Chapter Text
113 AC
The scenery of the Kingswood is as stunning as it has always been. Since she was but a child, Rhaenyra has enjoyed the greenery of the place, and often it had been enough to put her in a good mood. But unfortunately, the circumstances of her current situation prevent it from having such an effect. She would prefer flying over the forest with her beloved Syrax rather than to be stuck here among peacocking nobles and blushing ladies. No matter what anyone does—her loyal maids even try to appeal to her with her favorite lemon candy and a bath scented with her favorite oils—but her discontent is far from being dispelled.
The Crown Princess is displeased for many a reason. For one, this level of fanfare: it is utterly unnecessary for the king’s second born—the title only rightful if one ignores the countless babes Queen Aemma birthed, barely living a few hours or not—especially considering the certainty of him not even remembering the celebrations, but also because of the incessant parading of suitors her father has thought it fit to subject her to.
Even more insulting and maddening is the fact that before coming to her, they all go to her father. Probably to barter some wealth, lands, or ships in exchange for her hand in marriage.
She is to be Queen, first of her name, the first of all Westeros. The only other woman to ever come as close as her to the throne was Visenya, rejected as Queen because of Aegon’s desire to appease the sheep of this continent, despite her ruling more than he ever did. The Conqueror conquered, but Visenya ruled, especially after her sister Rhaenys’ demise. In his desire to rule, he forgot that dragons do not care about the presence of a cock or lack thereof, but only about Fire and Blood. Visenya was the blood of the dragon, as much as Aegon the Conqueror and as much as herself. Rhaenyra’s mother might have been part Arryn, but in her veins the fire runs true.
This child, however, is half tower and half dragon—and if his mother’s plans prove successful, he will grow to be more the former than anything else. And yet, he is being celebrated as if a new age is to be brought by his growth. Her father has yet to change the succession, she still remains heir, but she knows many, many lords would prefer a child barely out of infancy over a girl of sixteen namedays and almost ten sunturns of lessons on how to rule and present herself to court.
It irks her endlessly how adored he is. Because while she is adored because of her beauty—a fact that, with her undeniable vanity, never displeases her—he is revered simply because he was born a male. There is also no shortage of compliments to his lady mother, the new Queen. They compare her to her own lady mother, praising her for succeeding when Aemma had failed. She wants to cut out the tongue of all those who speak such insults about her mother and praises for Queen Alicent.
The title tastes sour in Rhaenyra’s mind, the betrayal of the one she considered to be her friend still fresh in her mind. The betrayal of her father, too. Barely six months had passed before her kingly father remarried and put a babe in his newest broodmare.
No matter how much pressure the council could have applied, the mourning period required the king to wait at least ten moons before even considering courting someone. Instead look what happened. This stinks of Hightower’s machinations so much even the Fourteen of Old Valyria can smell it. But not her father.
No, her father is happy to have his so long coveted son. No matter that his wife—the one he claimed to love above all else—was dead because of those wishes, no matter that his daughter is now alone, that his brother is once again in exile. Something she’s sure is the product of the Hand’s doing as well. How can’t her father see that, despite it is him physically wearing the crown, in truth it’s that damned Otto ruling for him? He has reduced himself to naught but a puppet king, or as close to one as he can get.
He is even happier at the thought of having more children. His new wife is proving to be quite good at fulfilling her role, Rhaenyra will give her that at least, getting with child almost immediately after the wedding, and now pregnant once again. The Queen struts about the camp, smiling at nobles and chatting with emerald-clad figures, her dress draping around her midsection to accentuate the shape of her rounded belly. She even had the audacity to announce this second pregnancy during the feast for Rhaenyra’s sixteenth nameday. She wouldn’t put it past Alicent to plan the pregnancy so that she’d manage to give birth a few months before her seventeenth nameday and present the newest brat to the feast, once again ruining her celebrations, this time with a wailing child. Gods be willing, the child would be a girl and she won’t be as smug as she was with the birth of Aegon. A distant thought in Rhaenyra’s mind whispers that it would be nice to have a sister, but she immediately silences it.
