Chapter Text
She’s impulsive now.
Years of courtly training have taught her to hold her tongue, but she still struggles. She never had trouble before. She craves adrenaline, the way it fizzles under her skin. She likes the fear in people’s eyes a little too much. And she sees shadows on every corner.
She was never like this before.
That’s the worst part: the shadows. She knows she’s too paranoid. She knows it will drive her to madness. Those lingering eyes are normal. Another facet of being a princess. Privacy doesn’t exist.
She knows she’s losing her mind.
In her past life, she was a bookish, shy nerd who wouldn’t hurt a fly. But compassion was the first thing Westeros had stomped out of her. It scares her how desensitized she is to cruelty. Once, she had walked past a stableboy being whipped. She ignored it because it was just background noise. He was just a stableboy.
She tried to be a good person, she did. Why was it so hard? Where was that girl who couldn’t bear to harm a spider? Why was she so selfish?
At their core, humans are survivalists. She wasn’t just surviving; she was thriving.
A princess. A Targaryen. A dragon.
She had been so foolish.
—
He’s dead when she enters.
Waxy and pale, a ring of violent purple and black wrapped around his pretty neck. His eyes have been closed, his hands artfully arranged.
Five minutes.
For the first time in a long time, she picks up the hem of her dress and rushes. She mounts the bed and then mounts him, drawing up memories of fluorescent lights, a bored instructor, and a glittering pool. That had been for drowning victims, but CPR was CPR. She linked her fingers together, pressed her hands to his chest, and pushed. One, two, three. Under her hands, an audible cracking sound filled the room. She threw her entire body into it, pounds of fabric and jewelry making the bit of difference that might save a life. One, two, three. Steady. Fast. Hard.
She crawled upwards, legs wrapped around his chest, and leaned down. He smelled like blood and smoke. She pinched his nose, tilted his chin back, pressed their lips together, and breathed air into those starving lungs. It wasn’t a kiss, but she wondered what Ser Jaime outside would have thought anyway. She decided she didn’t care. She’d rather be ruined than raped to death.
She kept his heart beating and pushed air into his lungs, alternating between the two until sweat trickled down her pale, flawless, Valyrian skin, onto the linen sheets—no servant would waste silk on a dead body.
She continued until her lungs were heaving and her arms were shaking; Targaryen stubbornness at its finest. She might have an appearance of ice, but that made the fire within burn all the more hotter. She would continue until her muscles ached, but nothing more. She wasn’t going to break herself putting him back together. He wasn’t worth it.
Pentos must be beautiful, she thought. She had been a homebody in her past life but not in this one. In this, she craved everything. It was another difference. In her past life, she had hated anything “scary,” but there was nothing that scared her in this life. She might feel adrenaline, but she knows she will live. For how can she die, when she was so greatly favored she got a second chance?
Yet another difference.
Could she even call herself a reincarnation? When she had different morals, likes, family, judgment, and looks? Was she Rhaenys, with another’s memories stuffed in her head? Or was she twisted into becoming Rhaenys?
She didn’t like to think about it, so she didn’t. Running away from her problems was a trait her brother also shared. In her past life, she was deeply philosophical.
She gave one last push, before crawling up to his face. He was so pretty, she thought as she leaned down to breathe air into his lungs. But his eyelashes aren’t as long as mine. They’re close, though.
She caressed those stubbled checks, let her hands pat soft brown hair before her fingers froze. She had progressed to admiring a dead body. How far she had fallen.
After two more breaths, and just when her patience (stubbornness) started to wane, his heart responded. A tiny, sputtering beat. A thump. She felt a grin stretch and she gave her final, greatest, push. Then, his heart finally resumed. Weak, but there.
She felt the urge to laugh in triumph, but he still wasn’t breathing, so she did it for him until he was sputtering too.
He wasn’t dead, then. She felt better about touching his hair now. She reached up and did so, then. And then she laughed, high and bright and slightly maniacal. On earth, perhaps this wouldn’t be worth noting a feat. In Westeros, she was the first ever to revive the dead. If they knew, she thought wildly, they’d call me God.
