Chapter Text
The sole activity that brought Rhaenyra genuine happiness was riding on her dragon, Syrax. It was a pleasure she was determined to keep untainted by vexatious conversations about something she had come to despise.
Solely because of this, she found herself, for the umpteenth time, begrudgingly trapped in her father's chambers, clad in her pristine riding gear, her hair fastened in a tight braid, and black leather gloves gripped nervously in her hands, forced to endure yet another talk on the subject of marriage—her very own, to be exact.
"A reliable source informed me that both the Lannister twins, Jason and Tyland, are vying for your hand in marriage," her father, King Viserys, declared, managing a faint smile on his weary face. "Lord Jason gave you a gem-adorned brooch, didn't he? I seem to recall it being an emerald one, if memory serves me right. Let's not forget about Lord Tyrell's embroidered handkerchief, a rather warm and personal gift."
While her father carried on reciting the names and the associated gifts her various suitors were bestowing upon her (even after she had treated them with intentional rudeness—well, one must concede that the allure of a royal title could be compensation enough to put up with her ill-mannered behavior), her violet eyes landed on the ever-watchful, silent form of the King's Hand, Ser Otto.
He had been the one who suggested Rhaenyra as heir to the Iron Throne, wearing a broad, artificial smile and presenting a highly persuasive argument to back it up. However, the princess harbored no false beliefs that his support stemmed from anything other than a desire for personal advantage. The very idea of a woman being appointed as heir to the throne, a potential queen, had caused enough of an uproar. The proposition caused many to wrinkle their noses in disapproval; others felt repulsed by the mere suggestion. But at the end of the day, everyone concurred that a woman was unquestionably a more suitable option than the rogue prince Daemon Targaryen.
"Tell me, my child, do any of the suitors I just mentioned appeal to you? Has any of them, at the very least, stirred your curiosity?" Her father inquired, fixing his violet eyes on hers, a flicker of hope evident within them.
"Not really," was her reply. She watched her father's expression shift from a faint glimmer of hope to clear annoyance. She received another lecture on the importance of fulfilling her royal obligations as crown princess with the seriousness they warranted.
"One day, you will ascend the Iron Throne as my only successor, and with it, you will acquire both great power and significant obligations. It will be your duty to ensure that justice is served to those who have pledged oaths of allegiance to you. It will fall upon you to ensure the realm remains unified, peaceful, and prosperous. This includes defending it from external foes as well as from those deceitful allies who aim to harm the kingdom from within," her father declared solemnly. After a moment of silence, he added, "To achieve all of this, you will need to find someone who can share the weight of your great responsibilities, much like your mother did with me."
"Father, I give you my word that I will try." Rhaenyra had uttered those exact words so many times that she no longer kept track, and the weary look on her father's face suggested he was equally tired of hearing them. He was sick of hearing that same old line repeated whenever the topic of marriage was raised.
Thankfully, the insincere promise had brought the conversation to an end, leaving Rhaenyra free to pursue her own activities. Without hesitation, she had left for the Dragonpit, where her dragon, Syrax, had already been saddled and was waiting for her. In the aftermath of her mother Aemma's death in childbirth and the subsequent passing of her infant brother, who had died within a day of her, Rhaenyra had managed to find a small amount of solace only in her dragon.
"The infant was too weak, your grace" the maester had reported after the death.
The catastrophic occurrence had consequently left the realm without both a queen and a male successor.
Barely two days after the traditional burial of her mother and brother's ashes on Dragonstone, in accordance with their funeral traditions, a council had been summoned. The council members expressed their apprehension about the lack of a suitable successor should something happen to their king. One individual, whom some might call brave and others foolish, insinuated that the king's younger brother would have used the situation to his own advantage and would have tried to murder him. King Viserys had been enraged by that insinuation.
The lords expressed their open concern about the lack of a worthy successor upon the king's potential passing, but their true fear was that, by law, Daemon could have inherited the throne.
Therefore, Rhaenyra was declared the successor to the throne. It had been her father's decision—or, more accurately, that was the story he told himself.
Nonetheless, she remained certain that the whole situation had been a calculated plot orchestrated by Lord Otto. It was no coincidence that he chose to inform King Viserys immediately after the council meeting that his brother, Prince Daemon, had been caught feasting in a brothel with wine, prostitutes, and the camaraderie of his fellow golden cloaks. It was apparent that Otto took great satisfaction in informing the King that a drunken Daemon had mockingly proposed a toast to "the heir for a day." This knowledge had made her father livid; after a rather heated confrontation with his brother, the King had banished the rogue prince from the court and had confined him to the Vale with his wife.
Her father, the King, had announced to his daughter a week prior during supper the decision to take another wife—asserting with vigor that the choice had been made by him.
"While your mother will always have a special place in my heart, the Seven Kingdoms needs a queen," her father asserted while dining. "You, my dear child, will inherit the throne, no matter how many children my new wife bears, remaining my sole successor."
For this very reason, the kingdom had been embellished for a feast; a small tournament had been arranged, followed by numerous banquets and feasts. The king committed to dancing with the unmarried ladies, or at least made a valiant effort, enduring physical agony due to his physical vulnerability, and engaged in lengthy conversations while strolling through the bloom-filled gardens or castle halls. Among the various potential brides presented to the king was Laena Velaryon, the charming daughter of Princess Rhaenys, considered a favorite due solely to political purposes.
As for her father's true desires, there had been a conspicuous silence, and Rhaenyra had not been bold enough to pose the question.
"Nice feast," Alicent, her best friend and Otto Hightower's daughter, said nervously, her voice tight with tension as she continued to survey the surroundings. Nyra's gaze automatically landed on her friend's delicate hands, which were nervously picking at her cuticles—a clear sign that she felt anxious.