“My Princess” a voice slithers itself between her thoughts, bringing her back to reality.
She turns, bending her neck to look down at the sitting form of Larys Strong, second son of Lyonel Strong, the Master of Laws and Lord of Harrenhal.
Hunched and a cripple, he oft sits with the ladies of the court, observing his surroundings with keen eyes. Those very same eyes are now fixed on her, dark and cunning.
“Forgive my bluntness, but you don’t seem particularly content, Your Highness. Is there something I can do to help?” he asks her, smiling faintly. Rhaenyra has to suppress a shiver. His smile has always rankled her, even as a small child.
“Indeed, I am not. Unfortunately, changing the circumstances of my unhappiness is beyond your control and, sadly, even mine. But I thank you for your consideration, Larys.”
He bows his head, a smile still on his face. “I shall always be at your service, Princess.” No more words are spoken between them because, as soon as the silence settles, Ser Harwin Strong— his half-brother, Commander of the City Watch, successor of her uncle—joins the two of them.
“Your Grace” he bows, “A fine day for a hunt, is it not?”
“Yes, Ser Harwin” she answers, smoothening the leather of her tunic, toying with an idea in her mind. She’s sure her father won’t appreciate her plan, but she’s not in the mood of caring about it. “Do you have any idea about when the hunt will start? My kingly father seems to have forgotten to tell me, in his haste to present me with more suitors” she says, unable to mask the twinge of bitterness that shines through her words.
Both Harwin and Larys smile, one more sincere than the other, understanding but not commenting on her plight. “His Grace should mount his horse soon, that’s when the hunt shall begin.”
“If it is as such, I need to make haste and prepare my own mount then” she informs them, turning away from the two men.
“Princess, forgive me, but I don’t think the Lord Hand meant for you to join the hunt” Larys interjects before she can move further than two steps away.
She stills, fire burning in her eyes. “Are you presuming to tell me what I can and cannot do, Larys? Am I to follow the orders of others? Me, the Crown Princess?” she hisses. She is sick and tired of men, of her father demanding a marriage, of her uncle missing, of her brother’s celebrations. She is tired and if that sentiment translates into anger, then so be it.
Ser Harwin is quick to step in, “Of course not Your Highness, I’m sure my brother was just echoing the thoughts many others will have if they see you riding along with us during the hunt. No disrespect was meant.”
Rhaenyra eyes Ser Harwin, so different from his half-brother. He is certainly attractive: broad shoulders, lovely brown curls, and even darker eyes. They call him Breakbones, the strongest man in the Seven Kingdoms, and she has no trouble believing suck a moniker to be true. His arms are almost as thick as her own waist. Another fact that endeared him to her is that he has yet to hint at anything regarding marriage. After all, he is a possible suitor himself.
She clicks her tongue, eyes dancing between the two brothers. “Of course, he didn’t. But given his worry, it feels proper to inform you that you would be wrong to presume I will be riding with the rest of the party.”
She leaves them after that, their gaping faces staring at her back. She walks between the tents with new purpose, the sea of nobles parting in front of her so she can reach her destination. She caresses her horse’s side, before signaling to the young men assigned to care for the mounts. She asks the stable boys to ready her mare for the hunt, saddling her and strapping some weapons to the saddle, and they immediately spring into action, not questioning her orders.
A few noble ladies give her strange looks, but she is used to ignoring the opinions of lesser people. She keeps her back straight and her eyes hard as she strides back to her own tent. She finds her maids tidying her quarters but as she enters, they drop what they are doing and bow low. She wastes no time with her words. “Please braid my hair so they won’t hinder me as I ride in the woods” she orders, not unkindly.