And they’d be right. She survived death, knew the future’s path. Only the divine boast that, don’t they?
He sputters under her, and breathes. When he opens his eyes, he is greeted by her mad smile.
—
She was undoubtedly a Valyrian. Long, silky hair the color of summer snow, iridescent in the dim candlelight. Her nose was straight and long, her eyes ever so slightly angled, nearly cat-like, her cheekbones so sharp it had her cheeks look hollow in comparison. Her eyes were unnaturally dark, dark enough to be mistaken as black, dark enough to show no pupil, and big enough to be creepy. There was no softness in this woman. Every feature she bore was sharp enough to cut. She was taller than what was fashionable, with little bust, no hips, and long, muscled limbs. And a mad smile bearing too many teeth, stretching over that pretty face.
He wants to bare his own teeth in response, but he can only wince at the pain around his neck. It was nearly unimaginable to bear.
“Hello, darling.” The woman says, “You just died.” And the smile, if possible, grew.
“Wh—” Brandon rasped—and promptly pressed his lips together (they, strangely enough, tasted like mint), the word scratching his throat. He swallowed, fingers fluttering towards his throat. “Water,” he croaked.
She got up—and that was when Bradon realized she had mounted him, sat directing on his ribs. Perhaps that explained why they were aching almost as painfully as his throat. She hummed a foreign melody under her breath as she poked her head, and just that, outside.
“Ser Jaime, please ask a servant to fetch a glass of water,” she asked, and her voice sounded completely different—high, slow, and breathy. It wasn’t a surprise when the voice replied; “Of course Princess.”
A Targaryen then.
That changed things. His lips curled up in a snarl. Now that he was looking, he could pick out Rhaegar’s features in her—those indigo eyes, slim face, pouty lips. It was disconcerting, the feeling of hate that rotted in his heart, spreading across his body in a powerful wave, upon realizing that she was related to the man who kidnapped his sister. Instantly, any goodwill to this strange woman—this Targaryen—soured. He imagined ripping off her pretty head and presenting it to Rhaegar, just to watch the mad prince cry. A sister for a sister.
She returned, swaying what little hips she had. “Drink,” she instructed, taking his chin in her dainty fingers and tipping the cup. He was tempted to spit it back, just to spite her commanding tone (did Rhaegar use the same, when faced with his screaming, wild sister?), but the parch of his throat was too great. He gulped it down greedily.
“What happened?” he asked, resolving to hold his tongue until she replied. His mind was fuzzy. She held all the cards here and Brandon wasn’t about to risk the Targaryen madness. At least, not until he got his answers. Or lost his temper. Whatever came first.
The humming stopped. She fixed those dark eyes on him, suddenly solemn, and he couldn’t look away. Her eyes were dark hooks to the soul. She sat in stillness, as motionless as the marble statue the gods fashioned her after. Her lips parted, but the rest of her face didn’t move. It was rather uncanny; he fought back a shiver.
“I have arrived just, so I wasn’t here for most of the encounter. But rumors are already circulating. You came to my father and demanded my brother’s, his son’s, his heir’s, head. That was a foolish, greenboy move.”
Anger drove out the pain. In a quick move, he pulled himself upright, just to get in his face as he roared, “HOW DARE YOU?! My sister, daughter of a Lord Paramount, was kidnapped and is being violated as we speak! The King must punish her attacker!” He drew in a greater breath, wanting his words to strike. Wanting to make her hurt. “It figures,” he spit, “a Targaryen wouldn’t recognize kin or loyalty or honor. Have you ever loved? Can you dragons even experience it?”
Her eyes narrowed, but the rest of her expression remained unchanged. Bradon had heard Valyrians were hard to read and it seems the words rang true. “Careful,” she whispered. “Insult me one more time…” she tapped her finger against his cracked lower lip, digging her nail in just enough to hurt. Those words struck her, he realized in delight. Her reaction was just enough incentive to continue.
“No word in defense for your dear brother?” he said mockingly.
