PRINCESS RHAENA TARGARYEN, SISTER OF THE KING643Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡm8ryRLtj1h
Every day just before sunrise, Rhaena took to the battlements of the Red Keep and felt the wind in her hair. Some days, the breeze was stagnant and humid; all days, the suffocating heat of the Blackwater sun fell on them as the sun rose up. Yet for as long as Rhaena remembered, the boys took to the sparring yards no matter the heat. This was her way of refusing the easy comforts of the feminine morning.
If truth be told, it began as lurking around the yard. As a young girl, it bothered her ceaselessly that her brothers and cousins had their way of anything they liked—their way of rough-housing, even, where noses and wrists were broken and sprained and it was called work, not play—and so she committed herself to waking earlier than they, every morning, and spying on their 'work' every morn. In her private time, she'd used the lessons Ser Lewys Lychester or Lothor Ryswell had taught them. She'd gotten good, in her own way. But she'd confined it to the moments of solitude; she'd been wary not to anger her father or alarm her mother, and so she'd always felt that she'd be outpaced by the boys. So she worked harder than them; fiercer, if not longer.
Now, these quiet mornings were her routine, and came as easily to her as the sun rose. In dusk and in dawn she worked, and she eased herself back into the day with a wander along the ramparts of the towering fortress looming above King's Landing. None in the royal wing woke as early as her, and so Rhaena enjoyed this little liberty, this simple significance.
The hardest part of her day was retreating from the open air down the steps and back into the palatial halls. Returning to her life as her father had planned it; returning to the adapted face, posture, and mannerism of her mother. She was nine and ten, now. Whether she liked it or no, the walls had closed closer in on her than ever before. It wouldn't be long now before she'd be forced to depart from the city, and learn her way through some other lord's castle. They'd tried to send her away already. It wouldn't be long now before the suffocating standards of the Red Keep seemed libertine to her in memory.
Lost in her thought, she'd wandered her way into the royal wing anew, and found herself walking blindly toward a familiar young girl of three and ten, a book as wide as her in her arms.
"Val," Rhaena called to her niece with a smile. "Good morning to you. You're up early."
The Crown Princess's eyes shone at Rhaena when she stopped, and she nodded. "The Sept is closed later today, so I went early," she said. "Did you see anything from up on the walls?"
"Of course," Rhaena nodded. "I saw a dragon."
Valaena's face contorted into a suspicious frown. "You did? Which one?"
"I can't be sure," Rhaena grinned. "It moved very quickly. But it made me think of you. Growing up so quickly. What are you carrying, there?"
Val looked at her book and back to Rhaena. "I have to read it for the Grandmaester. He says it's important. About politics, the realm, the restoration…" and then, Val's face turned again. "Hey, wait a moment. Was there really a dragon?"
Rhaena placed a gentle hand on Val's small shoulder. "If Ryben is having you read about the restoration, then perhaps we can find out in there," she glanced. "Come. I'll help you with your work, since you're up early."
The two moved ahead into the inner gardens, greeted by the sound of birdsong and chirp. They found a stone bench and opened the new copy; one hefty leather-bound face of the book rested on Val's lap, the other on Rhaena's. Rhaena traced an index across the line her niece pointed her toward.
"Mm, the Good Queen. How much do you already know about Daenerys, Val?"
Val hesitated, but gave a sure answer once she'd found the words. "She was my great-grandmother. She restored our house from ruin. She restored the Seven Kingdoms, which were fractured. And she… brought back the dragons, too."
"Very good. Ryben has not failed his king's daughter one bit, has he? But what happened to the Queen's favorite dragon?"
"Drogon," Val said with a dawning sense of uncertainty in her voice. "He… died. After she became Queen."
"Before," Rhaena corrected. "In the north."
"In the north. When she ended the Wildling Invasion."
Rhaena nodded. "Very good indeed. And the other two, what of them?"
"Viserion and Rhaegal, of course," Val said with a look that inferred Rhaena was silly for even asking. "Viserion is big and golden and grey; my father rides him. You know that."
"I heard you mention one of them, princess," Rhaena scolded with a smile.
"Rhaegal… died, in Rhaegar's Uprising, did he not?"
"No, he did not," Rhaena said, the weight of her simple answer burdening her voice. "He went missing. Aegon the Sixth's son, Rhaegar, sought to claim the throne…"
"After the Good Queen died," Val nodded confidently.