Two of her maids come to her while the others resume their work. In a matter of minutes her silver mane is braided tight over her head, similarly to a crown, and out of her face. “Do you like it, my Princess?” Elinda inquires, her smile timid but sincere. Rhaenyra answers with one of her own. “Immensely. Thank you very much. A job well done, as is always the case with you.”
Elinda Massey, a woman of three and twenty, a legitimized bastard of House Massey, holds a special place in the princess’ heart, being the maid that has been with her for most of her life. After all, the septa that took care of her was the same that cared for Alicent—her father thought it a wondrous thing that his daughter and the Hand’s shared the same septa, a way of bonding even closer he called it—and therefore in the service of House Hightower. She entered Alicent’s household after her marriage and now cares for that brat Aegon. Although, judging by the nearly constant screams the child produces at nearly every waking hour, she isn’t doing a very good job, nor are the other two septas assigned to the young prince. She mentally scoffs, able to express her emotions freely in the privacy of her mind. Three septas for one boy. How utterly ridiculous.
“Is something wrong, Your Highness?” another maid asks. If her memory doesn’t fail her, her name is Agatha.
“Nothing that can be done, I’m afraid. The parade of suitors is tiring but sadly necessary, at the least according to my father.”
“Would you like for us to prepare a bath for when you return from the hunt, Princess? It would also give you an excuse to stay away from other people for a while, if you so desire” Elinda asks, a knowing glint in her eyes.
“You know me well, Elinda. Yes, I’d appreciate it.” Rhaenyra laughs, followed by timid chuckles from her maids. Their mirth is interrupted by the sound of the trumpets, signaling the beginning of the hunt. She rises from her seat, grabbing the black cloak she has stolen from her uncle’s wardrobe to cover herself.
“Then it will be done. I hope your hunt is to be fruitful, my Princess. We shall await anxiously to see your surely impressive prey” Elinda bows, Agatha and the other two maids following her cue and wishing her luck as well.
With a smile, Rhaenyra exits the tent, going straight to her horse. The stableboys meet her as she is about to mount and detail the various weapons strapped to her saddle. She makes a point of remembering their names and thanks them for their service before mounting her white mare and galloping in the forest a mere few minutes after the rest of the party. She doesn’t miss the disbelieving whispers her departure spark.
True to her words to the Strong brothers, she doesn’t ride in the same direction of the other lords, but instead takes a more hidden route that she was only able to spot while flying with her Syrax. She has to circumvent a few fallen branches and must be careful while passing over slippery and mossy rocks, but her horse is more than capable, and they manage well.
Despite Elinda’s words and wishes, her catches are but small hares and a couple of wild birds—she silently sends a thanks to the Gods that she managed to convince her uncle to teach her how to use a bow as a child—and just as the sun begins to descend from its place high in the sky, she gets bored and decides to stop for a while to stretch her cramped legs and allow her mare some rest.
She guides her mount towards a stream they had passed earlier and ties her to a thick branch before placing her cloak on the ground and laying down on it. She closes her eyes, immersing herself in the calm and soothing sounds of the forest around her. She always feels the most at peace atop Syrax, breathing the fresh air of the skies and feeling the dampness of the clouds they dance around, but she must admit this is nearly as soothing. Certainly better than the chatter and frenzy of court.
Rhaenyra does so enjoy the adoring gazes of the smallfolk, the privileges, the compliments that hide the deep envy of the nobility, she really does, but even a dragon needs a safe place to rest. Her uncle would often take her riding when she was still too young to mount her own dragon, to take her away from the bores and sheep and fools of the court he used to say, and after she was able to take to the skies on her own their trips had doubled.
She used to ride her girl nearly every day, despite Daemon’s exile—something she was still particularly salty about—but lately her father has demanded her presence at court more often, limiting her trips to once or twice a week in the last moon.
Rhaenyra is so relaxed—for once having evaded both the nobles at court and the Kingsguard assigned to her for the day, Ser Criston Cole if she recalls correctly—that it takes her a few moments to hear the thumping sounds that seem to swiftly come closer to her place on the ground.