“No,” she replied. He liked the way the word sounded in her mouth, slightly twangy and clipped. He raised an eyebrow mockingly. “Why do you think I fought so hard to reject marriage?”
“...you’re Rhaenys,” he realized. “The Princess Who Almost Wasn't.”
Her lip curled, but he couldn’t tell if she was pleased or not with the nickname.
“Your father is dead.”
Brandon recoiled back, sending waves of fresh pain radiating over his body. His mouth worked uselessly, opening and closing. Finally, at her words, the memories slotted in place.
Lyanna’s kidnapping. His impulsive demand for Rhagar’s head. In retrospect, he was so stupid. Demanding Rhaegar’s head? What king would kill his heir for a northern savage? What father?
Lyanna. Poor Lyanna. Brandon closed his eyes, imagining her face twisted in pain. She was fighting, he knew it. Clawing and biting and kicking with all her strength. His wild sister. Rhaegar wanted his Wild Rose, he should be prepared to get pricked.
His father. Rickard Stark was as cold as the land he ruled over but with enough ambitions to rival any Southern. The shaking hands, strapping an iron collar to his neck, just out of reach from the key. Aerys’ high, mad laugh, as he strapped a Stark to a stake.
The pain. The way his lungs squeezed, his breath stuttered, his body screamed but he had to keep fighting, he had to get closer, please, no, not him! The way his lord father screamed and the King cackled as a Northern man burned alive. The way the smell and sound of burning, sizzling flesh made him feel faint. The cold iron bit his throat as he struggled closer, knowing—praying—he could save him. But he couldn’t. Agonized screams fell silent. Rickard Stark’s blackened, sizzling body as he was finally released from the flames. His father was finally freed from his torment. And the darkness that crept into his vision, shadows warped and exhaustion washed over him. His last, desperate, wheezing cry. The pain.
“I strangled myself. I died,” he said.
“Yes,” the princess replied. “As I said.”
Brandon gazed at her warily. “Are you some sort of witch or Targaryen blood sorcerer?” he asked.
The princess snorted—an inelegant, unladylike sound. He liked it. “No,” she said. “I beat your heart for you—” she reached out to tap his aching chest, sending a fresh wave of pain. “And breathed air for you when you could not.”
Brandon didn’t lose his wary glare, and the princess sighed once more. Her finger trailed up, to his lip, which she too taped. “I gave you a kiss of life and blew air into your mouth, and thus your lungs.”
“Kiss?!” he sputtered. He had kissed a Targaryen?! “You kissed me?”
“You’re rather slow, aren’t you,” Rhaenys observed. The desire to wring her little neck grew. “Don’t try to spread rumors about my virtue. The thought of us together is preposterous. You would be seen as mad.”
He couldn’t argue with that. Fire and ice were opposites, after all.
Still reeling from knowing he kissed the most beautiful woman he ever saw, and, more importantly, a Targaryen, Brandon sat up with a wheeze. His hands immediately cupped his side. Rhaeyns tilted her head in what he thought might have been a concern.
“Don’t worry, I don’t want to tell anyone a Targaryen threw themselves at me.”
Her expression darkened. He was starting to get used to her frozen features, so he could tell from the way her lips pressed together, eyes narrowed, and how her face, impossibly, grew sharper, that his words ticked her off. It was like piecing together a puzzle, every feature cataloged, added, and deduced.
“You have a fire in you,” she said. “More than my brother, even. Prince Rhaegar.” The sing-song way she said his name made Brandon know the comparison was intended to piss him off. It worked.
“Don’t compare me, Princess,” he spit, using all his strength to keep his voice level.
“Do you mean that to be an insult? I assure you, it was not.”
“My apologies, sweet,” he shot back. “Brat suits you much better.”
Rhaenys’ eyes narrowed into slits. She looked like she wanted to flay him alive and he was far too amused to care.
He kept poking at this newly discovered sore spot. The angrier she grew, the more expressive she became. She almost looked human. He mused; “Your father threw a fit like a child. Is that a Targaryen trait? Shall I call you little one?”
