Chapter Text
For centuries, every year, faithful from Westeros and Essos gathered in the Riverlands for the thirteen days preceding the 5th full moon of the year. In the capital, King's Landing, there was also an equally grand procession: the Great Sept of Baelor overflowed with worshippers of all ages, genders, and ethnicities who brought fruitful flowers to lay at the feet of the enormous stone structure that stood in the square near Maegor’s Holdfast.
The statue at Harrenhal, twin to the one sculpted in fire-forged stone in the kingdom's capital, rose eighteen meters high, facing the lake of God’s Eye. The image depicted a woman, looking down – today, towards the worshippers with kindness; but years ago, with hatred and sorrow – while three children gazed heavenward in supplication, their hands clasped in prayer.
The stone woman's eyes were cold: according to legend, she knew what had been and what could be, so her gaze was not human but supernatural, a testament to the Gods' witness of human suffering. She wore what was once suitable attire for riding dragons. The children, however, maintained innocent faces, with tears carved into the eyes of the youngest girl and boy. The boy closest to the saint did not cry but instead smiled at the heavens – or, according to many, at his own mother.
During the thirteen days, the faithful prayed, danced, celebrated, and made promises and supplications to Saint Helaena Targaryen. They sought justice, transformation of hatred into strength, and the correct guidance of pain towards the evolution of the soul.
Jaehaera IV lit a cigarette on the balcony of her room in Harrenhal Castle. In modern times, Harrenhal had become a hotel dedicated to hosting devotees of Saint Helaena for the celebration of her name.
The ceremonies were guided by septons on the day when, according to the maesters, Helaena took on the purest form of fire. It was said that when the symphony of the end of the world approached its final note, Dreamfyre would harmonize sorrow into a beautiful requiem for what was, and a hymn of anticipation for what shall be.
Jaehaera found it all rather pathetic, although her sister Alicent was as devout as the relative of her namesake. Near the lake, there were candle lights of all sizes, with colourful flames flickering next to the statue whose face was illuminated by devotion.
Jaehaera hugged her knees, sitting on the window ledge, while taking another drag of her cigarette between her fingers.
"Jae?"
She turned her gaze to the door, where her father awaited.
Father and uncle, technically. If she delved deeper into the family tree that resembled a garland, perhaps he would be a cousin too.
That was the Targaryen tradition for so many years. Marriages within the family – once out of obligation, now out of curse, as if there were no other people in the world who understood the madness that ran in their blood. No one understood, unless they were also part of it.
The monarchy had long since lost power. They were now mere political objects with more symbolism than real significance. Parliament was the one who ran the kingdom, it's true, but Targaryen descendants of Hightower blood fed them more than civil peace. Their importance was unredeemable for those who believed.
For that, they still were tied to their roles.
Jaehaera IV was named after Saint Helaena’s daughter, a very distant relative. She was the fourth Jaehaera in the family; she was twenty and four years old. As far as she knew, she was actually closely related to Aemond Targaryen, which was why her family had inherited Harrenhal Castle. But what difference did it make in this family?
"Yes, father?" she said.
Her father, a handsome man in his forties, frowned upon seeing her seated by the window. Both shared the same silver hair of all Targaryens who came before and all who would come after.
She wondered if Aegon II also called his own Jaehaera as "Jae."
(He probably did. All this family ever does is run over the same paths, over and over again-)
"The ceremony will begin in ten minutes," he said before closing the door.
Jaehaera IV smoked again, gazing at the statue of her thirteenth great-grandmother, Helaena Targaryen, the Saint of Vengeance and Redemption, across the lake of God’s Eye.
She contemplated the colourful candles that illuminated the sculpted face and ran her fingers over the history book in her lap. The sound of religious hymns in High Valyrian was ominous and, at the same time, put her at ease. Mayhaps she really had dragon blood, as her family used to say. Mayhaps she, too, was going crazy like all the women in her family.
After flicking the cigarette butt out of the window, Jaehaera walked over to the mirror. Violet eyes and silver hair were now common in Westeros after a large immigration of families of Valyrian origin, especially from Lys. Still, her family was a religious token, her body used as an image for the saint's prayers.
Perhaps being named after Saint Helaena’s daughter was the reason her heart felt heavy these days. After all, the Jaehaeras in the family shared the same fate. It was only a matter of time for her, despite the psychiatrist’s opinion.
She adjusted her solemn green dress, looking at her own hands. Over her shoulder, in the reflection, the window was still open. A gentle breeze, much softer than usual for the typical cold of the season, rustled the thin curtains, lending them a ghostly appearance.
Legend said the souls reaped in Harrenhal remained there.
Jaehaera IV had no doubts, especially considering the speculation about her descent from Alys Rivers, although the books were very vague about the legacy of Saint Helaena's brother, Aemond.
Before leaving the room, she left the book on the nightstand:
The Dance of Dragons: The Flame over the Hightowers
From King Aegon Targaryen II’s reign to Sanctification of Queen Helaena Targaryen I.
That’s where her story began: centuries before her birth, when Helaena Targaryen I ran away from the room the ratcatchers decapitated her only firstborn son.