The Princess barely has time to spring on her feet before a boar bursts out of the foliage of the surrounding bushes and runs over the place she had just been laying on, dirtying the cloak with soil and leaves. She runs to her mare, who is now agitated aplenty, and rips arrows and bow out of their place on the saddle.
She curses her trembling hands as they prevent her from taking proper aim, but she doesn’t have time to steady herself before the boar is back on its assault, rounding back and charging at her with a savage squeal. She lets loose the arrow, but her aim is not true for the arrow lodges itself in the side of the boar, but only deep enough to slow its charge and not stopping it completely.
She doesn’t have time to move out of the way and the boar knocks her on her arse, and the only luck she apparently has left makes it so that she is still able to extract the dagger she has hidden in her boot. The boar is atop her chest, one of its legs digging in her lower stomach, making her short of breath. She cannot even hear her own thoughts over the squealing of the boar when her trusty mare knocks the boar away from her with a well-placed kick, sending it a few paces away from her and allowing the princess to regain her footing. Not giving the beast any time to recover, despite it being weak both from the arrow and the blow, Rhaenyra launches herself at it with a sharp cry, raising the dagger far above her head and bringing it down on its neck over and over again, splattering her face and with its blood until it wheezes its last breath.
She collapses beside the carcass, breathing heavily and wiping the blood from her eyes. She gingerly palms her abdomen where she’s sure there will be sizable bruises by the end of the day—even now every breath she takes hurts—and pushes away from her face the few strands of silver hair that managed to escape the coils of her braid. Her maids will have a fit at seeing her like this.
As she regains her bearings, she slowly gets on her feet, patting and thanking her mare, and then sets to figure out how in the seven hells she’s supposed to carry a boar all the way back to the royal camp. Before soon, however, her musings are interrupted by another set of animal feet, this time lighter and slower. Still, Rhaenyra is not willing to risk her safety any further and she quickly prepares her bow, this time with thankfully steadier hands.
However, what she sees shocks her into dropping her weapon.
The White Stag, proud and beautiful, struts in front of her, stopping at the other side of the stream and staring at her with dark, intelligent eyes. She is speechless. She doesn’t know what to do, but she can’t help but be filled with immense pride at being the one chosen by the stag. She is blessed, her rule will be true and rightful, or so the superstition around this magnificent beast says.
The stag croons lowly, bringing her back to the present, and takes a step forward, placing its hooves in the water. The stag seems to nod at Rhaenyra, beckoning her to come closer. So she does.
She takes off her boots and socks, rolling her trousers a bit so they don’t get wet, and steps into the freezing waters. Not matter the season, she has always found the waters of the Kingswood cold. She is close enough to touch the stag, but she doesn’t dare, afraid to scare the creature into fleeing.
The stag croons again, and then it does the most wondrous thing: it bows. It bows to her, Crown Princess Rhaenyra of House Targaryen. Such a thing as a White Stag bowing to someone was unheard of, but maybe that was reserved for those of the blood of the dragon, as much mythical and grandiose as the creature in front of her. Her breath catches in her throat, and suddenly all her injuries are forgotten, the aching pains supplanted by wonder and pride. The stag nuzzles her with its nose, and she relents and pets its silver skin, so much like her own hair.
She almost feels bad killing such a wondrous creature, but that is what she must do. The intelligent glint in the creature’s eyes tells her it’s aware of this too and does not begrudge her. After a few more reverent pets, she retreats to her side of the river, only barely surprised by the stag following her. It places itself beside the boar carcass, but before she’s even able to retrieve her bow—wanting to give the stag as much of a painless death as possible—another croon stops her. The stag nods to her cloak, still dirty and battered, then to a couple of thick branches and it occurs to her that she may be able to create some sort of carrier with which to carry it back to camp. She just might leave the boar here. Who would care for a boar when they have the great White Stag as prey?