At that, her expression twitched. Just for a second, but with a hunter’s eye, Brandon caught it. The nickname was condescending, dishonorable, and patronizing. Brandon loved the way her eyes narrowed far too much to care.
Rhaenys took a deep, steadying breath. “I saved your life,” she said curtly. “But it’s obvious my presence insults you. Very well.” She got up to leave. Brandon couldn’t have that; he reached forward to grab her arm, holding her still. She couldn’t leave. Not when he still had a thousand questions tickling his throat. Not when snipping at her was the only reason he wasn’t grieving. Not when she was the only person who had shown him a lick of kindness in this god-forsaken hellhole.
Her lips quirked, amused. “No, no,” she said, and her voice held the ghost of laughter, “I won’t have you feel distressed as you recover. I leave you to your lonesome.” She smirked, and in that moment, she looked uncannily like the Mad King. She glided to the door—Targaryen’s even walked differently, or maybe it was just a Southern thing, and said; “Your revival is to be a secret just between us. If anyone else enters… well, play dead.”
Petty bitch.
—
She should have let him stay dead. Or killed him, which would be much more satisfying. She clenched and unclenched her hands, imagining it around his neck. Ser Jaimie, her loyal, handsome kingsguard, asked what was wrong. She replied simply that she was horrified.
She wasn’t. She hadn’t even been there; she had arrived after, too late for the elder Stark, too late to end the start of a war. She just needed to get him back to the North. Maybe that would save her.
Or maybe not.
Maybe he would completely rob her of her future knowledge. Brandon’s survival changed everything. Perhaps she had been too hasty in saving him.
A fire would do the trick. Or maybe an assassin.
He didn’t seem receptive to her seduction, which would just make everything easier. It was rather surprising, for from the rumors, he would fuck anyone with a pulse. And she was prettier than all the other women he bedded. Striking too, she saw how his eyes dilated when he touched his bottom lip. He probably never experienced a woman initiate before. Seduction was an odd business, something she would have never done before but here, she was just enough of an asshole to not care. She had learned from stable boys, watching their reactions to her dress flashing just so, her coy smirk. It was fun to play with them and watch them blush. Some even harbored dreams she liked them back.
Some grew too comfortable. Those were her favorites. The ones who thought they could order her around simply because she was a woman who had paid attention to them. She took much pleasure in proving them wrong.
Either way, Jaime looked sympathetic to her words. And angry. That was good. Aerys needed to die and she didn’t need Kinslayer and Kingslayer on her record. How was she supposed to find an old widow to marry her (preferably with children, because she was not going to die in childbirth, another nameless Targaryen woman) or, better yet, run away to Pentos.
She smiled, but it must have looked too sharp, for Ser Jaime flinched. She would have to work on that. It was never a problem before so it wouldn’t be a problem now, she would make sure of it. She has lost everything of herself. She would not lose her smile.
“Rhaenys,” a woman’s voice called.
She turned.
Oh.
This was a surprise.
Her mother usually avoided her, the daughter that had too much of her father’s features. One could barely find the queen out of her chambers, for she could never walk properly after her wifely “duties,” so Rhaenys wasn’t that bothered by the rejection. She had good memories of Rhaella’s gentle touch and soothing lullabies before puberty kicked in and she grew into her features. She held the memories close on days when paranoia overwhelmed her; when it felt too much.
“Mother,” she greeted.
Queen Rhaella hobbled closer on bruised, twisted legs. She was covered in fabric from head to toe, including gloves and a high collar. But not even the white powder she wore could cover the violent purple and yellow bruise decorating her cheek. That was unusual. Aerys didn’t usually mark her face. He liked to see it scrunched up in pain, and an injury could impair that. She knew, for he announced it to the entire court.
“Sweetheart,” Rhaella crooned. It was a sweet word, said it in her sweet, high voice, but the queen still flinched when her daughter leaned to place a kiss on her cheek.
Rhaenys leaned back, lips pressed together. Her fave settled in a blank, unamused one. It made her look eerily like her father, she knew, and she reveled in it. She took in how her mother flinched once more, more violently this time, and thought; served her right.