"Yes. After Daenerys died, her husband and co-ruler, Aegon the Sixth, took the throne alone. But his son—from an earlier marriage, before Daenerys reached Westeros, with Arianne Martell—was Rhaegar. And Rhaegar, like Robert Baratheon long ago, had decided to lay claim to the throne. And his son, Daeron, took Rhaegal."
"Daeron Targaryen?"
"Blackfyre," Rhaena said heavily. "Rhaegar had become deranged in his middle age. He swore that his father was no true Targaryen; that the king was a Blackfyre, though they were extinct. Anyway. Rhaegar took the name for his cause. Daeron with him, until he died."
"And then Rhaegal went missing?"
"Yes, little Val. She had seen the death of two riders in two years. After losing her mother, the queen, and being stolen by a traitor, men believe she returned to the lands whence she hatched."
"That's a long way from King's Landing," the Crown Princess said sadly with an air of disappointment.
Rhaena smiled, but felt as if she'd have preferred to frown. "You would claim Rhaegal?"
Val squinted as she pondered, and then shook her head. "No. I don't need a dragon. My father rides Viserion, the greatest there is. Besides, I will be queen one day, and the Mother protects good queens."
"Not only the gods will protect you," Rhaena said, squeezing her niece's delicate hand above the page. "You have the greatest warrior at your side, as well."
"Uncle Baelor?" she asked innocently.
"Pah! Baelor? Your aunt Rhaena has been beating him at swords since she was five, and him eight. Me, little princess."
Valaena smiled in silence for but a moment, before, again, her face twisted. "So there wasn't a dragon flying this morning?"
"Ah. You caught me," Rhaena confessed, lifting her hands in mock guilt. "Will you forgive me, princess?"
"The Maiden says to forgive," Val nodded. "As long as you promise. If Rhaegal comes back, you'll protect me."
Rhaena blinked as she closed the book, taking it into her hand. "Protect you from Rhaegal? Why would we need to…"
"If she's angry for what we did to Daeron Blackfyre," the princess continued, her voice sadly innocent. "You'll defend me."
Rhaena sat in brief bewilderment, but nodded resolutely. "Of course, Val. I'll protect you. Against Rhaegal, or anything else."
Later that day, as she sat in a courtroom angled not far from the vast throne-room receiving courtiers with disinterest, she'd found her mind returning to that conversation. To Rhaegal. Her eyes trailed over to the decorated, ornamented stained window panes that filtered in red-tinted sunlight. What if I had seen a dragon, this morning?
There was, she knew, another reason she'd taken to the habit of waking early. Mother, mother! she'd once cried in joy. "My egg. It's hot. Feel it!" … the resplendent thing, half a sibling to Rhaena, had found her in the crib. She'd grown up with it. She'd never come to terms with it… and then, one night as a young girl, she'd stirred in her sleep and felt the weight of a bad dream encompassed in flame. When she woke, she'd heard a noise. She'd stumbled over to the egg, black and golden in specks. She'd picked it up into her hands and felt the heat. She was so sure, then, that she would be like her father, like her brother; that she'd have something, something that was hers.
"My princess," a voice woke her. "Are you alright?"
"Fine, Anya," she stirred, rubbing her eyes.
"I am sure you heard it all, princess, but the Summerstorms have come to court. The Lady Saera Summerstorm is to make her arrival soon."
Rhaena glanced at her handmaiden, Anya Arryn—a friend before her service at court, they'd almost grown up together. Anya had her eyes of warning; Rhaena sat up in her seat, cupping a yawn.
"So be it," Rhaena said. "Let the Lady Summerstorm come. How many will she bring with her? How many courtesans?"
"We are told none," Anya said grimly. "She comes alone."
Rhaena blinked. "With the permission of her lord-father?"
Anya shrugged delicately. "The aide said nothing of her lord-father. Only the Lady Saera."
"She's bold," Rhaena grumbled. "She'll want more of my time, if she's alone."
"When did you last make mutual acquaintance, princess?"
"With Saera Summerstorm? Gods," she groaned. "Close to ten years. The tourney scandal at Summerhall."
Anya Arryn shook her head in grave poise. "To think I wasn't there. Such a tragic thing."
"Think I should mention it to Saera, Anya? How her brother crippled the heir of Harrenhal?" Rhaena grinned.
"Gods be good, Rhaena," Anya said. "She's a Summerstorm. She might try to kill you for it."
Rhaena thought on it for a moment, taking the threat seriously. "She won't," she decided. "She's come alone, ahead of her lord-father. She wants something."
Anya looked at Rhaena strangely. "What are you thinking, princess?"