She nods her thanks to the creature, sure it understands her, before picking up bow and arrow. The stag lays down on the ground, never taking its eyes away from her. Rhaenyra is amazed at the intelligence in its eyes, and she bows once again, her action once again returned by the stag. “Thank you for this honor, great one” she whispers and then lets loose the arrow.
The White Stag dies soundlessly and without pain, or so she hopes, for the arrow struck true in its heart. She is speechless. She stares at the silver carcass for so long her eyes start to water. She feels bad for killing such a grandiose creature, but she knows she had to. This will only further back up her claim to the throne. The stag is surely a gift from her beloved Gods, and she will not squander it.
The sun has just begun to set, time passing awfully fast, when Rhaenyra is done building the carrier for the stag. She’ll have to march slower and off her horse as to not strain her too much, but she thinks she might be able to carry back the boar as well. The procession must have already returned to the camp, her father not willing to separate himself from his beloved son for too long, and, despite the displeasure she feels for his continuous insistence at having her wed and bred before soon, she doesn’t want to make him worry too much. She did go out without her guard after all.
True to her predictions, the boar is safely placed beside the stag on the carrier, the cloak straining a bit under the combined weight of the two carcasses. The bloodied dagger she used to kill the boar has been cleaned of the blood, but the arrow that killed the stag is still embedded in its chest—she knows the arrow itself will be a testament that she was the one who killed it, clearing any doubt that surely envious tongues will start spreading. The arrows had been a gift from her uncle for the thirteenth nameday, customized to be smaller than normal and with a red, black, and golden tail. The colors of House Targaryen and her beautiful girl Syrax.
The walk back is as slow as predicted, and her mare is panting by the time they exited the woods—she’d make sure she’ll get some more treats from the stableboys—but the gapes on every noble’s face are more than worth it.
It’s almost as if every activity ceases as she emerges from the woods and trudges further deep in the camp, aiming for her father’s table in the middle of the settling. People part from her, and everyone does a double take when seeing her bounty. She is immediately surrounded by Kingsguards, the men got anxious at her disappearance, and she can vaguely hear some of them being dispatched to inform the others that the princess is back.
She spots her kingly father immediately, at his table as predicted, holding Aegon in his arms while perusing the sea of people with his eyes. Alicent and Otto are by his side, with Lord Lyonel and Tyland Lannister, and they are all dining calmly. Alicent, despite all her lessons on posturing and propriety, can’t mask the displeasure of seeing her. Whether that is because she stole the White Stag from her husband or because she’s covered in blood, which she hasn’t bothered washing off, she can’t tell and frankly she doesn’t care. Otto at least manages a small, fake smile, while the other two are simply astonished. Her own maids look as if they are debating whether to faint at the sight of the blood or beaming with pride for her kills.
“My girl!” her father booms, giving the wiggling child to his wife, and coming towards her, “I would ask where you have been all this time, but your prey speaks for itself.”
“Indeed, father. I regret not being able to inform my assigned Kingsguard of my departure, but I felt compelled to go in the forest as soon as possible. I would have been remiss if I hadn’t answered such an important call.” Rhaenyra is lying through her teeth, she most certainly doesn’t regret not informing Ser Criston, but she needs to play the part.
The princess can feel the physical weight of all the eyes on her. “I hope you are not displeased with me for killing the White Stag in your stead.”
Her father looks appalled at the thought. “Of course not, Rhaenyra. I’m very proud of you, my dear child. Not only the White Hart, but also a boar! This proves with even more certainty that I chose my heir well. A prey borne of Holiness, and one borne of strength. The Realms shall be secure with you as their Queen.” the last part he shouts, opening his arms to let everyone bask in the glory of the Crown Princess, who now holds the blessing of the gods.
“All hail Princess Rhaenyra, Heiress to the Iron Throne!” a voice which sounds suspiciously like Ser Harwin booms from behind her, and soon cheers, applauses, and toasts are made in her name.