"What ails you, Ali?" Nyra asked gently, taking the red-haired girl's hands in her own. Her touch was meant to soothe, to stop the nervous picking and prevent further cuticle damage. "You can tell me anything; we're friends."
"I have something to confess, but promise me you will not get angry with me," Alicent pleaded, locking her brown eyes with Rhaenyra's. In her words, there was a silent plea for reassurance. Rhaenyra gave a single, firm nod. "I promise."
"There's this man who has captured my heart, if we're being honest, for a couple of years now, even if he doesn't know it yet," Alicent revealed, tightening her grasp on the princess's hands. Nyra was about to ask her friend why she expected anger over such a thing. If Alicent had finally found someone she loved, that was surely a cause for joy, not anger. "I don't know how to say this, but the man is... your cousin," Alicent finally managed to blurt out, her gaze shifting nervously to Rhaenyra's right. Nyra followed her line of sight to find the lovely presence of Laenor, conversing amiably with his sister Laena.
"Do you like-" Rhaenyra began, but Alicent quickly shushed her, a deep blush staining her cheeks. "Lower your voice, Nyra! Someone might hear. If he doesn't feel the same way, I will simply die of embarrassment."
"I hate to be the one to tell you this, but are you aware of his condition?" Rhaenyra had tried to ask. Laenor's preference for men was hardly a secret, a truth his parents worked tirelessly to bury, even when it was clear their attempts were in vain.
"I can deal with this, Nyra; it's really not that big of a deal," Alicent declared. "I was wondering if you might put in a good word for me," she asked, blushing deeply.
"Of course," Nyra affirmed. She would try regardless of the potential for failure. The plan was clear: introduce them, and then she would proceed to sing her friend's praises relentlessly.
"Let's go," Rhaenyra stated, pulling Alicent toward the spot where Laenor was engaged in conversation with his sister.
"Laenor, Laena, allow me to introduce my friend and lady-in-waiting, Alicent Hightower," Rhaenyra stated with confidence. Then she addressed her cousin Laenor with purpose, declaring, "You'll surely agree with me that she's quite the catch, won't you, cousin?" There was a clear challenge in her raised eyebrows. Laenor recoiled slightly at the declaration, but he quickly recovered his composure to nod in agreement and offered Alicent a compliment.
The topic of marriage came up again during the garden feast, with her father making a veiled suggestion that his daughter should temporarily relocate to Dragonstone, the ancestral seat of their house, which comes with the title of crown princess. There, she would have ample time to ponder her role as heir and would have plenty of time to entertain her potential suitors.
"That won't be necessary, Father," Rhaenyra insisted, attempting to mask her true feelings on the topic with a polite smile.
Then, raising his voice for all to hear, Otto posed the query: "Has the princess finally chosen a consort?" This prompted the more audacious lords and ladies to swivel around, leading them to relinquish any semblance of proper etiquette. Those who were less bold didn't turn around but still angled to eavesdrop, awaiting the princess's reply.
While her father looked at her genuinely, Otto Hightower's gaze was accompanied by an unpleasant smirk. Every gaze in the garden seemed locked on her, hungry for an answer, eagerly waiting for a misstep that would allow them to question both her character and whether she was fit to rule.
She felt paralyzed by fear, feeling her self-control slowly slipping away—a dangerous weakness that a princess could not permit herself. The bodice of her gown suddenly felt incredibly restrictive, as if it had magically shrunk, making her feel like she was being suffocated. Her hands started to shake uncontrollably, which she barely managed to conceal by clasping them behind her back, striving to convey an air of casualness. Then a sudden movement behind her father drew her eyes away from his face, and in that very moment, Rhaenyra Targaryen, feeling drained from the constant clashes with her kingly father about the topic of marriage and annoyed by Otto's poorly hidden belittlement -which was ultimately just a reflection of his opinion of the princess- discreetly expressing his certainty of her unfitness for leadership and made no secret of his desire to replace her. The power-hungry lords who sought her hand in marriage merely aiming to usurp her throne or to acquire access to the Targaryen dragons. This led her to make a pivotal decision, a choice that would ensure her salvation.
"Father," Rhaenyra began with a smile, then her eyes locked onto Ser Otto, who was still wearing that malicious grin, eagerly awaiting a misstep that would bring shame upon her in front of the court and those who had pledged their fealty. A mischievous glint appeared in Nyra's eyes as she watched Otto's smile disappear. He frowned deeply, clearly bewildered by the turn of events.
"My Lords, my Ladies, I have an announcement to make," Rhaenyra declared, retrieving two cups of wine from the nearest table. "It gives me great pleasure to announce that I have reached a decision regarding the selection of my future consort. I admit that it has been a difficult decision to make, and I remain grateful for every token and every attention presented to me over this time. The choice of my consort was dictated not by politics, but by my heart," Rhaenyra announced boldly. Then she began to walk with measured steps, approaching her target. She pushed one of the two cups of wine into his hands and, with a silent plea in her gaze, urged him to go along with her announcement. "I am honored to announce my betrothal to my dear cousin, Prince Jon Aenar Targaryen."
Silence reigned supreme as the garden guests took in the news that had just been hurled over their heads. Rhaenyra did not turn to observe her father's reaction, nor that of Ser Otto; she kept her eyes locked with Jon's, silently begging him to cooperate. Jon recovered swiftly from the initial shock, schooling his expression, assuming a polite smile, and raising his full cup in a toast, clinking it against the princess's. Around them, applause erupted (initiated by her uncle Daemon, who wore a distinctly satisfied grin), which was quickly followed by smiles, congratulations, and speculation. Rhaenyra, while being too busy upholding the wall of lies she had fabricated, missed the look of pure hatred Alicent, her friend, shot in her direction.