it. It had barely been recognisable as human, just a steaming, bloody lump of flesh. 

She had doubled over and clamped her hand to her mouth. Oberyn had excused her shaking shoulders as a dutiful daughter (no one by that point would have believed that Rhaenys had loved her father) overcome with grief, but he had known as well as she that she had been laughing. 

Gods, all those years the king had been proud of his beauty, and now he would be remembered as much a horror as Aegon IV.

Perhaps there was such a thing as justice in Westeros. Even if she had been forced to make it.

The days that followed had been busier than any in her life prior to that time. She had needed to arrange the king's funeral, the memorials, the donations in his name, the prayers said by the septs for his soul and a thousand thousand other things.

She had donated rather more than necessary to the septs, for the simple reason that it had made people whisper about exactly why she had thought the king required so many prayers for his soul. It had been a small indulgence after a lifetime of denying herself and it had felt good.

Of all that she had needed to do, and all the issues that she had needed to deal with, protests to her claim had been the most prevalent naturally. She had been a woman, a Dornishwoman, and married to her Dornish uncle. One or all of the three had made her an unpopular candidate to practically every noble in Westeros, many of whom had been difficult enough to gain loyalty from when they had believed themselves to be supporting Aegon. 

Not for the first time she had regretted marrying Oberyn - but who else had there been? She had had no other choice if she had wanted to avoid becoming another Late Lady Frey or another weeping woman in the king's bed. Besides, at six-and-twenty, with four children and eleven years of marriage behind her, she had been well and truly stuck with her choice. She had made her bed and lain in it, and so it would go. 

She had, at least, not been suspected of killing the king. What motive would dutiful, obedient Princess Rhaenys have for killing the king? Her brother had been declared innocent, and she had always been the perfect princess, the perfect wife, the perfect mother.

Who would in their right mind would suspect her? She who was so like her first namesake, the Rhaenys who had loved dancing, music and all things gentle, nothing like the Queen Who Never Was, who had tried for a throne that was not hers. Everyone had always forgotten that the first Rhaenys had been a warrior as much as her siblings - she had simply hidden it better.

Rhaenys had learned from her as much as from the Dreamer. A woman's power lay in the men around her, and in herself only at the last resort. It had not been merely between her legs, but in her eyes and her smile, in her movements and her dress, and in what she did not show. Men, she had long known, had preferred imagination to the true experience. She had given them enough to dream about and no more. Nothing that could be used against her. 

Most of her sisters' families had been easily placated - the Brackens and Blackwoods had needed only a promise not to elevate the other's daughter and the Ormollons and Toparens hadn't cared for Westeros. 

The Starks had made a token effort to push forward Jaehaera in the absence of Sansa and a possible male heir, but it had fairly obviously been motivated by Lady Catelyn in the hope that one of her granddaughters could marry a son of Jaehaera and Tully blood sit on the throne that way. They had argued that a brother had a better claim to the throne than a daughter, and Viserys was therefore the rightful heir with Aegon presumed dead.

They had been significantly hindered by the fact that Edmure Tully had preferred a Targaryen bride who's daughter would be queen to Eleryn's son over the possibility of his great-niece sitting on the throne. With the one ally that they had thought to rely on uninterested in supporting them, they had lost momentum before they had begun.

It had been given little impetus from Lord Brandon himself besides, shaken as he had been after Sansa's trial, and still less with his younger brothers present. Jaehaera had needed only to speak with them once, reminding Lord Brandon of the oath he had made, for House Stark to withdraw its claims.

Of the houses into which her sisters had wed, Viserys had wanted to be king as little as Jaehaera had wanted to be queen, the Baratheons had been rather baffled by Lady Delena's ambitions, and the Velaryons had been loyal to Rhaenys since the day Lady Velaryon had begun to teach her to run the royal court. 

Only the Lannisters, the house of Visenya's birth and marriage, had proved an issue. Rhaenys had made a mental note to refrain from marrying any of her other sisters back into the houses of their mothers, though she had known the Lannisters would be problematic and that Visenya had been doing her best to curb them before it had come to this. 

It had not alleviated the irritation of Tywin Lannister producing what he had claimed was a pre-contract between Cersei Lannister and Rhaegar Targaryen dating to before the king's marriage to Elia Martell.

If true, it would have illegitimised the king's marriages to Elia Martell and Lyanna Stark, and thus the children born to those marriages rendered bastards, making Visenya the king's eldest legitimate child and his rightful heir regardless of Aegon's status. 

Oberyn had offered to poison the Lannisters to remove the issue, but Rhaenys had thought it far too obvious if the only house truly opposing them all mysteriously died before the coronation. 

She had been certain enough of the precontract being forged that she had thought it unnecessary. In the meantime, she had politicked and planned and managed the court as she ever had.

When the Lannisters had tried to object, Lady Velaryon had told them outright that if they wished to run the Red Keep they could wait until things had died down so that their mistakes would not poison the entire upper class of Westeros by accident. 

Word had come from Aegon and Sansa three days before the funeral - they had settled in the safe house Oberyn had arranged for them and were quite happy. Helaena was doing well, and had started to be weaned. 

Rhaenys had burned the letter and waited until that night to cry into Emelia's shoulder for sheer relief. Her brother, her first sibling and the only one to share Elia Martell's blood, was alive and safe. 

If nothing else, she had accomplished that much. 

Two days before the funeral, Rhaenys had been taking a back route to a meeting with the Small Council. Oberyn had been with her, and the sisters present in King's Landing, the meeting having been scheduled to discuss plans for her coming coronation (or Visenya's, should the Lannisters succeed in pushing their claim)

None of them had ever made it to that meeting. Halfway down an ill-used corridor, what Rhaenys could only ever recall as a mountain of flesh and metal had cannoned into them.

Jaehaera had been flung hard into a wall, hitting her head with a sickening smack. Rhaena had screamed, and thrown herself over Jaehaera's still body, already weeping. 

Rhaenys had only had enough time to notice her sister stirring and groaning before she had thrown herself at the thing as it's blade had turned towards her husband lying stunned on the ground.

She had hit the arm with her full weight, throwing the blade off course to screech loudly against the floor. Then she had been thrown off with a single swipe of the unoccupied hand, flying out to hit the floor with a thud. The thing, which Rhaenys had realised had been a man, had turned towards her, it's great sword turning with it.  

As the blade had come down, she had rolled over, feeling a tug as it had caught the hem of her skirts. Cursing the amount of fabric that went into court dress, she had wrenched herself forwards hard enough that her gown had ripped and she had been free, a wad of fabric still caught beneath the sword that the man had abandoned, stuck as it had been in the cracks between the stone. 

She had made to scramble upright, vaguely aware that the worst place to be if someone was trying to kill her was the ground. Instead, a great hand had reached out and flung her back down, hard enough that all the air had been forced out of her lungs. 

Lying there, she had looked up at the man looming over her. She recognised him, she realised. Queen Cersei's sworn sword, who had returned to the Westerlands with the rest of her entourage after her death. 

She had heard tales of the violence he had wreaked in the Westerlands since, always whispered in secret to avoid angering the man - or the lion for which he worked. The king had knighted him, she remembered, the thought making her want to laugh. Of course the king had knighted the man who had tried to kill her. 

He had had no reason to kill her, to leave his protection in the Westerlands for the capital where violence against the nobility was remarked on and Tywin Lannister's word was not law. But if she was dead, and Jaehaera, the throne would fall to Visenya, and Tywin Lannister would be as good as king, precontract or no precontract. 

Why, she had wondered again, as the great hand had closed about her neck and a long knife been drawn, had the king ever agreed to marry Cersei Lannister? 

Before the knife had been fully drawn, she had heard the distinct whirring sound of her husband's own knives being thrown, and the man had roared as one had appeared as if by magic, embedded in his hand. The hand had released her neck abruptly, leaving her coughing and choking as all the air had rushed back in at once. Seven help her, Oberyn had never choked her half so hard. 

With his uninjured hand, the man who's name she had forgotten had wrenched the monstrous sword from the cracked stone of the floor just in time to meet the whip her uncle had drawn in place of a sword or spear. Whips, she had vaguely recalled her husband saying once, were somewhat easier to hide than metal blades, being rather more flexible. 

The spots in her vision had not cleared for several moments, the most terrifying of her life because all she had been able to hear had been the sound of her husband's whip and what she had thought was several throwing knives, against the giant and his equally oversized greatsword. 

By the time she had been able to see again, they had been halfway down the corridor, leaving throwing knives littered behind them. Rhaenys had known that her husband had always kept multiple knives on his person, but she had not realised that it had been quite so many. 

Visenya had been bent over Jaehaera examining her head, and Rhaenys had seen the glisten of red on her fingers with a shudder that had left her sick to her stomach. Rhaena had still been crying hysterically, but Daena had peeled herself away from her sisters. 

She had crawled halfway towards the fighting men and her hand had been on one of Oberyn's abandoned knives. "Daena!" Rhaenys had hissed, or tried to. Her throat had hurt, and she had barely made a sound. 

Daena had not heard her or had ignored her. Instead, she had lifted the knife and held it awkwardly, before hurling it with little grace or skill towards the broad back of their attacker. By some miracle it had hit the vulnerable part of his knee and stuck.

He had roared, staggered, and fallen as the knee had given way. Emboldened by her success, Daena had grasped for another knife and thrown it before Rhaenys had reached her and dragged her back against the wall. That knife had merely glanced off the back of his helmet, but it had done enough.

Oberyn had pounced upon the opportunity, driving one knife through the man's throat, and then another almost before Rhaenys had had time to blink. As he had fallen, the mountainous man's arm had come up, and his blade had cut into Oberyn's side, through his court silks as if they weren't there. 

Perhaps the only saving grace had been that the terrible arm had lost strength partway through the blow, the blade clanging to the floor fron nerveless fingers. It had done enough damage though.

For a moment, Rhaenys had frozen, watching her husband stumble, clasping a hand to his side, a scream stuck in her aching throat, no, no. 

"Get a maester." She had snapped, forcing the words out somehow. "Daena, find Pycelle. Go!"

Her sister had scrambled up without a word and started to run, the echo of her footsteps quickly dying away. For once, she had not argued. 

Rhaenys had put Jaehaera and Visenya and Rhaena out of her mind and fallen to her knees beside her husband. She had never been in a fight, never seen a man die before save by execution. But the blood leaking out of him had been enough to stain her skirts, and she had been so afraid. What was she to do if he-

He had looked at her face, and then laughed a little, his breath hitching as the movement jarred him. "Don't worry, little niece. I've had worse off mosquitoes in the summer. A sevenday or so and I'll be up and about, provided that fool maester doesn't botch his work."

"Oh, shut up." She had managed tersely, trying to remember what he had told her about field triage. She hadn't been listening, assuming that a princess would never be on a battlefield in the days without dragons. 

Oberyn had obligingly fallen silent as she had torn a strip of fabric from her ruined skirts and packed it against the gaping tear in his side, keeping it there with as much force as she had been able to muster from her shaking limbs.

"Visenya." She had said, feeling unnaturally calm as her world had narrowed to keeping pressure against the hole in her husband's body. "You are with the Lannisters for a reason. Control your family or I shall do it for you."

Her sister had looked between Rhaenys, hands bloody to the elbow, and the dead body of the man that had tried to kill them. She had turned and run, disappearing as hastily as Daena had, though not quite as fast. 

Daena had arrived what had felt like a heartbeat later, the Grand Maester wheezing in her wake. Rhaenys had stood from her husband's body and caught the maester's elbow. "You serve me now, Pycelle, not my father or my sister's grandfather. If my husband dies, you will not see another dawn - do you understand? Tywin Lannister will not save you.''

He had blanched and nodded, and she had let him go. 

Later, Visenya had come to her chambers and told her that Tywin Lannister had publicly retracted his claim to the throne on her behalf, admitting that the pre-contract had not been acknowledged by King Aerys and was therefore not binding.

"How did you manage it?" Rhaenys had asked, only half-curious. Her mind had been more on the man who had nearly died for her than the man who had nearly killed her.

Her sister had just smiled secretively. "You hear a lot from servants who've been there a long time. I told him about a few secrets that he wouldn't want to see the light of day."

The weak thread of curiosity had strengthened somewhat. If it could blackmail a man like Tywin Lannister it must have been a very terrible thing indeed - he had had a fucking song written about drowning the Reynes. What could he possibly be ashamed of? 

Jaehaera had hummed from where she had been sitting on the floor near the unlit fireplace, picking at the bandage on her sprained wrist. "I'm leaving after the coronation to remove temptation from my family. Probably for Braavos to join Egg and Sansa. I suggest you do the same, Vis. The Old Lion's more likely to be tempted than the Starks."

The next day, their younger sisters and children had arrived back at King's Landing. They had been on the ship when the attack had happened, and so had been entirely shocked to see Rhaenys with her throat bruised, Jaehaera's head bandaged. 

Eleryn had held Daenaera very carefully and asked her in a steady voice if his father was dead. She had nearly started to cry, but had shaken her head with the best smile she had been able to manage.

He had visibly sagged with relief, looking for once like a boy of eight rather than a man. Rhaenys had taken Daenaera from him and propped her on one hip with a kiss before leaning down to wrap her free arm about her firstborn. "You are the Prince of Dragonstone now darling. Aunt Jaehaera and Uncle Vis will be your stewards, but you will have responsibilities beyond what you had before. We will help you as best we can, but this is part of your training as my heir. Can you do this for me?"

Eleryn had straightened his shoulders and promised her to be the best Prince of Dragonstone the realm had ever seen, to make her proud of him. She had watched the new weight be added to his burden and mourned that her son's childhood had ended. It had been longer than hers, but still far too short. 

Then Aemma had reached her, cannoning into her with loud sobs that had already affected Aenar in his nurse's arms behind her. Rhaenys had handed Daenaera off to Tremna before she could crying too and had knelt to soothe her daughter. 

Most of the tears had been 'I missed Mama' tears, though at five Aemma had also been old enough to understand that something had been wrong and her parents had nearly died. She had been calm enough after a few minutes for Rhaenys to hug Aelora and Naerys and then, at last, to take Aenar from his nurse. 

Her little boy had been bigger than the last time she had held him, stronger and healthier, and he had beamed up at her as she had taken him. 

Rhaenys had felt something untwist in her chest. Her children had returned, all of them well and whole, and brimming with stories of their adventures now that their tears had dried.  

They had pronounced the whole island as the most interesting place in the world, with Grandmama Rhaella and Aunt Daenerys as two of the best people on that extraordinary island. She had exchanged smiles over the children's heads with the two women in question at that proclamation. 

Rhaella Targaryen's self-imposed exile had finally ended with the death of her son, though she had waited until it was safe for the children to return to King's Landing. She had brought Daenerys with her, already dressed in red and blue in anticipation of her marriage. 