It was half an hour after their warning that the girl had arrived. Her entry was strictly managed by the Red Keep staff, and she'd been escorted the whole way by the crimson guard of the royal line. Just as Anya had learned from the first royal aide, the Lady Summerstorm asked to see Princess Rhaena first. "We have not met since we were girls, and her father Jaehaerys the Third was king," she'd allegedly said. Rhaena was unconvinced by her sense of nostalgia.
Rhaena sat upright and awake, now. Something interesting was about to happen; unlike the boring hours full of courtiers, courtesans, and trifling noble gossip, this was worthy of her full attention. The courtroom was a well-lit gala with a dais, set for summons and meetings besides those with the king; it hadn't been as densely occupied an hour before as it was now, when the herald called in the arrival of a new lady at court.
"The lady Saera Summerstorm, daughter of Lord Orys Summerstorm of Summerhal, Warden of the Stormlands. The rider of the dragon Saelarr!"
Footsteps echoed through the silent—yet now noticeably crowded—room. The court looked on in quiet anticipation as the girl entered in ill stride. Her step was wide, fast, aggressive; her hair frazzled and entangled, and every bit as belligerently red as the Conningtons they inherited their ginger from. She wasn't dressed for court—she was hardly dressed at all. She'd been riding for hours before, and saw no need to dress as if to make it seem otherwise.
She stopped just before the dais where the princess sat and received courtiers. She stood, frozen, as the audience about her stood in suspense. All at once, she bowed deeply—jaggedly, and without the poise of a noblewoman, nor even a nobleman—and then rose again, her face flushed.
"Princess Rhaena. It is so good to see you, after so long." Her tone suggested otherwise.
"Saera Summerstorm," Rhaena nodded. She extended her hand over the chestnut oak table. Saera looked at it with a moment's pause, and then slowly drew herself nearer, taking it into her rough, calloused fingers, and kissing the jet-black ring bearing a gray emblem of House Targaryen. She's a year younger than I, Rhaena thought, and yet her hands feel like an old man's.
Saera withdrew a step or two back, and then stood awkwardly. It soon became clear that she was not in her element. Murmurings circulated throughout the audience—all indistinguishable, but it was as if the red-haired lady could distinguish them that her face began to scrunch up, and she froze in onset terror. Rhaena saw all of this, and did nothing; merely looking the girl of Summerhall up and down, perhaps momentarily reveling in the authority she felt from above.
"How…" Saera broke the silence, barely managing words, now. "… is your brother, the king?"
Rhaena smiled, but it was not necessarily her polite smile. "His Grace is well. He seems pleased your lord-father has answered his invitation. How far is he from King's Landing, my lady?"
"Two days," Saera answered quickly. "Perhaps three. He has business in the Kingswood, on the way."
Rhaena glanced over to Anya Arryn, and found her friend's face interesting. Anya had a variety of looks; to others, they were mysteries, if they were noticed at all. To Rhaena, after years of friendship, they had distinct meanings. And yet at this moment, Rhaena could not read her friend's face. She returned her stare to the Summerstorm girl.
"Well, I suppose we're all wondering, my lady, why it is that you've run so far ahead of your lord-father," Rhaena said. A voice or two in the hall murmured something that might've been agreement.
Saera's face, which had no right just then to manage to flush redder, indeed did flush redder. Her complexion approached the tint of her entangled hair. "My princess. It is… business. For your ears only, if you please."
"Have no fear, my lady; there is nothing you need to conceal from the court of the Red Keep," Rhaena promised. "My brother keeps only good men and women in his halls."
Saera paused, and then drew on in a stammer. "I wish for your aid, princess. To meet with the king, your brother. Your… support."
"Support in what? You could have come while he sat the throne," Rhaena said flippantly, though she did glance over at Anya Arryn again, casting a brief look of pride as her suspicion was confirmed. Saera came for something; she wouldn't have come at all, otherwise. The state of their two families prevented such things.
"I… wish to fight. At the tourney," she blurted. "As a rider. In the lists."
Rhaena blinked. She looked back at Anya Arryn, who looked as if she couldn't blink. She scanned the crowd of courtiers. There were two reactions she knew a crowd of worthless hangers-on from the low houses of the realm to make: animated gasps and other such noises, and the distinct noise of no noise whatever. The former was expressed when something acceptably bad was said by one at court; the latter, when something was so heinous it was unacceptable, and thus demanded no response, as if a pause were placed on the courtly game. The court was silent when Saera made her request.