She smiles when her father kisses her brow, mindful of not getting any blood on his lips, and he gestures for servants to retrieve the boar and stag. “I want the stag skinned and its hide fashioned into a coat for me, while for the boar do whatever you wish but make sure that there’s enough fur to line a pair of boots. I shall gift my uncle at least part of my kill” she says, intercepting one of the butchers in charge of her kills.
“As you command, my Princess” he says, bowing deeply.
“Come, my girl, your maids are surely eager to have you washed” her father says, putting an arm around her shoulders before leaning down to whisper in her ear, “I’m very proud of you, my dear, I’m sure your mother would be as well.”
With that, tears spring unbidden to her eyes as they always to at the mention of her late mother. It’s a small comfort to know that her father still has her on his mind, for even if she always sees the ring her mother used to wear on his finger, she cannot help but wonder is she truly is still in his heart.
“I’m sure they do, father. I think I’ll spend the night in my tent if it’s amenable. That boar was a tough one, trampling me and knocking me to the ground” she jokes, blinking her eyes to subtly will away her tears before anyone can notice them.
Her father whirls to look at her. “What? Are you well? My child, you should have said something earlier, I’ll have a maester sent to you at once” he frames her face with his hands, the worry in his eyes visible.
“Worry not, father. I am well and shall remain so. The maester’s examination can wait. I feel like I’ll have some very impressive bruises on the morrow, but nothing is as grave as you make it sound” Rhaenyra hurries to assure him.
He sighs, “As you say. But at the first hint of pain…” he trails off.
“I’ll fetch a maester at once. Please, don’t worry about me.”
He smiles and starts once again to guide her to the table. “Choose some food to bring into your tent, it’s best if you put something in you before sleeping or on the morrow your belly will rumble loud enough to wake the entire camp” he jokes, making the princess chuckle.
“As you command, my King” she kisses his cheek, before approaching the table while her father goes back to his seat.
“Step-daughter” Alicent greets her, her tone barely warm enough to pass off as civil. “It’s not polite to disappear without telling anyone.”
The smile on Rhaenyra’s face turns icy, but before she has any time to reply her father chuckles and places a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Alicent, be at peace. You heard my daughter. The call could not go unanswered, and for her faith in them the Gods rewarded her with a plentiful hunt and a great honor. Is the White Hart not sacred in your own religion as well, wife?”
Rhaenyra is barely able to contain a gleeful smirk at the disgruntled expression on Alicent’s face. She had lightened up when her father mentioned the Gods, only to sink back to sulking rather pettily at the remark that he was not referring to her beloved Seven, but the Valyrian Fourteen. She is immensely pleased by her father’s words. As much as he plays the part of a Westerosi king, he is still a Targaryen, and while historically they kept cordial relations with the Faith, they are Valyrian and as such their allegiance and devotion is only to the Old Gods of Valyria and them alone.
“I’m sure that the blessing you speak of will not only extend to her rule” Otto manages to say with a poisonous smile, “but also her marriage and the birthing bed, Your Grace.”
And with those words, the smile falls off Rhaenyra’s face completely, unable to mask her distaste. She can clearly see her maids flinching. They know better than most of her feelings regarding the matter, having listened to many cries and weeps about the fate destined for her womb. However, her father manages to not see her flinch, oblivious as always, and instead smiles brightly at his cunt of a Hand. “I certainly hope so, Otto.”
The rest of the men offer their congratulations for her kills, praising her skills and thanking her for providing a tasty meal for the following days.
Rhaenyra quickly instructs one of her maids to gather some of her favorites from the spread on the table and then hastily retreats to her tent, not bothering with anything more than a barely cordial farewell. Elinda is already awaiting her to help with the bath, and she couldn’t have been more thankful for the maids she has chosen as they immediately divert the conversation away from marrying men and birthing babes, and instead launch in a discussion about her fruitful hunt followed by a heated debate about how the seamstress will surely do a marvelous job at creating a coat out of the skin of the stag.