The evening meal that night had been lively indeed, held in Rhaenys and Oberyn's apartments where they had been able to be as irreverent as they pleased. Only Tremna and Emelia had been present of her ladies, and they had long been trusted with her darkest secrets - after regicide, speaking ill of the dead had seemed a small thing to ask them to keep. 

The next day, they had all needed to be solemn and appropriate in the public eye for the funeral. All of them had worn full mourning black, including veils which had had the added benefit of hiding any expressions not meant to be seen.

Aenar had been swaddled in the same black as so many of her siblings had been as babies at the pyres of their mothers. Instead, her son had been in his mother's arms as the king had burned. It had felt like closing a book in a way. No more women bruised and weeping in his bed, no more dead to bring forth a daughter he ignored, no more tongues cut out. No more Rhaegar Targaryen.

Rhaenys had set fire to the king's pyre with her sisters, each of them watching as the flames caught on his black robes and ate away at what little was left of him. It had been entirely satisfying. She had wept a little, not for grief, but because it had been so very strange to feel that for the first time in her life she did not have to fear him anymore.

Jaehaera and Visenya had also wept, though Rhaenys had seen Visenya digging a nail into her side so perhaps she had not felt the same sense of crushing relief but only known that she should weep to keep up appearances.

Rhaena had wept because sweet, darling Rhaena had always been so easy to move to tears, and so had learned to cry on command at age four.

Daena and their younger sisters had not managed to weep, nor had her children. They had clustered close to her and kept their eyes wide and their tongues still, and that had needed to be enough. Of Rhaegar Targaryen's seven grandchildren, only newborn Rhaelle had cried. 

Jaehaera's fosterlings had all kept solemn faces, having promised their mother that they would wait to call the dead king names until they were in private once more. Privately, Rhaenys thought that that had been as satisfying a vengeance as making Rhaenys herself queen - Jaehaera had sworn never to bear children, if only to end Lyanna Stark's line, the only one to which Rhaegar Targaryen had ever given more than a moment's thought.

They had arranged her coronation for two days afterwards, which had only been feasible because practically the entire noble class of Westeros had been summoned to King's Landing for the trial of Aegon and Sansa. 

It had been the work of a lifetime to pull off the arrangements in just over two seven days, but Rhaenys had spent her life running the court under similar constraints, and Lady Velaryon had been doing the same from the time of Aerys Targaryen's death. It had been good training. 

They had managed it, of course. It had been lavish and worthy of a Targaryen coronation, but understated enough for a nation still ostensibly in mourning. She had worn Targaryen red and black, the robes heavy and rich, almost swallowing her form. 

She had walked the distance back from the sept on her husband's arm, supporting him as much as she could without appearing to. Really, he should have been walking with a cane but he had refused it when Tywin Lannister was present. He had not wanted to give the Old Lion the satisfaction.

It had worked out well enough. She had seemed like an unprepared woman overwhelmed by her new station and clinging to her husband to direct her. It had even been partially true, she had been overwhelmed by the enormity of what she had done. She had not been unprepared however. 

The throne had been empty, and for a long moment she had simply stood at the foot of the stairs gazing up at it. The crown had felt impossibly heavy on her head, and her whole body weighed down by the elaborate coronation robes. Would the throne cut her for killing the king? For usurping her brother's place (however little he wanted it, however much it was her place by Rhoynish law)? For not being a dragon riding king?

Oberyn had withdrawn his arm from hers and that had jolted her into action as he had moved to his seat set at the top of the dais. She had lifted her heavy robes and ascended the steps, feeling the sharp edges of the blades beneath her delicate slippers though they had not cut through to her feet. Each step had felt like climbing a mountain whilst with child, but she had done it. She had wanted this, she reminded herself, she could not renounce it now. 

So she had made her way up the many steps of the most deadly throne in the world, until she had reached the top. Then she had turned, bringing her gown and robes with her in a single dramatic billow as she had sat, the fabric pooling at her feet and trailing down the stairs. 

She had placed her hands on the arms of the throne and it had not cut her. She had been so very far above every man and woman in that hall. Taller than her husband and son, taller than the highest noble, taller even than the Kingsguard standing silently at the foot of the throne. 

Her eyes had turned to her sisters, dressed for once in Valyrian red and black, clustered to one side of the throne with her children. She had straightened and turned to the first lord kneeling at the foot of the throne to vow his allegiance to her. 

Chapter Text

Being queen had been at once like and unlike being princess and the foremost lady of the royal court.

She had still run the Keep in much the same way as she had before. Not exactly the same way, of course. Being Queen Regnant had given her more duties and responsibilities, so she had been forced to delegate more of the day to day running of the court to her ladies than in previous years. 

Luckily after over a decade, including covering for her after she had given birth, they had been practiced enough that the transition had been far smoother than it had ever been after the coronation of one of Rhaegar Targaryen's queens. 

She had taken on yet more ladies-in-waiting as well, which had eased the burden on her existing ladies. As queen of the Seven Kingdoms, she had been entitled to a larger household than she had as a princess of Dorne or even the eldest Targaryen princess. 

Additionally Amerei, and a few others who had endured the king's attentions, had taken the opportunity to leave her service after she had taken the throne, not able to remain in the Red Keep any longer. She had not begrudged any of them, though they had needed to be replaced. 

Her children had been settled back in the nursery, the mercenaries set by the king long dismissed and sent from Westeros. Only Eleryn had been moved into his own chambers, as befitting his new status as the Prince of Dragonstone. 

She had given him the king's chambers, imagining with idle glee his outrage at being displaced by the Dornish grandson he had despised - when he had given a thought to her son at all. 

A few of her ladies had tried to persuade her to take the royal chambers herself, citing tradition, appearances, custom. They had argued back and forth about her taking the queen's chambers or the king's, though Oberyn had interrupted that argument before it could go too far.

"You are the queen, little niece." He had said lightly. "I am a mere consort. If we are to move, let me have the consort's rooms."

They had not moved, in the end. She had spent too many hours in those chambers listening to the king's vitriol, hearing his threats. She had watched too many women die in that bed. Any rest she would have found in those chambers would have been fitful at best.

No, if she was to be queen, she had decided, she would keep the chambers in which she had spent her marriage. Eleryn would leave the nursery, and when he became king he would not need to move again.

Before her son's belongings could be moved in, the king's had needed to be moved out. Rhaenys had sent for the king's remaining mistresses and the rest of the Targaryens still in the Red Keep.

They had all spent a very enjoyable afternoon smashing, ripping, burning and otherwise destroying everything that the king had owned. When they had finished, there had been nothing whole in any of his rooms except the bedframe which had been scored and scorched. She had ordered it used for firewood in the servants' hall. It had been remarkably satisfying.

She had kept Lord Velaryon on the Small Council and, reluctantly, Pycelle. Ser Oswell had died in his sleep a few years prior, leaving Ser Barristan as the new Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Varys she had kept only until she could find something to pin on him.

She had named Ser Jaime Master of Coin to placate the Old Lion and while keeping him out of King's Landing, appointing Lord Tyrion as his second to do the real work. Her Master of Laws had been Robert Baratheon's second brother, Ser Stannis - a dour, unpleasant man with an equally unpleasant wife, but he had done his job well.

And, of course, her Hand had been Oberyn. They had long decided that she would lean upon him as much as possible in her rulings, to avoid stepping on any tender male egos that would dislike obeying a woman. It appeared that the only time the kingdoms willingly bowed to a Dornishman had been when the alternative was directly bowing to a Dornishwoman. 

Her Small Council's first meeting had been taken up with a fight. Ser Stannis, Ser Barristan, Varys, Pycelle and Ser Jaime had wanted her to sit on the throne as a Targaryen rather than a Martell. The Targaryens were, after all, the ruling house of Westeros. It would, they had argued, be breaking centuries of precedent for the ruler on the Iron Throne to be styled as a Martell. It would create confusion with the Martells of Sunspear, and give the impression of a change of dynasty to the smallfolk - a break in the stability that House Targaryen had provided for so long.

Rhaenys herself, Oberyn, and Lord Velaryon had been the only ones wanting her to remain a Martell. She had taken the name of her uncle's house upon marriage and had been Princess Rhaenys Martell since she had been five and ten. All of her children had been born Martells, her husband had been a Martell, and her mother had been a Martell.

She had despised the king as long as he lived, and had never been gladder than when she had been able to shed the weight of his name. She would be damned before she took it up again, not even for a crown.

That had not been a viable argument of course. She had done her best to couch her sentiment instead in terms of a wife not wanting to disavow her marriage simply because ill fate had placed her on the throne. Her husband was her lord and her prince, she had said, would it not be wrong to take another name and rule over him as if she were the husband? Would it not be going against the laws set down by the Seven themselves?

Submissive piety, she had found, worked better than reasoned arguments in cases where men could not be swayed by a low-necked gown and a smile. It worked even on men without piety of their own, and at times it had seemed to work better on these men than on those who held a true faith.

They had compromised in the end, however reluctantly. 

Rhaenys, Oberyn and their younger children had remained Martells. Eleryn had been named Prince of Dragonstone as Prince Eleryn Nymeros Targaryen. The next king would be another Targaryen - but a king of the line of Nymeria of Ny Sar. 

She had been Queen Rhaenys Martell of the Houses Martell and Targaryen, her son would be King Eleryn of the House Nymeros Targaryen, and that had needed to be enough.

She had attempted to repeal the king's decree of banishment and name her brother Prince of Summerhall, knowing that neither Aegon nor Sansa would want to remain in the Red Keep upon their return to Westeros. Ser Stannis had pointed out however that they could not know if Aegon and Sansa still lived, and that it would attract imposters wanting a royal palace.

Reluctantly, not willing to risk her brother's secrecy, she had agreed. Instead, she had named Jaehaera and Viserys as the new Prince and Princess of Summerhall, with Rhaella as Regent of Dragonstone for Eleryn. It had been an empty appointment of course, as they had all known - not only had Summerhall been a ruin, but Jaehaera and Viserys had spent very little time in Westeros when the king was actively attempting to keep them there. Rhaenys had had no such intentions, so her eldest sister and goodbrother had been unlikely to even see their seat. 

She had set her cousin Trystane, her elder uncle's only unwed child, to rebuilding Summerhall and made him steward. A temporary appointment, until her sister had decided on a steward and Trystane had married. But it had given her cousin something to do, and he had been grateful for it. 

Daena and Rhaena had returned to Driftmark and Storm's End respectively a short time after the coronation. She had tried not to feel as if something was being torn away from her as she had watched their parties recede into the distance. Jaehaera and Visenya had been her responsibility, but it had been after Rhaena that she had truly raised her sisters. Rhaena had been the first sister to feel more like a daughter, the child of dear, dead Elerei. 

Merei had gone with Daena, with Rhaenys' blessing. The elder woman had only ever been at court for the sake of her sister's child, and had remained after Daena's initial departure just long enough to see the king dead and a queen crowned who had a vested interest in ensuring Daena's wellbeing. 

Her dalliance with Oberyn had been a way to cement her place in court, and give her influence to protect her niece as best she could from the vipers' nest. She had, as a result, often been working towards the same things as Rhaenys herself. Both of them had wanted Daena safe, well, and happy as much as possible. 

Rhaenys had liked to think that they had been friendly, if not close. She had only wished Merei well in Driftmark, for Daena's sake. But part of her had been quietly very glad that the other woman was leaving. Merei had been in her husband's bed longer than any other woman save for the long dead Ellaria Sand and Rhaenys herself. She had not resented it as such, had long accepted her uncle's ways, but she had always been possessive and proud. Neither trait had meshed well with the marriage she had made. 

Oberyn had not been best pleased at learning that his favourite bedmate, after Rhaenys, had decided to depart the capital for good. He had complained a little to her, which she had bitten her tongue and endured. Her uncle had meant well, she had reminded herself, had supported her and protected her and given her children to follow after her. 

She had needed him. And she had needed him loyal to her. So she had sympathised and helped him settle on a parting gift, and when she had farewelled Merei her embrace had been almost genuine. She had truly wished her sister's aunt well, if only because that had meant there would be someone she could trust would watch over Daena. 

Jaehaera, Visenya and their husbands had returned from Essos alone, seven moons after their departure. She had not truly been expecting Aegon to return to Westeros after everything, but she had been hoping - irrationally, desperately, missing her only brother the way that one missed a limb. 

He had been happy, at least, the last time her sisters had seen him. The manse he and Sansa had been hiding in with Helaena had been well furnished and they had been living well even before Rhaenys and her sisters had begun to donate to an anonymous purveyor of good works in Essos.

Neither of them had wished to return to Westeros and be thrust once more into the mad scramble for power. They had sent letters and gifts for the daughters and grandchildren of Rhaegar Targaryen, carefully hidden among the trinkets amassed by Jaehaera and Visenya during their trip around Essos. Each and every last thing had been recieved with squealing delight by the children - and with only slightly more decorum by their elder counterparts.

Rhaenys had abandoned the ruckus in the small hall they had used for family suppers, and tucked herself into a windowseat in her private chambers to read her own letter.

My eldest and dearest sister,
When I was small, I thought you were my own personal saint. I thought the Seven had sent you to love and care for me to make up for taking Mother away. That theory neatly ignores that you were born of the same flawed seed as I It minimises your hard work It puts a terrible 

Allow me to apologise for it now, as I am likely not to see you for some time. 

Here in Essos I have had the space to simply be, for the first time in my life. I find I am not very good at it. My mind is constantly thinking, turning over things I had thought long forgotten. I am continually returning to those early memories. 

You were only a child, Nys, as much as I was. It was unfair of me to add to your burdens, however unintentionally. Before you argue that I too was a child, she had paused then, well aware she would have retorted had they been speaking in person, I know. I am not in the habit of making excuses for myself, however. And I am genuinely sorry. 

Not least because by staying away I give you no easy way off the throne should you want it.  It is yours, Rhaenys, it always was. It always should have been. But it will be a heavy load for you to bear.

Remember to be human, sister mine. Let your ladies and our sisters help you, let our uncle - as much as he is able. Look after yourself. All these years, you have fussed and worried over all of us until I swear you will be wrinkled and grey before you reach five and twenty.

We have won now - in peacetime, you can afford to breathe.

So breathe, my sister.

Live. 

With all my love,
Aegon Nymeros (don't fuss, I spoke with Uncle Doran, and he agreed I could use the name, it draws less attention than Targaryen)

She had tucked the letter away with dear, dead Elerei's letter and read it often. In the following years, letters from Aegon had proved few and far between, and she had grown to treasure that first one fiercely. 

But then, not realising how difficuly it would be to exchange regular correspondence with her brothe, she had happily expected frequent letters. She had returned to the rest of her family, had oohed and aahed over the gifts brought back, sighing with delight at the fine silk and lace, the jewels side by side with inexpensive little trinkets. 

The most impressive gift of all had been a sword she had seen only in pictures. Blackfyre, the ancestral blade of House Targaryen - lost with Daemon Blackfyre and recovered by a bored Aegon and Jaehaera on one idle afternoon. 