The queen steeled herself, straightening her shoulders. “Sweetheart. Rhaenys. I have many questions about today.”
“I will endeavor to answer,” she replied.
Rhaella nodded, absentmindedly tucking a hair behind her ear. “May we return to my chambers? Your father just paid me a… visit.”
Why had she come to see her daughter who looked so much like her monster? Any lady could have told her of today’s events. In a week, it would be all over the seven kingdoms.
“Of course. Shall we?”
They made small talk as the mother and daughter walked together. She wrapped her arm under her mother’s, to support her battered body. “Where is your husband?” Rhaella asked in a wheeze.
“Rhaegar? My brother?” she emphasized the word, for the gods were cruel. They gave her knowledge of inbreeding and then instant revulsion at the thought—and the Targaryen, incestuous, family. It was rape, no matter how society spun it, for she would never feel lust for her brother. “He’s at Dragonstone.”
And she would never bear his son, either. She had drank moon tea, smuggled inside by Ser Jaimie under the guise of her fear of her father killing the weak, helpless babe. The future-famed Kingslayer was remarkably easy to manipulate, just a teenager. It was adorable watching how mopey he got when he was forbidden to stop the King.
“He should come soon,” Rhaella said.
“He won’t,” she answered. “He runs away, you know this mother.”
Maybe she was trying to bait the woman who birthed her and loved Rhaegar more, or perhaps maybe the hatred for her royal father had spread to her royal brother. Either way, Rhaella stopped, lips pressed together. She looked remarkably strong in that moment, a dragon herself. “He is our only chance,” she spoke sharply. “I will not have my own daughter insult him.”
“Of course, Mother.” She sent the elder Targaryen a mocking smile. Rhaella was blinded by hope and love. Her brother was just as mad as Aerys, just in a different way, the way men get when they’ve been alone for too long. He preferred to ignore problems if they didn’t suit him. He liked taking credit but not actually making the effort. He agonized over all decisions, sometimes for years. He couldn’t ever be happy; there was always something, from their father to their breakfast, he was sulking over. The only hobbies he ever stuck with were mandated. He was obsessed with prophecies, finding a magical fix so he didn’t have to. And he truly thought the gods had chosen him, that the world revolved around him.
She wondered what he would feel like, if he knew it was her they favored, it was her this world was shaped around.
Either way, her brother would be a horrible King. Perhaps even more horrible than Aerys, for at least, decades ago, he had once been a fair ruler. She wondered why Rhaella never tried to comfort her on the marriage. Surely, she had felt the same pain and helplessness at being faced in a union that only faced misery? Surely she was not so naive to think the son didn’t take after his father?
(She stopped that before it started. Just to warn him, she purposely hurt herself, biting and scratching her own body while he stood over her, begging for her to stop, frantic at her sudden penchant for masochism. Her screams had covered his voice, so when the Kingsguard burst in, all they saw was their golden prince standing over his bleeding, screaming wife who had held her bloody hands out in defense. They couldn’t do anything—useless lot, as the male always took precedence, but she saw the long looks they shot him. Afterward, when the measter had treated her, she smiled, “A warning,” she cooed. She reached out and stroked her baby brother’s cheek. He unconsciously leaned into her palm. “I’m sorry. It was just so you never try to harm me like father does mother.”
Rhaegar never dared to lay a hand on her.)
Rhaella wrung her croaked fingers together. They had been broken by Aerys, who had forbidden the measter to allow her to heal correctly. All to take away embroidery, one of Rhaella’s last joys.
She doesn’t love her mother as much as a daughter ought, but she still feels a spike of hatred.
Pershapes Rhaella can feel it, or perhaps her mask slips, but the queen flinched. It was a quick, aborted move and if she wasn’t standing right by her, she would have never noticed it. Either way, a series of quick tremors danced their way down the queen’s spine. “Daughter,” she rasped; a dismissal and an apology.
She could force her mother to bow her head and walk away. She could plant her feet and drive her mother off with her tail between her legs with nothing but a sharp smile. But she had no interest in taunting a tortured soul. She leaves.
It is time to talk to her father.