"Well, I…"
Rhaena had mistakenly allowed herself to stammer, this time. She expected the Summerstorm would have come for something, but… this was absurd. Childish, even. When Rhaena was a little girl, she'd sometimes thought she'd have liked to be a member of the Kingsguard. This was like that—only Saera Summerstorm was a woman grown.
"I do not think it likely, if I am honest, Saera," Rhaena admitted without the weight or precision she'd carried with her earlier responses. "It would be… unprecedented, to say the least."
"Not entirely," Saera blurted again. "Women have fought in great tourneys many times. They only hide themselves, is all. This wouldn't be so different, I'd just… not pretend to be a man."
Rhaena contained the start of laughter, covering her lips. The court, unfortunately, noticed; chuckles and giggles rolled across the room like a noxious ripple.
"No," Rhaena answered then. "You do not have my support, Lady Summerstorm. Nor do I expect you to have my brother's approval."
"She does, though," a voice intercepted from beyond their attention. Prince Baelor had entered the hall, and stood just at the entrance. The crowd murmured with tiny, theatrical gasps of surprise.
"Brother," Rhaena said, pushing herself from her seat to a stand.
"Rhaena. Saera Summerstorm is as good a rider as any I've ever tilted," he began, walking nearer to the center of the hall. "And she is of Targaryen blood. A dragon-rider. The king would say she sits above those Andal traditions," he said.
"Traditions," Rhaena stammered. "A woman jousting in a royal tourney? It is not tradition. It is unheard of. It would be laughable. The court, you may have heard, just laughed. You sponsor her petition?"
Baelor nodded neutrally, now standing at Saera's side. The red-haired girl offered him an appreciative, but nevertheless still anxious, glance.
Rhaena shook her head, and looked to Anya Arryn. Anya looked back. That was enough.
"Brother," Rhaena began anew. "This is improper, and I am fatigued. Let us all have at this another time. In private, perhaps." She turned from her seat and began walking from the dais for a side-exit.
"Sister!" Baelor called, and leapt forward to follow her step. "What has hold of you? It's only a small petition. Tell her you'll give Aemon a good word."
"A good…" Rhaena muttered, now walking faster through the hallway. She wasn't quite sure why she was acting in this manner; why she had been caught so off guard. "Aemon will refuse, brother; if you don't see it, then Harrenhal must've taken your wits."
"Harrenhal took nothing from me," Baelor asserted then. "Aemon listens to you. My word only goes so far with him. Saera is good, sister, I assure you…"
Rhaena spun around, a wild look on her face, a frenzied feeling in her blood. She'd heard enough. "Are you in love with her, Baelor? Is that what this is? You've come to see your bedmate's wildest fantasy true, to pull a lever with the king-brother you abandoned?"
He stood there, stunned. Saera Summerstorm and Anya Arryn stood not so far behind, and behind them the whole throng of courtiers massed. Probably all of them heard.
Rhaena spun back around before she received an answer—the clueless look on his stupid face was plenty enough—and stormed down the hall. This time, he did not follow.
It was a baffling affair. In an instant, Rhaena had felt the reins of that room fly from her hand to another's. She felt the attention shift, the initiative loosen, and she'd felt the embarrassment flood in. Her brother might have waited until after—or better yet, come in before—but he chose that time, that place, before all those people, to ambush her. She had no thoughts, no words to express herself adequately; was it rage, humiliation? Was it a feeling of betrayal or… something closer to envy? It didn't matter. She knew her brother better than did Baelor; she, unlike him, stayed at the Red Keep, stayed with him all these years, saw him climb the throne after their father's death. She understood that he would refuse, and that for his misplaced support, Baelor would receive a tongue-lashing at best, and that damning silence at worst.
Girls did not joust in tourneys—what a silly proposal. The thought followed Rhaena through the rest of her day, even, that one could be so bold, so clueless, as to suggest it in the middle of a session of court, before the whole peerage. She'd decided that it was in line with the stupid girl she met at Summerhall, who seemed then little more than a rugrat sat beside her father. She'd decided she was probably as deranged as her brother Valarr was. It didn't matter; judging by Baelor's insistence, they'd make their proposal to His Grace soon enough anyway, and, fortunately, Rhaena would have no part in the embarrassment. Not to mention Lord Orys, who was then, what, days from arriving, a week out from the tourney? Rhaena consoled herself with the thought of Baelor, being lectured on tradition by their brother.
And yet Rhaena trained that evening, just before bed, and awoke just before dawn.
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