She had bestowed it upon Oberyn to put to use as her strong right Hand, her consort, and her partner. Spears were, after all, not as handy for executions as they were for battle. Her uncle had placed his spear aside and kept Blackfyre sheathed on his belt from that day forward. 

Jaehaera had remained in King's Landing for only half a moon, before she and Viserys had returned to Dragonstone. It had been longer than Rhaenys had expected, knowing that Jaehaera had sent her fosterlings to Dragonstone - from her letters, she had known that her first sister had rarely been seperated from the children she had found.

They had stayed only long enough for Daenerys' wedding to Edmure Tully. Rhaella had been understandably distraught at the prospect of losing her only daughter to the marriage bed, her eyes full of shadows and smoke. Daenerys herself had been remarkably unsympathetic to her mother. She had tossed her head, declaring that at three and twenty she should have been long since wed and that her elongated maidenhood had been no fault of her own.

It had been Rhaenys who had taken her grandmother aside, who had sat with her and held her hands as the two women had silently resented Daenerys for being older and healthier and safer - and so painfully young, as neither of them had ever been. She had let Rhaella Targaryen pour out her hopes and her fears, so many fears for her youngest child and her only daughter. 

Then they had wiped away the tears and continued to prepare for the wedding. Both women had long ago learned that there was little space for such vulnerabilities in court. Daenerys had never needed to learn such lessons.

It had been odd indeed for Rhaenys to sit at the wedding of one of her kin without the buzzing fear in the back of her mind and bitter on her tongue. She had not needed to keep an eye out for the king the whole evening. She had not sat awake for the whole night, not letting Oberyn touch her, listening for the sound of the king's door opening. She had not had to take moon tea to a too young bride and breathe threats into the ear of a pale groom. 

Instead, she had danced and smiled her way through the evening, had retired at a decent time to do indecent things with her husband, and emerged late the next morning to find Daenerys practically glowing, lips brimming with hopes of impending children. 

She had kissed her aunt and wished her well, had promised to pray for her to concieve swiftly, had pasted a smile on her face that had felt as if it drew blood. It had felt so very wrong to hope for children so soon after the marriage of one of her kinswomen. No, something inside her had been screaming, it is too early, too early, she cannot, she will die. She had shut it away into a box in her mind where it had screamed itself hoarse. 

The next day Jaehaera and Viserys had left with Rhaella, Viserys whispering something into Edmure Tully's ear that had left the other man wide eyed and pale. Her uncle had smiled, the kind with too many teeth and glinting eyes that had made men wonder if the Targaryens were truly mortal at all. 

Rhaenys had been close enough to hear Edmure Tully whimper like a child in the dark. She had watched as Daenerys had scolded her unrepentant brother, as she had turned pleading eyes to Rhaenys as a bastion of sanity, knowing that her mother had been entirely behind Viserys' misbehaviour. 

The queen had paused and then smiled the same unnatural smile at Lord Edmure. It had been one of her few inheritances from the king. "Look after my little aunt, my lord. We are all so very fond of her." Viserys had smiled back at her, and Rhaenys had felt something ease inside her chest. He had forgiven her then, for letting Daenerys nearly fall into the king's hands. 

Visenya and Loreon had remained for some time after the wedding, indulging their children who had become so very attached to their Martell cousins. It had soothed something inside of Rhaenys, to think that her children and the children of her sisters could love each other as well as she had loved her sisters. 

But time had passed, and their duty had called. Lord Tywin had commanded Visenya and Loreon to return with Ser Jaime in order to put down some unruly vassals - in the absence of the Mountain, the Old Lion had lost no little amount of his stranglehold on the West it had appeared. 

Visenya had taken Daeron and Rhaelle on a small, fast ship two days after her grandfather's raven had arrived. She had missed the Rock and had not wanted to prolong her daughter's first sea journey overlong. Rhaenys had kissed her and Rhaelle, knelt to accept an enthusiastic hug from Daeron, and waved the ship away with a light heart. 

Ser Jaime and Loreon had left three days after that, on a larger ship full of gold for the Iron Bank. In later years, Rhaenys had wondered if it would have saved Loreon had he gone with his wife and children instead of his father. Or if it would have sentenced them all to death instead. 

Word had come by raven that Visenya and her children had reached the Rock safely. Almost immediately after, word had come that Ser Jaime's ship had been attacked by Iron Islanders, the gold it was carrying stolen and Ser Jaime killed in a rage-mad grief attempting to avenge his eldest son. It had been, she had thought, possibly the only thing of note the Old Lion's son had ever done. 

Lord Rodrik Greyjoy had declared the independence of the Iron Islands from the Targaryen throne, had denounced any man who bowed to an uncle-fucking Dornish whore as a cuckold not worthy of the air he breathed.

"It is war then." Rhaenys had said calmly to her husband with the letter held so tightly in her hands that it had nearly torn. He had tucked her tight against his side without answering, and they had stood in silence in their chambers for a long moment. They had known it would not be easy. They had chosen this.

They had sent out ravens calling for troops from every corner of Westeros, and they had responded. Lord Tyrell, who's daughter would be queen, had sent fifty thousand men. Lord Arryn who's son would marry a royal princess had sent thirty. Almost every noble in the kingdoms had done so - but then, the Ironborn had always been a particularly unifying force.

Her husband had made Lord Velaryon his Fleet Admiral. He had taken his farewells of her with a careless kiss, tasting of wine and spices, had tossed their children in the air (save for Aelora who had insisted upon a proper kiss to the cheek instead), and mounted his horse. 

She had smiled and waved, with Aenar propped on her hip, the smile remaining until the column of brilliant armour had faded out of sight, until her children had gone to bed, until she had been utterly alone save for Emelia. 

Then she had wept bitterly into her lady's arms. She had allowed herself ten minutes to feel the uncertainty and the worry and the crushing fear, and then folded it all away into a little box in the corner of her heart. 

The queen had slept deeply that night, emerging fresh and rested to run the Red Keep and the Seven Kingdoms as flawlessly as ever. She had waited with politely bated breath on each raven informing her of the progress of the campaign. 

Island after island had fallen to the royal army, the troops rallying behind the whirl of mail and flash of fang that had been the Prince Consort. Even a year short of a half century, Oberyn had still been possessed of the almost unnatural speed that had first garnered him the title of the Red Viper. 

Rhaenys had felt something ease within her at every report of his prowess, the loyalty his men held, the favour he had found with the lords. She had not chosen her consort wrong, each letter had told her silently. Her uncle had been exactly the right man for the job. He had to be.

Lord Tywin had fallen in the assault on Blacktyde, cut down by Baelon Blacktyde as his life had bled away from the wounds he had sustained fighting his way past the front lines to the command tent. His son's widow Lady Lysa had attempted to have herself named Regent of the Westerlands for her grandson, but had been thwarted by none other than the ageing Lady Genna.

I don't know what I would do without her, Visenya had written to Rhaenys,

She's sent Lady Lysa back to her brother in the Riverlands, thank the Seven, and shut down half a dozen lords who think I'm too young and unstable to make a good regent despite my Lannister blood and the royal mandate. (Thank you for that by the way)

I've been sworn in as Daeron's regent, and recieved vows from every lord and noble in the Westerlands. Obviously, I pledge my allegiance as Regent of the Rock, Dowager Lady Paramount of the Westerlands and Interim Warden of the West to you, your Grace. So does my son.

But there's one more thing I have to tell you. I haven't told anyone else except Daeron. He's doing so well, Nys, so brave and strong and he's looking after his sisters so carefully.

I'm with child again. I was going to tell Loreon on his name day but

I'm scared, Nys. What if it all goes wrong and my children lose both parents in a year? What will happen to them then?  At least we were used to stepmothers dying. 

I don't know what to do. 

Rhaenys had written back to reassure her sister. She had not been able to promise that all would be well. But she had reminded Visenya that both of them had faced the birthing bed multiple times, and neither had yet lost their lives. She had promised that, should the worst happen (though it was unlikely), she would personally ensure the safety of her niece and nephew. 

The letter she had recieved back had been calmer, more assured. Visenya had asked for her sucessor to be Lady Genna, if it became necesssary. And I am putting it in writing, here, she had written in a postscript, that I want to name him or her for you. The king is no longer here to insist on a Targaryen name, and Ser Jaime is no longer here to pester me to name my child for Cersei. I can do as I please in this matter.

Oberyn had not returned for a further eight moons, having taken the fight right to Pyke itself, capturing the castle and razing it to the ground. In that time, Visenya had gone into confinement, having sent her will to Rhaenys if the worst should happen. 

It had not happened. She had given birth to twins, Tymond and Rohanne, named for the strongest people Visenya had ever known - her grandfather and her eldest sister. Both are well, praise the Seven, her letter had gushed, they are small but strong, and louder than the rest of their family put together. For all his faults, Loreon's last gift to me was a good one.

When Oberyn had at last returned to King's Landing, he had brought with him a captive. Lord Rodrik Greyjoy, bound in chains and forced to kneel at the throne of the Queen he had rebelled against.

Rhaenys had forgone her usual flame coloured silks in favour of a stiff, heavy gown the colour of blood. She had worn the Conqueror's crown and the ornate, weighty rubies belonging to House Targaryen, thinking to herself that the rich colours looked better with her complexion than they ever had on her ghostly forbears. Emelia had agreed, the slightest blush tinting her pale cheeks.

The throne had been no more comfortable than the first time Rhaenys had sat on it. She had not been cut by it that day or any day since, her skin as soft and free of marks as it had been the day she had become queen. 

Eleryn had stood at the foot of the throne. Her sweet boy had kept his face as solemn as any septon, standing as still as if he were many years older. She had promised him a day off from lessons if he was on his best behaviour for this and he had been determined to win that freedom. 

As Oberyn had reached the foot of the throne, he had handed Grejoy over to the guards. Her husband had bowed, still in the pitted and scarred leather and mail that had seen him through thirty years of fighting. The guards had forced Greyjoy to kneel, shoving his head down as he had struggled.

"Rodrik Greyjoy," she had said as clearly as she had been able to muster, "attainted Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands and attainted Lord Reaper of Pyke. You stand accused of high treason, conspiracy against the crown, murder, petty theft, grand larceny, rape and slavery."

He had stared silently up at her, lips curling into a sneer, eyes full of disdain. Instead of intimidating her it had made her angry. Who was this unwashed, barely literate raider to look down upon her? Her, the many times daughter of Nymeria of Ny Sar, the Queen of all Westeros.

"The usual punishment for treason is to be hung, drawn and quartered. As you are a nobleman, that sentence shall be commuted to beheading by my Hand and consort, Prince Oberyn." A tiny flicker in those silent eyes. She had smiled - so he had been worried about his death. Under the king and his father he would have been right to worry. But Rhaenys had come to the throne determined to do better than her forebears. "Your sister, Lady Asha, shall return to my service as well as your daughter, Lady Alannys. Your son, Lord Dagmar, shall be fostered by Lord Denys Arryn in the Eyrie, with his uncle Theon Greyjoy as his Regent."

Theon Greyjoy had been fostered with the Daynes of Starfall to repay a blood debt after Lord Vorian had been killed by Lord Balon. He had grown up in the Water Gardens alongside her cousins, and married Nymeria. She had known as well as Lord Rodrik that he was more Dornish than Ironborn, and preferred to whore and drink over fulfulling any of his duties. She had effectively given the regency to Nymeria Sand, and they had both known it. It had been a greater insult than sending his son to foster in the landlocked, isolated Eyrie.

"Fucking Theon you-" He had been cut off by a guard driving a fist into his stomach, the other guard snapping at him to hold his tongue before the queen.

She had mustered the remnants of her patience to ask him. "Do you have any last requests, Lord Greyjoy?"

To his credit, Rodrik Greyjoy had held himself tall, his head high, and voice steady. "My body returned to my kin, and buried under the rites of the Drowned God."

"Granted." Rhaenys had said, as deceptively even and sweet as she had been capable of. "Save for your head, which shall go to my sister, the Princess Visenya Lannister, Regent of the Rock, Dowager Lady Paramount of the Westerlands and Interim Warden of the West, to repay the blood debt you owe the Westerlands for the unprovoked murder of her husband Ser Loreon Lannister, Heir to the Rock and the Westerlands."

He had sneered at her. "Unprovoked. You fucking greenlanders."

"Prince Oberyn." Her husband had stepped forward, holding Blackfyre rather than his usual spear. More suited to executions, and more steeped in tradition. 

He had bowed to her and turned to Greyjoy. "In the name of Rhaenys Nymeros Martell of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. I, Oberyn of the House Nymeros Martell, Prince Consort of Westeros and Prince of Dorne, sentence you to die. May the gods have mercy on your soul."

The guards had forced the false king to his knees, and Oberyn had taken his head off in a single shining swing of the bright sword. It had fallen to the ground with a thud, vivid blood spilling from the severed veins.

Afterwards, Oberyn had come to her in ther chambers, his hands still stained with Greyjoy's blood. Emelia had been unpinning her hair. She had hesitated when Oberyn had entered, but had curtseyed and left at the jerk of his head - though not without pursing her lips disapprovingly. Emelia had disapproved of much that Oberyn had done. 

Rhaenys had frowned as she had turned about on the seat of her vanity. "Uncle, I do not think-"

"Then do not think." He had interrupted. He had crossed the familiar room and knelt at her feet. "My Queen."

The scolding had died on her lips, and she had taken the bloodstained hands he had offered her. "My Lord and Prince."

"I missed my sweet little queen." He had murmured, pressing kisses to her hands. "How is she now?"

"Better, with her husband returned." She had returned the kiss, lifting his hands and kissing them without thought to the blood still crusted on them. Perhaps the girl who had married him would have shied away, but the queen had long grown accustomed to the blood her husband shed. 

Oberyn had smiled, pulling one hand away to cup her face. His thumb had traced her lips, sending a prickle through her to settle warm in her loins. "You look tired, my queen. Perhaps I could help you with that." She had turned her head to kiss the palm of his hand, closing her eyes. 

He had taken it as the invitation it was, leaning down to kiss her. "Your lips are sweeter than memory had the power to preserve." He had murmured, one hand gentle against her cheek and the other tangling with her fingers.

"Sweeter than the dozens of other women's lips you tasted in between fighting the entirety of the Iron Islands?" She had winced a little at the bitterness in her voice. She hadn't meant to be quite that harsh. She had never liked his infidelity, but she had thought she had long accepted it. Apparently she had not. 

Oberyn had winced, and then had the audacity to look a little hurt. "So much sweeter than any other man or woman's could be." He had breathed, and then tried to kiss her again. She had turned her head to the side, so that his lips had met her cheek instead. He had sighed, resting his head on her shoulder and pressing kisses to her neck. "Are you truly going to bar me from your bed on our first night together after so long? Over something so trivial? Nys darling, I thought we had worked all of this out long ago."

She had tried to jerk her hands away, but he had held them tight. "You promised me discretion years ago, Oberyn. Yet now I hear tales of your exploits among the women of the Iron Islands. One of your whores sat on your lap as you gave judgement from the Seastone Chair. All of Westeros laughs at the woman who sits on the Iron Throne and cannot keep her husband to her own bed."

Oberyn had released her hands and pulled away from her. He had sat back on his heels, looking up into her face. "Do you want me to apologise?"

"I want-" she had cut herself off. The day Oberyn kept to her bed would be the day he died. She had made her bed, and had to lie in it. She had chosen this. "Fine. It's been seven moons."

He had not waited to be asked twice, surging up to kiss her again. She had kissed him back mechanically, letting him lift her onto the vanity and move between her legs. He had pushed her skirts up and unlaced his breeches almost before she had found her balance. "My sweet little niece," he had breathed, pushing his way into her. "I dreamed of your perfect cunt every night I was away from it."

"Uncle." She had gasped, meaning to snap something about whether those dreams had taken place while he was balls deep in other women, but he had forestalled her by kissing her again. She had let him. He had been a generous lover, whatever his faults - and unlike him she had taken no other to her bed during his absence.

So she had spread her legs and welcomed him inside her, had let him fuck her until his hands had burned so deep into her flesh that she had known she would bruise the next day. His hands still been stained with blood, and it had smeared all over her heavy skirts. 

He had torn the ruined gown from her, fingers scrabbling on the laces of her stays as hers had struggled with the fastenings of his battered leather and mail. They had, eventually, left all of their garb strewn on the floor and Oberyn had taken her against the wall - and then, finally, at last, in the bed. 

It had been late indeed when they had at last fallen asleep, in a room that had looked like a storm had destroyed it. 

The next day, her skin had been as bruised and discoloured as if she had been attacked, barely an inch of skin free of the mark of his attentions. She had worn a high necked dress with long, close sleeves, very much after the style Agnes Blackwood had popularised during her time as queen instead of the Dornish silks Rhaenys had favoured that had bared so much of her smooth bronzed skin.

Her ladies had pinned her hair up carefully, mouths twisted in polite disapproval as Oberyn had lounged on the bed grinning, unashamedly naked - she had left her own marks on his skin, though far fewer and fainter. He had worn them like badges of honour of course, and taken it as encouragement to suck more bruises into her own skin. 

His grin had widened further when she had winced slightly as she had sat at the small table that had been brought in for their private breakfast. She had done her best to ignore him, dismissing her ladies to attend to their own daily routines before her uncle could open his mouth to say something she would regret. 

He had not moved, as Rhaenys had loaded her own plate with fruit and cheese and a crumbly Reach pastry she couldn't remember the name of. She had poured herself a cup of Arbour Gold, sipping it slowly. It had been brought directly from the wine cellars no doubt, still slightly chilled against her lips.
 
"What is it?" She had said at last, growing tired of his staring. "Have you buried yourself in so many other men and women that you have forgotten what I look like?"

The barb had landed, she had known it would, but his smile had barely flickered. Her husband had been playing such games for many more years than she. "You are graven into my mind little niece. I could not forget what you looked like in a thousand years."

"Then what is it?" She had snapped. It had been a long night, following on from longer days and her patience had been frayed long before his return.

He had perhaps seen the warning signs, getting up at last to stand behind her chair. Two warm hands had rested on her shoulders. A kiss had been pressed to her cheek. "I won you a war and your throne, little niece. That, I think, has earned me a boon - don't you?"

"What do you want?" Rhaenys had asked, warily, taking another sip of wine. She had expected a tryst with one of her ladies, or to recall Merei to court, or some other fleeting indulgence of his appetites. 

For a moment, he had been silent, and then he had reached over her shoulder to pick up the steaming cup of moon tea. "I remember you so very clearly, every inch of you inside and out." Another kiss had been pressed to her cheek. "But I find I miss the sight of you heavy with my child once more. It has been too long." 

Rhaenys had pulled away, standing so that she could reach for the moon tea. He had lifted it out of her grasp with the mocking smirk that had always appeared whenever he had abused the disadvantage of her stature.

"Have you forgotten what happened with Aenar?" She had demanded. "Oberyn, I don't have time to be shut up for a moon in confinement, and then another moon if not two or three while I recover." She had said nothing of the other, more permanent possible outcomes. They had been graven into her mind before she had been able to speak. It had always been beyond words for her.

"But you look so beautiful pregnant." One arm had come around to rest over her womb, the heat of his palm burning through the layers of fabric. "So very sweet, full to bursting with my seed."

Her head had fallen back against his shoulder and her eyes had slid shut. She had missed him so much while he was away. Even in the turmoil of their argument she had sought comfort in the steady feel of his body against hers."I said no, Oberyn."

"So ripe and lush." He had continued, as if she had not spoken. "Like the Lyseni goddess incarnate. The only sight better is you with my child in your arms. Don't you miss having a babe to dote on, little niece? Aenar is out of his cradle, and you have no more sisters."

"Just give me the moon tea." He had not, of course. She had whirled around to try and snatch it again, but he had pulled it away.

He had tsked, swooping in to steal a kiss before dodging backwards with a laugh as she had lunged for the cup. "That's not playing fair, little one. Use your manners."
 
"Uncle, this isn't funny." She had taken a breath, shuddering a little, trying to draw the mantle of queen about her. He was only another petitioner, she had told herself - and known she was lying as she had thought it. Unlike a petitioner she had always found it so very difficult to say no to him. "Ask for something else. Anything else."

"I do not want anything else. I want another child, Rhaenys, and I want to see you carrying my child." There had been something dark and determined in his eyes. He had wanted this badly, she had realised with a sinking feeling. Oberyn had been born a prince - he had never been accustomed to hearing anyone tell him no.

She was queen, she had reminded herself. She had duties and responsibilities that could not be abandoned for confinement and recovery or even death. She could not. It was too dangerous.

She had lunged once more for the cup, fast enough that he had been startled. She had missed, barely.  He had pulled it away but his grip had been loose and she had knocked it with enough force that it had overbalanced and spilled tansy all over the expensive Dornish carpets. 

Rhaenys had watched the glistening liquid soak into the fabric, and felt her own heart settle. There had only ever been one outcome to that fight in the end. When Oberyn set his heart on something he had rarely failed, and he had never failed when it had anything to do with her.

"Very well." She had said, every word as bitter as the familiar taste of moon tea. "Have it your way."

Oberyn had not waited to ask twice. He had swept her up into his arms, settling himself into her vacated chair and her onto his lap. He had not thrown so much as a shawl about himself of course, so he had only needed to shove her skirts aside and ease her down onto him.

She had been tender from the previous night's activities, but they had ceased so recently that she had still been wet and a little looser than usual so she had supposed it had evened out. 

Their breakfast had gone uneaten until Thea Waynwood had entered. Presumably she had drawn the short straw, for she had not been startled in the least upon finding them fucking. Her ladies had long grown accustomed to their ways.

"Your Graces." She had said with admirable poise, addressing the window rather than either of the royal couple. "The queen is expected to hear petitions within a candlemark, and the prince has promised to address the disbanding troops."

Rhaenys had taken the opportunity to extricate herself from her husband. He had grumbled but gone through to his chambers to dress himself as her ladies had streamed in. 

She had picked at the remainder of the food on her plate as they had tidied her hair and dabbed perfume at her pulse points and rearranged her skirts. By the time she had left her chambers no one would have been able to tell she had been riding her husband's cock only moments before.

Unsurprisingly, she had conceived within the moon. She had not been entirely sure when his seed had taken, but she had known Oberyn. Most likely she had been with child a day or so after she had forgone the moon tea.

It had been nearly two years since Aenar's birth and she had been almost entirely recovered. Unlike when she had been carrying him, she had not been ill or faint. She had always carried well unlike her mother or grandmothers. Aenar had been an exception, she had reminded herself. 

But like her mother and grandmothers she had not always been lucky. Three moons after she had promised Oberyn another child, she had woken with a familiar ache in her lower body. 

She had ignored it, telling herself she was imagining things. She had forgone her breakfast in deference to her suddenly sensitive stomach and gone about her day as normal. 

It was no worse than her usual cramps on her moonblood she had told herself and forced down some food at lunch. It had tasted like ash. She had still told herself that all was well.

She had been short tempered and impatient that afternoon, trying desperately to keep her thoughts away from what she had known was happening. Mara had caught more errors in a few hours than she had made in her whole tenure as queen. She had not confused the names of the head servants since before she had flowered. 

Oberyn had taken one look at her in the evening and sent the children away, promising that they could eat together the next evening. "I am sorry." She had said, staring at her hands as she had sat in her chair. "I promised you another child."

"There will be others." Oberyn had soothed, stripping her with gentle hands and carrying her to her bed. "It was not your fault, none of this was your fault. Breathe, Rhaenys. All will be well, darling, I will make it so. Breathe. Come here, lean on me. I've got you. All will be well my love, all will be well."

She had clung to him and hidden her face in his shoulder and pretended that the world did not exist. He had sung to her and fed her draughts to ease the pain and pressed soft, desperate kisses to her face.

She had not cried. She had not thought she could bear to cry. She had not even wanted the child and yet knowing it would never draw breath was like tearing out her heart. He had not let her see the little body, small enough to fit in his palm.

She had let him give her a sleeping draught that night, and for several nights after. Then she had thrown herself back into her accustomed role as queen and mother and wife. 

Six moons afterwards, Rhaena had gone into confinement for the first time. Like her mother before her, she had demanded that Rhaenys accompany her.

Rhaenys had been the queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and grieving her own loss - but Rhaena had been dear, dead Elerei's daughter, and more than that had been her sister. Beside that what was duty? What was the pain of an empty womb as her sister fought to bring a child into the world? It had not been a decision at all. 

They had sat and sewed together, or Rhaenys had read to her, or they had done each other's hair, or simply slept beside each other, and it had been little more than a week when Rhaena's time had come. It had been, as she had recalled, astonishingly easy. 

Perhaps it had not seemed so to Rhaena, who had cried and clung to Rhaenys and begged her to make it stop. But it had been easier than any of the children her stepmothers had born, easier than every time she had struggled to force her own child into the world.

She had been grateful, yes, grateful, that her gentlest sister had been granted the least travail in childbed. Grateful that Rhaena had not needed to know the pain of an empty womb and a bed of blood. Grateful that Elerei's daughter had been spared Rhaenys' own pain.

And then the baby had been born. A boy, with a full head of black hair and a cry loud enough that Edric had heard it through the door and burst in, laughing with delight even before he had known he had a son. 

Rhaena had named him Orys, smiling as her mother had never done after her birth. Elerei had loved her daughter dearly, but she had been so tired and so very sad. Her smiles had been so rare, and so precious, and her daughter had inherited them. 

They had been more common in sunny King's Landing during Rhaena's childhood when Rhaenys had done everything in her power to keep her sister safe and happy. In Storm's End it had been colder and grimmer and Lady Delena had doted fiercely upon her eldest son, trying to ignore the bastards in the nursery that had arrived with seemingly clockwork regularity. Rhaena's smiles had grown smaller and less frequent, but they had been there. Not swallowed up by despair like her mother's.

When Rhaenys had returned to the capital, she had arrived just in time for Aenar's third nameday. Her youngest had been showered with gifts and adoration by his siblings, his parents, his aunts, and what had felt like the entire city. He had spent the whole evening giggling on her lap, still small and weaker than Eleryn had ever been, but bright and happy and so very excited. 

She hadn't taken moon tea the next morning. Oberyn had been delighted, showering her in kisses and sweet words. He had taken it as an invitation to fuck her as often as he could get his hands on her to the point that for half a moon he had visited no other bed than hers. Emelia had made a sly remark in private about the brothels going out of business without the prince consort's patronage. 

She had bled out a child two moons later, almost before she had realised she had conceived. Three moons after that he had been back in her bed - and she had not bled after that. By the time word had come of Rhaena's second child, a daughter named Cassana, she had been heavy with child and exhausted. 

"I want legislation regarding the sanity of monarchs." She had said one night to her husband, huddled in his arms after a dream where the king had done more than threaten her. He had thrown her to the ground and fucked his way inside of her, had beaten her until her own siblings had not recognised her and thrown her out to rot in the streets while her little Aemma was brought crying and confused in her nightgown to his chambers - and the kingsguard had simply watched it all happen. It had been so very real. 

Her uncle had held her, pressing kisses to the crown of her head as she had slowly stopped shaking. "Then we shall see it done." He had promised her.

They had passed laws then, laws meant to apply to the ruler on the Iron Throne. Madness would result in deposition, a comfortable life on isolated Dragonstone where the mad king or queen could hurt no one. They would not be eligible for the throne again, having proven themselves too weak in the mind to rule.

It had relaxed something deep inside her. No more mad kings. No more Aerys. No more Rhaegar. Future queens and princesses would be protected as she had not been, as her mother and stepmothers had not been, as Jaehaera had not been. She had gone into confinement only two days after the laws had been codified, much to the displeasure of her small council who had considered it a frivolous waste of her power as queen. 

She had slept for days, it had felt like, her head in Emelia's lap. Mara had told her later that it had been three weeks between the beginning of her confinement and the beginning of her labours. Perhaps it had been. She had not kept track of the passing of time. She had enjoyed the rest far too much for such things. 

Aelora had been two and ten by then, old enough to attend her in the birthing chamber. She had been curious and morbidly excited at first, after the manner of a child who did not understand what it was that she was witnessing. But when the blood had started, and the screams, Rhaenys had vaguely registered her little sister's horrified face. To this day she cannot quite recall it, her memory occupied with the agony and effort of birth. 

She had torn badly with that child, as she recalls, though she remembers little save that the pain had been somewhat sharper than it had been previously. It had been another boy, bronzed and loud and so very full of life. She had named him Morgan for the founder of House Martell and because there was no one with the authority to force her to use a Targaryen name. 

Oberyn had adored their son from the moment he had begun to draw breath. She had watched her husband's smile as he had held the baby, his sheer delight at the new life they had brought into the world. This, she had remembered, was why she had always given in when he had wanted another child. How could she deny him when he loved each child so very much? But she had been in so much pain, and been so tired that she had thought of giving him another child with only dread. How could she give him any more, when she was so tired?

She had leaned back against the pillows and slept, utterly exhausted. Her ladies would arrange the wet nurse and the cradle and everything else necessary for the arrival of a new prince. She had been too tired to do it herself. 

She had still been tired a moon later, when Oberyn had judged her recovered enough to resume her duties. She had done nothing but sleep, eat, exchange letters with her sisters, spend time with her children that she had been unable to carve out of her hectic schedule for some time. And yet, she had still been so very tired. 

But she had been queen, and she had known her duty. Rhaenys had sat upon the Iron Throne and ruled her kingdom with her husband and Hand at her side. She had chosen this, she had reminded herself when she was squinting at letters by candlelight, she had wanted this. She needed this to keep her sisters and her children safe. Aegon was gone, and they had no one but her.

And time, somehow, had passed. She had ruled her kingdom and raised her children and lived with her husband. Aenar had declared that he wanted to become a Maester, and so they had begun to correspond with the Citadel. She had not wanted her little boy to leave her so young, but Oberyn had had fond memories of his time training to become a Maester and had promised her that their quiet, bookish little boy would be happy there. 

Daena had been eight and ten when she had conceived. A wife for six years already, though they had not consummated their union until some time after Daena had reached six and ten.

Rhaenys had never quite known the details, save for a letter from her most tempestuous sister demanding that Rhaenys inform Monterys he was allowed to sleep with her. Apparently he had been quite terrified of his wife's queenly sister.

It had taken two years for Daena to be certain she was with child, in a letter to her eldest sister that had been half elated, half terrified. Rhaenys had thought back to Daena's mother, Saera of Pentos. She had been afraid and vicious, and the only one who could have really been called a wicked stepmother. She had died for the brother Daena could not remember. Baelon, quiet and pale and so very still. She had died in that terrible bloody bed that Rhaenys had faced each time she had gone into confinement.

Rhaenys had written back the sweetest lies she had been able to force onto the page, promising her sister that all would be well. If she was truly worried, the queen had written, she could have her confinement in the Red Keep - where she could be near Rhaenys. 

Daena had declined, of course, saying that Driftmark was her home and it's heir should be born in the salt and spray of its waves. Rhaenys had not truly expected otherwise. They had all seen too many women die in that bed to bear their own children there. Rhaenys had only ever done so because she had no other choice. 

So she had promised Daena that she was only ever a letter away, and put the matter out of her mind as best she had been able. Time had passed. Disputes and rulings had flown away like so many birds as she had paced and told herself she was not worried.

Rhaena had born her own daughter shortly afterwards, Cassana slipping from her sister's womb as easily as breathing, or so Rhaena's letter had related. It had, Rhaenys had told herself, settled her worries for Daena somewhat. 

Three moons after Cassana's birth, two before they had expected Daena's child to be born, word had come in the middle of the night. Daena's labours had begun early, the princess had been barely conscious and bleeding heavily but had asked for her sister - the fastest ship in the Velaryon fleet had been sent. 

The queen could not be summoned by a mere vassal, but Rhaenys had been a sister first. She had left Oberyn and Tremna to run the kingdom, hurrying onto the ship with only Emelia, Mara and Thea Waynewood. She had told herself the sick fluttering in her stomach had only been the wind and the waves. She had not wept. 

The ship had taken just under a day and a night to reach the capital, half the time that the voyage had taken under ordinary circumstances. With the added weight of herself and her ladies, it had taken two days and a night. 

By the time the ship had arrived at Driftmark, it had all been over. Daena had given her husband twin daughters the morning after Rhaenys had boarded the ship, and slipped into a deep sleep from which she had not awoken. 

Monterys had refused to name his daughters until his wife had opened her eyes once more. He had claimed that Daena would make him regret ever being born, never mind engendering their daughters, if he dared to do so without her. It had, she had admitted, sounded rather like her sister.

Rhaenys had sat at her little sister's bedside for days, watching her still face for the slightest sign of consciousness. On the third day, Emelia had dragged her away, forced her to eat and sleep a little. Afterwards, she had written to Oberyn, asking for him to send Aelora and Naerys to Driftmark. If Daena were to die, she had wanted as many of her sisters present as possible. Daena would not die alone.

Rhaena had arrived on the fifth day with Orys, Argella and her newest daughter Cassana clutched tightly to her. She had wept into Rhaenys' arms, begging her to promise that Daena would be well. She had been swiftly followed by Aelora and Naerys. Aelora had been keeping a strong face for Naerys, her knuckles twisted white in her skirts and her lip trembling. Naerys had tilted her chin up and told Rhaenys that Daena was not allowed to die until she had taken her sailing like she had promised.

On the sixth day, Daena's eyes had opened all at once, full of confusion. "Nys." She had whispered hoarsely. "Nys it hurts." Rhaenys had held her sister and let her weep into her shoulder. She would have let Daena weep all over her for the rest of the time, because it meant her sister had lived.  

She had named her daughters Baela and Laena, for the storm and the sea and the women who had leashed dragons. Monterys had wept a little. 

Four days after Daena had awoken, Jaehaera's ship had arrived. Jaehaera had spilled off it in a whirlwind of eye wateringly green hair and travel-stained leathers and exotic gifts. She had crushed Daena to her with a cry of relief, and doted over her newest nieces.  

Jaehaera had taken her aside a few hours after flying off her ship. "Nys." She had said. "Are you alright? You look awful?" Rhaenys had smiled and promised her sister that she was well. Just tired, and worried. Jaehaera had not been convinced. "Look, if you need someone to head Uncle Oberyn off, Vis and I are always happy to take the fall. You need a break." 

Rhaenys had smiled, patted her sister's hand, and fled to check on Daena. She was well, she had told herself. This was the price she had paid and it was a price she was gladly paying to keep her sisters well and safe. She needed this power to protect them, and she needed Oberyn to help her protect them. 

Thankfully, Jaehaera had not brought it up again. She had doted on Daena and her new nieces, and told them all tales of her adventures, and had given Rhaenys the silence the queen had not asked for. 

A week after that Visenya's had limped into the harbour, having been driven almost to wrecking by its lady's haste. She had left Daeron in command of the Rock and the West with Genna to guide him, justifying it to her great-aunt as practice for her son. Visenya had 

For the first time in years, all the daughters of Rhaegar Targaryen had been in the same place. They had seized the moment as best as they had been able, had spent days on the beaches of Driftmark together and nights curled up together in a solar. It had been bittersweet, knowing that only Daena's near death had sufficed to bring them all to one place, but they had been together and that had needed to be enough. 

By day they had laughed and played and gloried in their time together, and by night they had huddled by the fire trading stories that could not reach any ear save that of a sister.

Jaehaera had told them about Dorea, Viserys' one true love whom they had rescued from a pillowhouse in Lys, and who had been living with Aegon and Sansa in Braavos. "She's very pretty." Jaehaera had said with a sly smirk. "If Vis had looked more like her maybe I would have slept with him more than once." 

Visenya had told them about her own lover, her sworn sword who had been more than amenable to inspecting her quarters to ensure they were safe. None of her children had realised, nor had any of the Rock save, of course, Lady Genna. Her aunt had only told her not get herself with child and had even covered for them a few times. It had felt like being children again, huddled together in the nursery and whispering secrets under the cover of night.

Poor Aelora and Naerys had been quite overwhelmed by the sudden abundance of elder sisters, all ready and willing to dote on them. Aelora had always been closer with Eleryn than her sister, and Naerys had taken to dragging Aemma into trouble in retaliation, but the presence of so many intimidating sisters had finally forced them to band together. They known most of her sisters individually of course - Daena and Rhaena had visited King's Landing several times, but Visenya had not left the Westerlands since she had become Regent and Jaehaera had returned to Westeros only three times since Rhaenys had become queen. 

Still, by the time their visit to Driftmark had come to a close, Aelora and Naerys had been thoroughly enamoured of all their sisters. That had been one good thing to come of Daena's terrible near death.  If there had been one thing Rhaenys had mourned about the brilliant matches her sisters had made, it had been that it had scattered all of her sisters across the world.

She had missed the days of her childhood, when they could all squeeze onto one bed in the nursery and whisper long into the night. She had missed the days when it had not been merely her and her sisters. She had missed Aegon so very badly that it had been like a living thing. She had missed her only brother so much that she had not dared to think on it. 

He was safe, she had reminded herself. He was safe and alive and happy with Sansa. It was worth it. It was all worth it. 

Daena had never born another child, her womb too scarred for the maesters to hold out even the slightest hope that she could conceive again, let alone carry to term. Rhaenys had tried very hard not to be relieved - it had meant that she was safe from losing one sister to the birthing bed at least. 

The year she had flowered, Rosamund Tyrell had come to court. She had brought with her a respectable retinue of young noblewomen from the Reach, household guards, and her father's cousin acting as her septa - Septa Rhaena, once Lady Rhaena Hightower and the woman who had tried to steal her husband.

Rhaenys had been relieved to see that Oberyn had not spared Septa Rhaena a second look. He had given her his word, but that had been so long ago that she had been afraid he had forgotten. He had not. He had stood silently while she had greeted little Lady Rosamund, in his usual place close to the throne.

Their son had bowed to his betrothed with a practiced smile, and then offered her his arm and a flower. She had hidden a smile behind her hand, seeing the set of her husband's shoulders and knowing that it had been he who had suggested it to Eleryn.

The girl had blushed prettily, taking the proferred arm and the flower. She had thanked the queen and prince-consort for their warm welcome, looking at the crown prince through her eyelashes with a coy demureness that Rhaenys had vaguely recalled her aunt owning.

Lady Margaery Hightower had been one of the great beauties of their generation, as she had remembered, and one of the most acclaimed wits. Her tongue had been as sharp as it had been sweet, and songs to her doe-like eyes had still circulated around the court from time to time even so many years later. It had done her little good, of course.

She had been quickly married off to some cousin after some business with Ser Renly that the whole continent had known was merely covering for her brother. So much for her beauty and wit. Still, perhaps her niece would fare better.

Rhaenys had stood to dismiss the court, taking the hand that Oberyn had offered. She had let him lead her out of the hall, pressing close to him with a benevolent smile at her future good-daughter's retinue. Septa Rhaena, in the plain grey robes of her order, had glared daggers at the silk-clad queen in her jewels and crown.

It had felt good. She had ordered the other woman from the court that evening and written a warning to the Dowager Lady Alerie. Queen Rhaenys had been merciful but not weak - and she would not tolerate Septa Rhaena in her castle. Rhaenys had sent her away. She was queen, and she would not have her husband's whore in her court.

Eleryn had been polite to Lady Rosamund, though little more. He had still spent most of his waking hours with Aelora, but he had walked with Lady Rosamund and sat beside her at feasts and kissed her hand when Rhaenys had reminded him. He had even done most of it with good grace, but then her firstborn had always been so very good and dutiful. She had been so proud of him. 

Oberyn had been proud of their son as well, and wistful. He had visited his daughters in Dorne from time to time, and as Doran had sickened they had grown warmer towards him again. Loreza, the youngest, had turned twenty that year and he had been feeling rather unsettled. When Morgan, just over a year old and already running, had been moved from the same cradle all his siblings had used, that had seemed to be the last straw. 

He had broached the topic in bed one night, after he had brought her to a screaming peak and fucked her through it. She had been lying among the pillows, panting and boneless and for once untroubled. "All the children have your eyes, you know."

Rhaenys had opened one eye to look at him in disbelief. "We have the same eyes, uncle, remember?" He had not looked at her. "The eyes we share with my mother, your sister." The mention of Elia Martell had struck home. He had rolled over, his fingers gently tracing the shape of her eyes as she had stared at him. 

"Not quite." He had pressed a kiss to each eyelid, as softly as a feather brushing against him. "Yours ever so slightly wider, with little flecks of purple and gold. I like seeing them appear in the face of each child you give me."

Something cold had rushed through her, entirely spoiling the soft afterglow she had been enjoying. Rhaenys had sat up, pushing herself away from him. "You want another one." He had opened his mouth to protest but she had barrelled on, feeling that terrible pit opening in her stomach. "Oberyn, I have given you five children, is that not enough? It is more than any of my stepmothers gave the king."

"I am not the king." He had snapped back. 

"Did I say you were?"

"It was implied."

"Well it is irrelevant. I won't have another child."

"Rhaenys."

I cannot do it again, Oberyn."

"Do you think I would ask it if I did not know you could take it?" He had pressed a kiss to her forehead. "You are stronger than you think, Nys."

"No."

"No?" He had leaned in, kissing her. Rhaenys had melted against him out of instinct, as his hands had started to roam. "I do not ask for much from you, little niece. You love our children as much as I do."

"I said, no. I am your queen, Uncle, you swore your fealty to me and-

And I am your husband. You swore to obey me. Remind me, which oath came first?"

The chill in her stomach had intensified, and she had rolled over, turning her back to him. "Fuck you."

"Oh I wish you would, darling." His arms had wrapped about her, and he had started to kiss his way up her neck. She had struggled but only half heartedly. She had known what her answer would eventually be. "Your cunt is never tighter than when you're angry."

She had tried to pull away. "No, Oberyn. Leave me alone. I'm tired." She had closed her eyes and tried to ignore him but that had been, like always, a red flag to a bull.

"Are you sure." As his fingers had crept down to play with her and she had shuddered against him. "You're so wet already, darling. Do you really want me to leave this perfect cunt unfucked when you must be aching for me? Just to spite yourself? You want me to find relief in Larra while you sleep in a cold, empty bed without release? I can make you feel so good. If my pretty little queen behaves, i can make her feel so very good."

"Fine. But you can damn well find your pleasure elsewhere until the child is born." To his credit, he had. As soon as she had been with child, he had slept elsewhere, and she had found the sleep of the truly exhausted with Emelia acting as her bedmate.

She had sent for her sisters to accompany her in her confinement. Visenya had not been able to leave, nor had Jaehaera, but Rhaena and Daena had made the journey as soon as she had asked. 

The child had been a daughter, sweet and heavy and so fierce. Rhaenys had named her Aliandra and adored her as soon as she had been placed in her arms. Morgan had taken one look at his sister and attached himself to her, to the point that she had screamed if the two were not close. 

"Just one more." Oberyn had pressed after Aliandra. "One more child, my perfect little niece. You can give me one more, can't you?"

By some madness, she had agreed. One more child, and then he had promised to stop pushing. It had felt like an acceptable compromise. One more child and then she would not have to give him any more. One more child and then she could focus on ruling.

She had lost the child four moons in, collapsing in the middle of a Small Council meeting with blood staining her skirts. The loss had rendered her confined to bed for a moon while she recovered. 

It had been a terrible, wretched time, but in some secret part of her she had been glad of the rest. She had lain in bed while Oberyn had sat the throne for her and had not needed to rush places and arrange things. It had been so very nice. She had been so tired the grief had hardly registered until a sennight after the loss. 

She and Oberyn had argued bitterly after he had broached the subject of another. She had given him that one more, she had said, and that child had died.  But a dead child was no child at all, she had promised him a living child. So she had agreed. One more living child, and then she was done. The mere idea had wearied her. But she had already born six living children and raised seven younger sisters - what was one more child?

They had waited seven moons, until Oberyn had judged her fully recovered. It had taken her two moons to concieve that time, instead of the few days it had usually taken for her husband's seed to take. 

She had been cautiously pleased after missing her moonsblood, albeit wary of the looming birthing bed. Oberyn had been overjoyed and she had remembered why she had always given in. He had given up so much for her. He had left behind his daughters and his life in Dorne for the niece he had hardly known. He had sacrificed everything to get her a throne and a family. He had loved her so very much.  

Her newest child had quickened halfway through her fourth moon, the odd fluttering sensation one that she had grown accustomed to after so many children. She had gone to him before Emelia, trying to remind herself that he was her husband and she owed him that much at least.

A little while afterwards, a raven had arrived, informing the queen that Dowager Queen Rhaella had fallen ill and could no longer act as regent of Dragonstone. 

She had gone to Eleryn's apartments to inform him that he would need to leave and take up his seat. The door had been ajar when she had arrived, so she had simply walked in. Eleryn had been sitting in a chair by the fireplace with a woman on his lap, kissing her as his hands had roamed towards the laces of her gown.

Rhaenys had made to leave, not having had the time or the strength to deal with whatever her scandal her son was engendering. If a maid or two warmed his bed for coin, she had not felt it worth addressing.

But then she had paused. That hair was familiar. As was the gown. She had given it to her little sister at the same time that her betrothal to Edric Dayne had been announced. 

"What are you doing?" Her son and sister had burst apart as if burned upon hearing her voice. She had cut off any attempts to speak. "Ser Arthur, please take Prince Eleryn to speak with the prince consort. Inform my husband that he was dishonouring his troth to the Lady Rosamund by dishonouring the Princess Aelora."

Her husband would not have had quite the same reaction as her, but he had been playing the game for longer than she had. She had known that, despite his personal views, he would still support her in this matter. They had both known for a long time that personal wants had mattered little compared to the throne. 

She had waited until Ser Arthur and Eleryn had left. Then she had taken in a shaking breath and jerked her sister's chin up to meet her eyes. "Listen to me Aelora. You are a princess of House Targaryen. You will not make yourself a whore for your nephew."

"You made yourself a whore for your uncle." Aelora had snapped, her eyes meeting Rhaenys' own defiantly. "What makes this so different?"

"Because the stability of the realm relies upon Eleryn following through with the promise I made to Lord Tyrell and marrying Rosamund. He bent the knee to me because I promised to make his daughter a queen. You will not make me a liar, Aelora, do you understand." 

"But I love him."

"I know." Rhaenys had said softly, wrapping an arm about her sister's shoulders. Aelora had pulled away. "I am sorry, Lora. If things were different I would have wed you to him in a heartbeat, but you cannot change the way of the world so easily. He must marry Rosamund Tyrell. And you must marry, or take a septa's vows, or-"

Aelora had interrupted her, eyes blazing with something Rhaenys had not quite understood. "A septa. I want to be a septa. If I cannot have Eleryn I will have no man at all."

"Lora," she had sighed, "this is not a decision you can undertake lightly. I understand that you are angry at me, but please at least attempt to salvage your betrothal. You may be able to find some happiness with him."

"Why? Because he is a good man?" Her sister's face had been twisted into a painfully familiar sneer, one that had sent shivers of remembered fear and pain up her spine. 

"Because I think you would be miserable as a septa." Rhaenys had snapped. "But if you are so determined to ruin your life one way or another, very well, go and take your vows."

She had regretted the words as soon as they had left her mouth, but it had been too late. The shadow of the king in her sister's face had unbalanced her and her temper had run away with her. 

Aelora's sneer had stretched into an equally familiar smile. She had dropped into a curtsey. "As you wish, Your Grace."

Then her sister had swept from the room. By evening, Aelora had departed the capital for Oldtown where she had taken the veil and thrown aside the name Targaryen.

Eleryn had not spoken to Rhaenys or Oberyn for a moon afterwards, unless it had been in court. Then he had been perfectly cold and proper. At first Rhaenys had been deeply concerned over it. She had wept into Oberyn's arms, devastated that her first son, the first child she had bled and suffered to bring into the world hated her. 

But she had been distracted when halfway through her six month her newest child had stopped moving. She had spent three days on edge, tapping her swollen belly every few moments trying desperately to get a reaction. She had barely slept, had gone to the Great Sept of Baelor, knelt before the Mother, and prayed until her knees had gone numb.  "Please." She had begged. "Let this one live. Let it live. I cannot do this again. I cannot endure it. I will do anything but please, please, not this."

Three days after the last movement she had started to bleed. Her waters had broken shortly after, tainted with blood and other substances. She barely remembers what had come next, the pain, the silence, the empty cradle and stained sheets. 

That time Oberyn had kept her on bedrest for two moons, so gaunt and drawn that she had not argued. She had not had the strength to argue. 

Eleryn had come to her shortly afterwards, kneeling at her bedside and hiding his face in her lap as if that had been able to stop the tears. "I'm sorry Mother." He had wiped his eyes and swallowed. "I love you. I don't...I am still angry, but I-"

"I understand." Rhaenys had leaned forward painfully, pressing a kiss to his curly head. "You will understand too one day, Eleryn, why I had to do what I did."

Her son had pressed his lips together tightly. Then he had sighed, sitting back on his heels and staring up at her. "I will miss Aelora until the day I day, and I will always resent that. But you are my mother and my queen and I-I'll marry Lady Rosamund. I'll be a good husband to her, like Father is to you. I promise."

Rhaenys had planned the wedding down to the finest detail. She had had the time, after all - lying in bed as the bleeding had slowed and her womb had healed and her body had done its best to make it appear as if there had never been a child to lose at all.

Oberyn hadn't let her do any true work while she was ill. "Take the time to rest, my little queen." He had said, kissing away the silent tears streaking down her cheek. "I will take care of it all." 

She had not known how to rest when she had been queen. Instead, she had lain in bed and dictated orders to her ladies. Rosamund's dress fittings had taken place in the queen's solar, Rhaenys lying on a long chaise where she had been able to see the gown. 

Instead of broths and soups, she had tasted feast dishes and puddings. When her hands had grown steady enough she had been propped against a mountain of pillows to draw up seating plans and duty rosters. The first orders of state she had signed had been authorising withdrawals from the treasury to pay the extra servants and guards hired for the festivities. 

The wedding had been, she had assumed, a triumph. Rhaenys had been too busy keeping every piece running smoothly to truly enjoy it, or dance more than two dances with her husband. 

But Lady Rosamund had been smiling brightly, nestling close to Eleryn, and Eleryn had kept her on his arm and danced with her and kissed her more than once at the feast. He was trying, she had told herself, and that was what had mattered. A marriage did not have to be made of love, it could be made of sheer bloody-minded determination, and as her son she had known that Eleryn had more than enough of that.

Word had come from Dorne three moons after the wedding. The gout had finally weakened Doran Martell beyond all saving. He had died in his sleep, and his seat had gone to his daughter the Princess Arianne. Arianne had written to proclaim her loyalty to her cousin and queen, and to confirm her firstborn as her own heir. 

Eleven moons after the wedding, Rosamund had given birth to a son, Rhaekar Targaryen. Rhaenys had been the first person to hold her grandson. He had been a solid baby, with a full head of black fuzz and powerful lungs. 

Oberyn had been nearing sixty at that time, but he had still been well and strong, and more than virile enough to try for one last child. Rhaenys had been entirely doubtful that she could carry a child to term anymore if she did conceive. She had given him six children, but Aliandra had been born four years before and she had not carried a living child since, only blood and tiny bodies too small for a pyre. 

She should not have doubted her husband's determination. Her last pregnancy had been more like what she had seen in her dying stepmothers than any of her previous ones, though she had not been entirely suprised. She had been five and thirty, and there had been a world of difference between five and thirty and seven and then.

She had fainted, and been sick, and the flesh had melted from her bones. The maesters had restricted her to bedrest five moons in, and reduced her workload until she had had more free time than she been in possession of since before she had flowered.

Shortly before her confinement had begun, Visenya had returned to court. Daeron had reached his majority and taken up his mantle as Lord Lannister, though he would not wed Daenaera for several years yet. Visenya had left her uncle Tyrion to aid her son, Genna Lannister having long since passed, and made the journey to King's Landing to attend her sister's confinement and allow her son a year or so to accustom himself to ruling alone.

Jaehaera had written offering to return, but Rhaenys had known her sister's horror of the birthing bed and told her to stay on Dragonstone to care for their grandmother. But Rhaena and Daena had returned to the capital, as had Naerys, and Aelora had offered to be the septa in attendance. 

More of her sisters had attended her last confinement than any before, and they had spent the time together gladly. Even Aelora had unbent from her cool reserve a little, as she had not since she had left to take her vows. 

When her time had come, Rhaenys had told herself that she did not mind dying if it had come after such a sweet meeting with the dearest women in the world. It had been a long labour, and a hard one. She had clung to Rhaena, remembering Rhaena's mother. Elerei had reached that point as well, unable to go on. "I can't do this again, Rhae." Rhaenys had gotten out to her sister in a break between the pains. "I won't."

Rhaena hadn't known that her mother had said the same thing, but Visenya had. Rhaenys had told her years before. Rhaenys remembers, as she remembers little else, the wounded little sound that had torn itself from her second sister's lips at that. She had heard that. 

The first child had been forced from her body when she was nearing the end of her strength. She had collapsed back and known she could do more, but then they had been telling her to push again, to birth another child, that she had a daughter but she would have another if she pushed, and she-

She couldn't. She had been so tired. 

Visenya had told her afterwards the maester had called in Oberyn and told him that they might not be able to save mother and child both. Rhaena had stayed with Rhaenys, but Daena had nearly tried to gut Oberyn as his silence had stretched longer and longer. "She's your wife, you bastard, you might not give a damn about her, but she is the fucking queen of Westeros and if you think-"

Oberyn had ignored her, long accustomed to Daena's temper. "Save them both, Maester." He had told the man sharply. "But I have many children and only one wife. If, if you must choose - Rhaenys."

Rhaenys had not recalled that interlude. She had only remembered her sisters and the knowledge that it was not over and the despair that had wrought in her. It had been a full day and a night, they had told her, and in the end only her daughter had lived. They had burned the twisted, scaled little form of her dead son and settled their newest and last daughter in the nursery. Rhaenys had named her Meria, for the Old Toad who had stood against the Conquest Unbowed, Unbent and Unbroken. 

She had betrothed the tiny child, her last daughter, to Eleryn's Rhaekar. Eleryn had been hesitant at first when she had broached the subject. But she had placed his little sister in his arms and, as he always had, he had melted. 

"They shall grow up together." He had said softly, cooing to Meria as he had paced about Rhaenys' chamber. "They shall be the best of friends, and the best of partners. They shall adore each other." He had, Oberyn had told her, ordered their cradles placed close together and given them the same wet nurse.

Rhaenys had just been glad that her son had taken to the betrothal so well. He had always been sullen and defiant with her after the unpleasant business with Aelora. But her sister's return to act as septa to the royal children had seemed to ease the wound a little. Aelora had been happier in her robes and vows, calmer than she had ever been as a child. Perhaps seeing that she had been content with her new life had made Eleryn find his own balance. She had not thought too deeply on it, save to be glad that her son had forgiven her. 

She had still been on bedrest when Rosamund had come to her. She had been sitting up embroidering as Mara had read to her from a collection of Rhoynish poetry, though she cannot now remember which one. 

The door had slammed open, and her good-daughter had stormed in, golden skirts swirling about her feet. Her tawny eyes had been glimmering with barely restrained tears, her lower lip wobbling. 

"What is it, Rosamund?" Rhaenys had said curiously, for the girl had not sought her out alone before. Always, she had seen Rosamund in the company of her insipid little cousins, or on Eleryn's arm. 

She had flushed a little, and curtseyed a little less gracefully than Rhaenys had ever seen her curtsey before. "I am sorry for interrupting, your Grace. I can leave-"

"No." She had held out her hand and Rosamund had taken it, coming to sit on the edge of the bed. Rhaenys had caught Mara's eye and tilted her head towards the door. Her lady had thankfully taken the hint and excused herself, closing the door behind her. "Now, what is it darling?"

Rosamund had burst into tears. It had rendered her quite indecipherable as she had choked out words mixed with bitter grief and heartache that had tasted uncomfortably familiar on the queen's tongue.

She had wrapped her arms about her gooddaughter, murmuring the same nonsensical comforts as she had to Aliandra earlier that day, stroking the soft golden-brown hair. Eventually Rosamund had managed something along the lines of, ''how did you bear it?"

For a moment, Rhaenys' mind had flown back to her childhood, listening to stepmother after stepmother weep in the king's bed and die in the birthing bed. But Willas Tyrell had only ever had one wife. "How did I bear what, sweetling?" She had asked gently. 

Rosamund had wept harder for a few moments, and then managed to pull herself together, dashing away the tears welling form her eyes. Rhaenys had handed her a handkerchief which she had taken with a choked murmur of thanks, and proceeded to wipe her face with. "I know it's impertinent to ask, your Grace, but do you love the prince consort?"

 "Do I-" she had hesitated for only a moment. "Yes, yes I do. Perhaps not the way a wife should love her husband, but he was my mother's brother before we were wed and for that I shall always love him. Why do you ask?"

Rosamund had buried her face in her hands, muffling her voice somewhat. "Because I love Eleryn. He's so handsome and kind and wonderful, and it kills me every time he takes another woman to his bed. H-how do you endure it?"

Oh. Something cold had coalesced in her stomach, cooling the throbbing ache of her abused womb. She had hoped - but Eleryn had always been his father's son as much as he had been hers.
"I had to learn to live with it." She had said softly, as gently as she had been able to muster. "You cannot stop him, gods know I tried. We compromised in the end, I turned a blind eye to anyone else in his bed while he kept his affairs discrete and his hands away from my ladies. You must find your own way to live with it, I am afraid."

"But how? How can I live knowing that I will see every day the women for whom he dishonours me?" 

Rhaenys had pushed her aching body upright, imbuing all the conviction she had not felt into her voice. "Because you have no other option, Rosamund. He will not keep to your bed however hard you try so you must accept it, and work around it. Oberyn swore to me that he would father children only on me - and to ensure he keeps that oath I have borne him as many children as he wishes. You must accept that you will share his heart, his life and his bed with others, and then you must make sure that you are the foremost of those."

"First among equals." Rosamund had said bitterly. "Is this what the life of a queen will be?"

"It is the life of every woman, and one that we all must learn to live.'' Rhaenys had tried to be gentle. 

"It will kill me." Rosamund had choked out. "I know it."

"Then die." Rhaenys had snapped, in pain and exhausted, her patience drawing thin. "Die, and let yourself be reborn. Listen to me Rosamund - there is nothing you can do about it. You must learn to live with your husband, and the sooner you do so the happier you will be."

Her gooddaughter had flinched, drawing away from her and staring at her with wide eyes. For a long moment, there had been only silence in the room. The sounds of the city had drifted up through the window. Rhaenys had looked into the soft, limpid eyes, wondering what the girl was seeing in her own dark ones. 

At length, Rosamund had drawn in a breath - steady, unwavering, without a hint of the tremulous sobs that had wracked her body only a few moments before. "My father is loyal to my mother because he loves her with his whole heart. Eleryn is not loyal to me because I have only a fragment of his heart in my keeping. Why is the Prince Consort not loyal to you, your Grace?"

"You go too far." Rhaenys had said as coldly as she had been able to manage. Her hands had tightened into fists in the fine fabric of her sheets. 

Rosamund had tilted her head up defiantly. She had stood from the bed and made a curtsey to Rhaenys as graceful as she had ever been. "I see. Thank you for your time, Your Grace, I apologise for overstepping."

For a moment, the two women had simply stared at each other. The silence had stretched out longer and longer. 

Just as Rosamund's shoulders had drooped and she had turned to go, the cold lump in Rhaenys' throat had shrunk enough for her to speak. 

"Rosamund." Her gooddaughter had turned back around, eyes filled with a painfully naive hope. "I have known no other way to be loved. Perhaps that has made my path easier than yours. But you are my son's wife and will one day be queen - my door is always open to you."

Those large eyes had filled with a pity that had burned. "Thank you, Your Grace. I hope your recovery is swift." 

And then she had gone. 

Word had come a day later that Rhaella Targaryen had died in her sleep at Dragonstone. Jaehaera had written a postscript to the official message, promising to handle the funeral and anything else necessary. Rhaenys had not attended the funeral, but almost every other Targaryen had. 

Time had passed. Without being constantly weakened by birth and loss, Rhaenys had found herself full of energy. She had thrown herself into running the Seven Kingdoms as she had not had the time or the strength for many years. She had passed new laws and overseen petitions, and arranged new trade agreements with the Free Cities.

Oberyn had joked that he had found himself quite out of a job. He had amused himself with various whores and servants, and a few highborn women where it would not destabilise anything - but, as he had promised, there had been no bastards. He had made light of it, saying that fifteen children had been quite enough for any man, even one so greedy as he. 

Rosamund's second child had been born, a sweet girl named Loraela who had been betrothed to Lord Edric Dayne's son Arthur to recompense the Daynes for the loss of Aelora. Aemma had wed Ronnel Arryn and gone to live in the Eyrie. She had given him a daughter named Daella, and then a son named Artys in quick succession. 

Please don't worry about me, Mother, she had written, Ronnel worships the ground I walk on, and we are so very happy. The Eyrie is like a nest where we can hide away from the world with our little family. I have never been happier in my life. I know you have not always been happy in your own marriage, but please believe me when I say I think that I am living in a song. I only wish that the rest of our family could be as happy.

Two years later, Daenaera had finally wed Daeron, leaving King's Landing for the rock. Visenya had promised Rhaenys to love her niece as her own daughter, and to keep her safe. She had kept her word. Of course she had. Visenya had always kept her word. Daenaera's first son had been named Viserys for her, and Rhaenys had tried to only be glad that her daughter loved her sister so very well.

A year after that, Rosamund had given birth to a second son, Mors Targaryen, and before he had reached a year Naerys had gone North to marry Eddard Stark, the only child of Robb Stark's Western first wife. She had conceived on her wedding night and then lost the child, writing to Rhaenys in a frenzy of panic - would she be able to carry another child? What if she lost them all? Rhaenys had written back, soothing her, and advising her to wait as long as possible before trying for another, to give her womb a chance to rest and recover. 

Naerys had waited for two years, far longer than Rhaenys ever had, but she had born Eddard a strong son she had named Torrhen. Torrhen had been three when Naerys had given birth to a daughter, Lyanne, and declared herself through with childbirth. Somehow, Eddard had seemed satisfied with two children. Perhaps he had already had a mistress on the side and was fathering bastards off her. But Naerys had been happy and Rhaenys had left well alone. She had been able to find no sign of a mistress, so Eddard was either very discreet or stupidly loyal. 

In 332, Morgan and Aliandra had wed. Rhaenys had intended them for political matches, but she had already torn apart Eleryn and Aelora. She had not had the heart to seperate her children too, and thankfully she had made no contracts for them. They had been deliriously happy, and she had given them Summerhall as a wedding gift with Jaehaera's blessing. There at least, she felt she had done something right. 

Two years after their marriage, Meria had reached sixteen, and Rhaenys had planned one last wedding - in the future, Rosamund would be the mother of the royal bride or groom, and Rhaenys had determined to defer to her gooddaughter. But Rhaenys had been queen, mother of the bride and grandmother of the groom. She had planned Meria's wedding. 

It had all turned out so very splendidly with Meria and Rhaekar. They had grown up as inseperable as Eleryn and Aelora, as Morgan and Aliandra. They had been like twins from the moment Meria had been born. Rhaenys had known that they would love each other, and so had Eleryn, but Rosamund had had her doubts. Watching as the pair made their vows, Rhaenys had known that they had been right. 

As time had passed Oberyn had, at last, slowed down. Her uncle had been nearing forty when they had wed, and had been well past seventy when they had seen Meria wed. By the time Meria had fallen pregnant, he had not slept with Rhaenys or any other for nigh on a year. Most of his duties as Hand had been deputised to Eleryn, and he had begun to spend more and more time simply sitting by the fire in their rooms. 

He had suceeded in forcing himself to the sept for the marriage of their granddaughter Loraela and Vorian Dayne, a match Rhaenys had made in reparation for Aelora breaking her vows to become a septa. It had been a good match though, for Loraela had been fostered at Starfall and grown very fond of her betrothed. Rhaenys had not danced at the feast, sitting instead beside Oberyn and watching as her granddaughter had blithely danced with her new husband, without the fear that had accompanied the weddings of all her sisters. 

Her uncle had pushed himself too hard for Loraela's wedding. He had fallen ill at midyear, a cough settling in lungs which had no longer held the vigour that they had once boasted and had been bedridden when Meria had gone into confinement. Rhaenys had attended her youngest daughter, her heart breaking for Meria's pain as it had for every sister and daughter she had attended. 

Meria had borne twins, tiny and quiet and so very perfect that Rhaenys had wept when her grandson had placed his children in her arms. They had been named Maekar and Myriah, and for the first time in many years, both cradles in the nursery had been filled.

She had been seven and fifty when her husband had died three moons before his one and eightieth nameday. He had been slowly weakening for some time, sleeping under milk of the poppy, all of his strength and vigour stripped from him seemingly overnight. 

When she had been a silly child of five and ten, barely flowered, barely grown, the knowledge that her husband was more than twenty years her senior and would die well before her had seemed irrelevant and far off. At seven and fifty, ruling from his bedside as he withered away, it had been so very apparent. For the first time in years she had wished that she had wed another - someone who would not die so early, someone she could have kept with her for longer. 

It had been evening when it had happened. She had been trying to coax some broth into him, and the sunset had thrown golden light through the whole room. He had raised one trembling hand and pushed the bowl away, gently. "That's enough, Nys." He had said, his voice hoarse and cracked. "There's no need to waste it on me."

She had swallowed hard, her vision blurring. Suddenly she had felt so very young again. "Please, Oberyn. It will do you good, I know-"

"It is my time, little niece." One twisted, swollen hand had brought her own up to his mouth to kiss it. "Not even you can keep me here a moment longer than I have been appointed."

"No." She had clung to his hands. "No, it is only a summer fever. You will be well again in no time, just like every time before. The fever will break tomorrow, and you will laugh at yourself, I know you will." 

Her uncle had smiled, his fingers feebly squeezing about her own. "You have been queen too long, little niece, if you think you can command the Stranger away from me. I shall tell your mother you said hello."

For a moment she had only sat there, stunned. Her head had been shaking almost on its own accord. "No," she had whispered, "Uncle, I cannot do this alone. I need you."

He had pulled her to him, and she had gone, tucking herself under his arm and weeping into his shoulder as she had all those years ago when she had been five and ten and terrified. She had fallen asleep there, to the sound of his cracked voice humming 'In Mother Rhoyne's Cradle'.

When she had woken, the arm about her had been stiff and cold, and the soft wheezing whistle of his breathing had been gone. "No." She had felt very cold, and so painfully alone. She had been five and ten when they had wed, she had grown up around him. She needed him. "Uncle, wake up. Oberyn. Please." 

Nothing. "Oberyn, please, wake up, wake up, wake up!" He had remained still, his eyes closed, his heart still beneath her searching hands. 

"No!" What should she do? What could she do? What could she do without him? Her world had been formed around him for two and forty years, he had been the anchor of her life, the point around which all else had been oriented. She had loved him, not as a wife did, but he had been her uncle and the father of her children and she had...she did not know what her life was without him there. 

It had all blurred after that. Something in her chest, or maybe in her mind, had snapped.

She had heard it, the sharp cracking sound like ice in the winters. And all she had seen was flames and death, and a soul deep cold that the fire had not been able to reach.

At some point the Kingsguard had burst in. They had needed to pull her away from his body. She had clung to him, screaming for a Maester, for a septon, for anyone. 

She doesn't remember what had happened after that. From what Emelia told her, she had been half in a frenzy, refusing to believe that Oberyn was dead, threatening to execute the Maester who had informed her that he had died sometime in the night. And then Eleryn had stormed in, taken one look at the scene, and pulled her to him. She had gone silent all at once and then clung to her son weeping. 

She had wept for days. She remembers that. She hadn't known how she could live without him. Two and forty years of marriage. She had been five and ten, she had - she had been a child, she had become what he had wanted her to be and without him she had not known how to live. 

She remembers the funeral a little. She remembers the smoke. Sharp and bitter in the back of her throat. She had been so close to the pyre that she had half choked on the ash. 

After that, she remembers only a vague blur of nothingness. Her husband's death had utterly broken her. She had not known what life was without him anymore, he had been her Hand, her husband, the father of her children, and the one upon whom she had relied. The world had gone flat and grey and so very empty, like the sun had been stolen and replaced with an eternal grey night that stretched out with no end in sight. 

She had not spoken for a full moon, barely eaten or drank, barely slept. He had been everywhere in those rooms, in the Red Keep, in the faces of her children and grandchildren. It had been so hard to believe he was dead when he was still so very much there.

Her memories return some time later, on Dragonstone. At first, she had only wandered the halls aimlessly until Emelia or Tremna had found her and brought her back to bed. Then she had started to brush her hair. To come, ever so slowly back to life .

They had been so gentle with her in those first few moons. As if they had feared she would break again. Perhaps she would have. Aerys had broken again and again after Duskendale, broken so many times and so many ways that he had not even been a man anymore. Rhaegar had been born broken, or maybe killing her mother had done it.

She had finally understood them a little, after that. A little. Sometimes the world shattered around you and the only thing that could fix it was fire, to melt the shards back together into something that was nothing like the world that had once been.

Unlike Aerys and Rhaegar, she had pulled herself back together into something that could pass for what she once had been. Eleryn had taken the throne while she had been indisposed, Emelia had told her. He had been doing an excellent job. She had been sent to Dragonstone, where there were no more memories of Oberyn to cut herself on. 

She had thought of returning to King's Landing and sitting on the throne again, and everything in her had revolted. But it was her duty. She had set herself to recovering her mind and her body, steeling herself against the day she returned to the throne and had to rule again - without Oberyn. But she would do it. She had always managed whatever she had been set to. She had to. 

A moon after she had returned to some semblance of consciousness, Eleryn had visited her. He had, Visenya had told her, taken the throne during her illness in the absence of a Hand. She had forgotten to appoint a Hand, she hadn't wanted to appoint another one. It had been Oberyn. Only Oberyn. What other Hand could she ever have had?

Her son had arrived wearing the Conqueror's crown and a great cloak of Targaryen red. He had looked so very strong and healthy - so much like his father had at the same age.

"Mother!" He had said, throwing his arms wide in the same gesture of extravagant welcome he had so often greeted his father with. "We had heard you were improving, but you look marvellous." 

She had smiled and moved forward, had wrapped her arms about her son, had clung to him as something solid - something familiar in a world of shadows and grief. "It is good to see you, Eleryn. But where is Rosamund?"

"I left her to take care of King's Landing." Eleryn had shrugged carelessly. "The children wanted to see you, however."

He had gestured, and her grandchildren had come near. Loraela, draped in the lavender and white of her husband's house, had been the first to embrace her. Then Mors, who had kissed her briefly and correctly on the cheek before dropping back in the manner of growing boys.

And then Rhaekar, her first grandchild, and Meria, her last child. They had been carrying the twins rather than leaving them to the wet nurses she had glimpsed in the background. She had missed Maekar and Myriah's first steps, but they had still beamed up at her and gone gladly to her embrace. 

Finally, Aelora had drawn near to her. Her youngest sister had been practically glowing, her smile more genuine than it had been for a long time despite the septa's robes. "Hello Rhaenys." She had said calmly. 

Rhaenys had, for a wonderful, oblivious moment, been glad to see her sister. But she had not been a wife and mother for so long for nothing, to not notice the swell beneath her sister's heavy robes. "Aelora." She had whispered, horrified. "Lora, who-"

Her sister had pressed one hand to her belly, beaming. "I know, isn't it wonderful."

"Indeed." An arm had snaked it's way about Aelora's waist, a kiss pressed to her cheek. "Do forgive us for failing to inform you, Mother. I am sure you understand."

She had stared at the pair and felt the terrible cold return. "No." She had said.

Eleryn had looked at her as coolly as if she had started to rave again. "No?" He had jerked his head, and the room had emptied of all including her grandchildren.

"I will not let it stand." Rhaenys had managed, ignoring Aelora's face falling into a cold mask. "You made vows, both of you - Aelora you are a septa. Eleryn, you have a wife who has loved and honoured you for all these years, is this how you will repay her?"

Aelora had tossed her head. "Rosamund Tyrell may have her throne and her crown. I have Eleryn's heart, and there is nothing you can do about it. We had thought to name it for Father, but-"

"I am your queen," Rhaenys had said, holding her head high, "and your mother and sister. If I send Aelora to-"

Eleryn had smiled. It had not been a nice smile. It had been the smile that had been directed at her when she had been five and ten, listening to her own blood father threatening to rape her. "But you are not our queen. You signed your throne over to me, remember. You did it the moment you passed those injunctions about the insanity of kings. You forfeited the throne as soon as you lost your mind. To me. I am king, and you cannot stop me."

As soon as Eleryn had left, Rhaenys had started to get to work. She had been queen for thirty years, she would not let it end like this. She could not.

But she had no more children to marry off. All the lands and titles that were in her power to give out had been given. She could have bartered with herself, but she had only been one old widow well past her childbearing years. Besides, she had found herself reluctant to remarry.

She had wed Oberyn at only five and ten. Her whole life had been shaped by him, and she had only recently adjusted to her new life with Emelia as her support and anchor. She had not wanted to bring a new husband in to disrupt her quiet friendship with his demands and needs.

Her older methods of persuasion had been useless as well. Her pious manner was little use - with her husband dead, her closest male relative had been the son against whom she had been working. And any attempt to recall the dark siren of her youth had been laughable.

Powders and pigments had cracked and creased in the fine lines that had gathered around her eyes and mouth. The cascade of thick black curls she had once boasted had withered into fine silver waves, which had made her look more Targaryen than ever.

The only time she had donned her old silks had nearly made her burn them - she hd favoured them because they had flaunted full breasts and a lush figure and revealed miles of smooth bronzed skin. At seven and fifty her breasts had been sagging, her figure swollen beyond any proportion of beauty, and her skin pale and wrinkled.

She had returned to her rigid stays and heavy dark gowns after that - at the very least it had allowed her to look stern and impressive, rather than like an aged whore chasing after her glory days. 

Willas Tyrell had written back apologetic but firm - his daughter had been crowned queen, his grandson named heir, and he had refused to unseat his family from such a position of power.

Daeron Lannister had given his loyalty to his cousin over his aunt, had argued with his wife until they had near forced the Rock into civil war, had sent his mother to join his aunt and told both women to complain together and gossip as old widows did. Visenya had disembarked from her ship grinding her teeth so hard that she had nearly cracked one. "I raised that boy better than this." She had fumed. "How could he do this to me?"

Arianne, dear cousin Arianne who's gaze upon Oberyn had once driven Rhaenys into a jealous fury, had promised Rhaenys her personal support - but had warned her that Eleryn had held much of the popular opinion in Dorne. Most of her mother's homeland had believed her as mad as her son had claimed her to be. Rhaenys had nearly burned that letter as she had read it.

Dagmar Greyjoy had not bothered to do more than return her letter, with a scathing taunt written on the back that she had burned. Apparently even the Eyrie had not been enough to strip the taint from the Greyjoys. 

Robb Stark had made excuses about winter coming and the need for a strong king to lead Westeros through the cold years. As if she had not led Westeros through half a dozen winters with the same efficiency she had developed as a girl learning to run the court. Naerys had written her own letter promising to poison her goodfather if he dared to support her treasonous nephew, but Rhaenys had talked her down. The murder of a Lord Paramount would only turn the lords against her further.

The Riverlands had been fracturing even before she had written. The Tullys themselves had pledged their support, even the four sons Daenerys had born Edmure promising their loyalty to Rhaenys. But the Tullys had been near disregarded by the Riverlands in favour of the Blackwoods and Brackens. The Blackwoods had all pledged support to Eleryn for Aelora's sake, the Brackens had supported Rhaenys for Aelora's spite, and the rest of the Riverlands had split between them. The Tullys had been reduced to sitting in their castle trying to claw their kingdom back together. 

The Baratheons had all fallen in behind Eleryn, the cousin whom they had grown up following around and adoring. For the first time, Rhaenys had regretted encouraging the friendships between her children and the children her sisters had born. Only Rhaena had kept her loyalty, arguing with her husband and sons until they had locked her away to contemplate her allegiance and her role.

Even the Arryns - her sweet Aemma had written to Rhaenys pledging her loyalty to her queen and mother, horrified at her brother's actions, but Ronnel had been so close with Eleryn and had thrown his support behind him. Aemma had done her best, but she had been afraid of causing civil war in the Vale or losing the little bubble of happiness she had created.

Rhaenys had ruled Westeros for thirty years and what had it brought her? The lords had served her so faithfully that a single moment of grief after her husband's death (a husband she had been wed to at five and ten, a husband who had practically raised her, a husband whom she had relied upon so very much) had seen her deposed. Had seen them throw their loyalty to her treacherous son in a heartbeat. Yet, had she not mourned Oberyn she would have been decried as a faithless whore. 

She had pulled a map of the Free Cities to her, contemplating bringing in international allies. A mercenary army would irritate her lords, but she had felt that after their treachery she would have been well within her rights. The Golden Company, perhaps - Eleryn's use of the Targaryen name would hardly be popular with them. 

Yes, the Golden Company would do nicely. She had been halfway through her first draft of a letter comissioning them to take back her throne when Emelia had entered, shutting and locking the door behind her. 

"Your Grace."

"A moment, Emelia." She had said absently. "If I just-"

"Your Grace." Emelia had said, more firmly than she had said anything else "this will kill you, if you do not stop. Westeros named you queen once because you had only sisters. They will not name you queen over your own son. It is not the way of the world."

She had nearly thrown her inkwell at Emelia. Nearly. It had been in her hand. The red rage coursing through her. It was her throne, her crown, was she not within her rights to do whatever she could to get it back?

But she had paused, and put the inkwell back down. Decades of faithful service had not earned her faithful lady-in-waiting harsh words and thrown objects. "I know." The words had hurt. "It was only...what else am I to do, Emelia? I have only ever known court and court politics and the throne. I have lost Oberyn, and now my crown. I do not know how to do anything else. I have nothing."

"You have everything." Emelia had said, one hand wavering as if to reach out. "You have your life. You have wealth. You can do whatever you want now, without a husband or a crown to tie you down. And I will follow you wherever you go, whatever you choose."

Rhaenys had looked at her lady-in-waiting. Emelia had been there from the time she had been a new bride at five and ten. Had never returned to Sharp Point. Never married or become a mother. Two and forty years she had remained faithfully by Rhaenys' side, never wavering or doubting her. 

She had reached her hand out and taken Emelia's. "Thank you." She had said softly. 

Emelia had smiled back. "Always, your Grace."

"Rhaenys." She had taken in a shaky breath. "I am not a queen anymore. Just Rhaenys."

Emelia's smile had widened until it was dazzling. "Rhaenys, then." The syllables had fallen from her lips like sweet honey. "What are you going to do now, Rhaenys?"

Rhaenys had let go of Emelia's hand and walked over to the window. Beneath it, Dragonstone had stretched out, bleak and dreary, to the sea. Beyond the island, the sea had stretched out and out, all the way to the horizon. And beyond the horizon?

"Essos." She had said. "It has been thirty years, Emelia. I want to see my brother again."

The Princess Rhaenys and her last, most loyal ladies had vanished in the night. In the morning, the Dragonstone staff had found their beds empty and raised the alarm. 
No one had ever found the women again. Across the sea, in Braavos, a manse had received four more inhabitants - two Dornishwomen, a Crownlands woman and a Westerlands woman. 

Aegon had aged. Of course he had, it had been thirty years. His hair had been greying, with crows feet at the corners of his eyes and smile lines at the corners of his mouth. 

The manse he and Sansa had welcomed her into had been large but not palatial, decorated almost entirely in the style of Braavos. 

"Oh, sister." Her brother had breathed, opening his arms in the same way her son had. "What have they done to you?"

She had thrown herself into his arms and wept, as she had not since the night her husband had died. He had held her as if he had been the elder, rocked her to and fro, murmuring platitudes as Sansa had greeted Emelia. 

He had been thicker about the waist than last she had seen him, softer, but had still smelled the same as he always had. She had missed him so very much. 

She had wondered what he had thought of her, hair greying, fine lines on her face, her body softened and twisted and aged. The beautiful princess she had been when last they had seen each other had been long gone, replaced by a deposed queen with a body swollen and destroyed by childbirth. 

Sansa, who she had still remembered as the little girl the Starks had sent to court, had been taller than her or Aegon, her red hair greying and the finest of crows' feet at the corners of her still bright eyes. "Your Grace." She had said, and held out her hands. "Welcome to Braavos, sister." 

In their exile, Aegon and Sansa had only had one more child, a son. Neither Cor nor Helaena had seemed concerned that they were bastards or that, in another life, they could have been wed and sitting on the Iron Throne. Helaena had never married though she had taken lovers occasionally and had born two children. They had been doted upon as much as the children Cor's fisherwoman wife had born him. 

In the annual letter sent to the crown from the manse, the master of the house had sent his greetings to the new king and begged for the king to let his new dependents remain with him. King Eleryn had agreed. And Rhaenys had remained in Braavos.

Rosamund had persuaded Eleryn to send money for her support, somehow. Rhaenys had determined to one day ask her gooddaughter exactly how she had persuaded Eleryn to go against Aelora's desires. She never had, of course, but had wondered on occasion.

For the most part, she had washed her hands of Westeros entirely. Eleryn had never seen her again, nor had Aelora or Rosamund. But occasionally Rosamund had sent her children on diplomatic trips that had always left a day or two to visit some friends in a modest manse just outside the city.

Aemma and her children had boldly visited every year, responding to the king's threats with blithe reminders that the Vale had only been conquered by the wings of Vhagar.

Morgan and Aliandra had practically moved into the manse, and for the first time in years Rhaenys had been in possession of enough free time to truly take advantage of the proximity to her grandchildren - three little girls and a boy, so very much like her own childhood had been. She had spent hours with them every day, as she had not with even her own children, as she had not since Rhaena and Daena had been young.

Daena had taken to long voyages on her husband's ships, often staying with them in Braavos though her husband and daughters had rarely accompanied her. 

Rhaena had visited only once until Edric's death, and then had vanished in the night as well, to reappear in Braavos. Her sweet sister had been dutiful and brave, had ruled her husband's fractious lords and raised her children, but she had been a child of sunny King's Landing. She had despised the Stormlands for as long as she had lived there, and her relationship with her children had never been the same after they had thrown their lot in with Eleryn so wholeheartedly. There had been little to tie her to Westeros. 

Visenya's children and grandchildren had visited her often, save for Daeron. The one time he had attempted to visit Visenya had refused to speak to him. Jaehaera and Viserys had, apparently, spent more of their lives in Aegon's manse than they had anywhere else and that had not changed when Rhaenys had arrived. It had been wonderful, to spend time unlimited with her eldest siblings - the ones she had been closest to, and the ones whom life had placed the furthest away from King's Landing.

For the first time in her life, Rhaenys had been free to travel. She had spent her whole life in King's Landing, barring occasional visits to Dorne or her sisters' seats, and her newfound freedom had been a little intimidating.

At first she had only explored Braavos, seeing the docks and the temples and meeting her distant kinswoman the Black Pearl, but she had slowly grown bolder. She had not been a queen with duties and politics to tie her one terrible city anymore.

Aegon and Jaehaera had taken her to Lorath a year after her arrival. The mazes had been unlike anything she had ever dreamed of, towering far above the highest spires of the Red Keep and teeming with strange symbols. She had watched the Lorathi elect their princes, had seen the councillors parading in the streets. 

Jaehaera had taken her to the very edge of a steep cliff. When they had looked down, they had seen the rocks below teeming with seals barking and sunning themselves. They had thrown fish down, watching the seals fight over the mysterious food. 

Aegon had dragged her out onto a little fishing boat, tinier by far than the great yachts and ships that had carried her on the few occasions she had ever had to travel as princess or queen. A great whale had breached only a few lengths from them, showering them in salty spray. They had seen a great leviathan sleeping on the floor of the bay and glided silently over it, staring at its infinite bulk beneath them.

It had set a fire in her that she had never thought she would feel. King's Landing had been her world for her whole life, and she had thought that it was all she needed. But visiting Lorath had made her realise how very small her world had been. She had seen for the first time how little she had known of the wider world, locked in the savage struggles of Westeros.

Only a moon after they had returned from Lorath, she had received a letter from Merei who had returned to her family in Pentos in disgust after Eleryn had turned against her. Merei had invited her to visit, in memory of their old friendship. 

Friendship was not what Rhaenys would have called it, remembering that Merei had been one of the ladies to hide smiles as her half-sister had spat cruel words at her. But Merei had been an ally for many years after that. She had protected Daena for so long.

She had been warming Oberyn's bed at the same time - but Rhaenys had found that with more than a year having passed after his death, the thought had no longer hurt. Oberyn had never been faithful, but then she had never loved him and he had never loved her. Why would he have been faithful?

So she had written back to Merei accepting the invitation, and sailed to Pentos with only Emelia, a few guards and her nephew - Aegon's son, Cor Nymeros. Before she had been deposed, it would have been unimaginable for the queen of all Westeros to travel so simply. She had found it rather enjoyable. 

The initial meeting with Merei had been a little tense. Her husband's former paramour had been set up by her family in a modestly sized manse some distance outside the city. Merei had aged since the last time they had met, shortly after the birth of Baela and Laena. Her hair had whitened, her face had crumpled into wrinkles to match the hull of a walnut, and she had been walking with the aid of a cane. 

But her smile had been sweet, and her hands warm. Without the spectre of Oberyn between them, they had found conversation less stilted, less forced. They had wandered the markets of Pentos together, trying all the different foods from the stalls. They had watched the singers and mummers and tumblers, though whenever the performances had turned to Westeros they had left. Westeros was behind them all, and that was how they had kept it. 

When her visit had come to an end, they had parted as friends. Merei had died a year later, and left the few trinkets she had kept from her time with Oberyn to Rhaenys. Rhaenys had obediently burned them.

After that, she had gone travelling again. She had wanted to see everything that she had missed, cooped up in the court and clawing for her life like she was a trained animal in the fighting pits. Sometimes Aegon had gone with her, sometimes Jaehaera, sometimes Visenya, sometimes many of her siblings or none. Sometimes her siblings children or her own, sometimes their grandchildren. Sometimes it had been only her and Emelia, perhaps with Tremna accompanying them. But most often it had been her and Emelia, her dearest friend who had been with her for so very long. 

She had met Saera Targaryen's descendants in the pillowhouses of Lys, made state visits to the Old Blood of Volantis, watched the Unsullied of Astapor as they trained, sailed down the Rhoyne, visited long-dead Mellario's kin in Norvos, spoken with shadowbinders in Asshai, watched smoke rising from the ruins of Valyria and anything else she or her siblings could think of. Sometimes she had simply 

She had done everything that she had never dreamed of in the seven and fifty years she had spent trapped in the royal court of Westeros. It had been wonderful. Dangerous at times, when the seas had risen high, or the Dothraki had ridden out of their plains, or the shadowbinder had wanted king's blood for a ritual. But she had felt so very alive and free that the danger had been a price she had paid without a second thought.

Eventually, she had grown too old to travel. She had spent the last four years of her life in Aegon's manse, basking in the sun and listening to the children play. It had been calm, and quiet, and entirely unlike anything she had ever known. 

She had not needed to look over her shoulder or watch her words. She had not needed to test every morsel of food or drop of drink that passed her lips. She had not needed to sleep lightly with a knife under her pillow. 

She had only needed to sit in a chair on the balcony with a book or a piece of embroidery or a companion. A friend. A sister. Her brother. One of the many children who ran around the manse. They had listened to her stories with wide eyes, and then begged for more stories about dragons. She had always obliged. As princess and then queen she had not had the time to indulge the children she had loved so much. As an old woman she had had only time, and she had given it freely.

Rhaenys Martell dies at two and seventy, old and full of years. She dies in her sleep, quickly and peacefully, as Emelia holds her hand and sleeps at her side. 

For her, there is no more pain, neither sorrow nor crying - for all these things have passed away. She is mourned, burned on a pyre like a Targaryen, and given a place in the Martell crypt for the sake of her husband and her mother and her own desires.

For the sake of appearances, King Eleryn allows his wife to place an empty urn in the Targaryen crypts below the Sept of Baelor. 

It is placed above a plaque that reads 

Queen Rhaenys Martell of the House Targaryen

First of her Name