Chapter Text
High above King’s Landing, Rhaenyra soared across the cerulean sky atop her dragon. She cut through clouds and tasted them in her mouth, just as she dreamed as a child. Wind pushed against her, whipping harshly through her hair and roaring thunder in her ears, yet she paid them no mind.
“Faster!” She chanted in Valyrian. Syrax met her command, giant wings stroking harder and faster than ever before, propelling them through the sky. When the wind that blew against her was so hard her eyes narrowed, Rhaenyra pulled the reins up. The dragon tilted her head and torso up at once, and they shot up skyward like an arrow.
In a moment she had risen even higher than all the clouds. As they climbed, a deep chill permeated through her body, freezing her fingers and ears. Air was growing thinner by the heartbeat, but Rhaenyra cared not. She and her dragon were trading speed for height, and they were almost at the top. Syrax’s powerful wings slowed, beating against the cold air with a tired pace. Things grew quiet as the roaring of the wind waned—the last of her momentum had faded away. The pull of the earth beneath them lessened as a weightlessness took over. For a moment everything was still, frozen in time. She reached the top of her world.
Rhaenyra opened her arms, embracing the wind and the cold and the silence. She took in the sky—the entire expense of the brilliant blue, untouched by mankind, proud and pure. And free.
This was what she loved most about flying. Her body was chained to the saddle, but she was free. Up here, she was unbounded by duties and rules and expectations. In the vastness of the world, the only thing that existed was her and her dragon.
She reached out for the sun and watched as light filtered through her fingers. You belong to me, she thought, smiling, now and forever.
Even as she was pulled down by the weight of the world, as wind surged on her face and howled in her ears, the heavenly blue will burn eternal in her heart. No one in the world could see this. Not Daemon or Rhaenys or Laenor or Laena. She was faster and lighter than them all. It was hers and only hers.
All good things come to an end. Their momentum exhausted, Rhaenyra and Syrax were falling through air with their heads pointed upright. She pulled gently to the right on her reins, prompting Syrax to stretch out her left wing and pulled in her right. The full force of the wind pushing on their left turned them around, and in the blink of an eye they were pointed earthward again. All of Blackwater’s Bay spread out before her, a mass of green and grey and black rounding out at the curved horizon. Syrax pulled in both her wings as Rhaenyra leaned forward, tightening her grip on her reins and squeezing her thighs on the saddle. Together, they tipped into a dive, plunging towards the ground. Here it comes.
As they hurtled downward, the air became a tangible force, pressing against Rhaenyra with incredible strength. The wind screamed in Rhaenyra’s ears, a wild chanting that was deafening. It tore at her fingers on the rein, threatening to undo her control. Rhaenyra’s heart raced with the speed of the dive, the ground drawing closer with each beat. Syrax’s wings tucked closely against her scaled body as the two of them sliced through the air like an arrow.
Forcing her eyes open against the violent wind, Rhaenyra saw King’s Landing coming into view. The towers of the Red Keep rushed up to meet them, growing rapidly from pinpoints into towering giants of brick and stone. Below, the red roofs and winding streets of King’s Landing blurred into streaks of color, a painting smeared by the sheer speed of their flight.
Air became thick as water, and Rhaenyra could no longer keep her eyes open. Just as her eyes were shutting, she squeezed the reins. Syrax unfurled her wings just a little, but at their breakneck speed even a little contact meant a storm of wind crashed into her wings, threatening to tear it off at the joint. The weight of a mountain crushed on Rhaenyra as every part of her body was pressed tightly against the saddle by the enormous momentum, her neck straining to the point of pain. The sudden brake filled the air with a thunderous roar as they leveled off, soaring past Maegor’s Holdfast. The residents of the Keep below paused, faces turned skyward in confusion and awe as the shadow of the dragon swept over them.
And then all of the weight was lifted away, and Rhaenyra felt light as a feather. She exhaled, her body buzzing with the raw, untamed power of their death-defying maneuver. Only then did she realize she was smiling, alive in the tremble of danger and the roar of the wind. She sighed in satisfaction—the thrill of flying was quite unlike anything in the world. She only wished to have a companion to ride alongside and share the thrill with. Maybe one day her prim and proper little sister will finally have her own dragon, and the two of them can ride above the skies of King’s Landing, as close as they were in childhood. Rhaenyra laughed at the thought of Visenya buzzing past the Red Keep with a mischievous smile—it could not have been more out of character for her little sister, and there was nothing she wouldn’t give to see it.
When Rhaenyra and Syrax swept over the towering battlements of the Red Keep, the grandeur of King's Landing unfolded beneath them—an endless sprawl of red and grey roofs as far as the eyes could see. The city’s narrow streets and tightly clustered buildings teemed as a million residents went about their lives.
As Rhaenyra flew in deeper, a foul smell began to assault her senses. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. Below, the alleys and crowded markets were choked with the wastes of the city's one million souls. The stench of refuse mingled with human excrements created a pungent smell that was potent even miles away from the city. It was a fabled feature of King’s Landing, a monument of all its sins.
Even from the sky, the overwhelming disorder was palpable. King's Landing was a city of grand tales and historic battles, but beneath its veneer lay a landscape marred by overcrowding and neglect. It was a city staggering under its own weight, as beautiful as it was ugly, as majestic as it was sullied. Small consolation—it will be hers one day.
A hundred years ago, all of this was but mud and foliage when her ancestors Visenya and Rhaenys and Aegon landed in this corner of the Blackwater Bay. All this city—all the houses, alleys, towers, and docks—were built within the last century, a feat she could scarcely believe.
The city’s rapid growth meant nothing was planned or controlled. Queen Alysanne and Jaehaerys the Old King, her great grandparents, labored over the city, paved its roads, brought in water supply, and built sewers to drain the wastes. A decade of work and millions of gold dragons from the finest rulers Westeros had ever seen, and this was the outcome. Rhaenyra shuddered to imagine what this city was like before it.
Today, the city and the rest of Westeros was ruled by her father, King Viserys. One day its charge may fall on her. Rhaenyra had always imagined herself sitting on the Iron Throne, elevated above the crowd of highborn, but she balked at the prospect that she will have to fix the smell of the city. Easier to just burn it all down and start over, she thought wildly.
She wanted to be Queen. Not a Queen of with a King, but a Queen with a Prince Consort—the kind that ruled. There had never been one in Westeros, none within her house at the least. The hadn’t even been a Queen in nearly fifteen years. Mother died giving birth to Visenya when Rhaenyra was only one, before she could even remember Mother’s face. Father had not remarried since, leaving the position of Heir empty. Father had two daughters and a brother. In another Great House there would be traditions, established over thousands of years, that dictated who should inherit the Throne. But the brief reign of House Targaryen meant it was free of those. The Iron Throne could go to either Rhaenyra or Daemon.
Daemon wanted it—craved it—that much was plain to all. A part of Rhaenyra wanted to just let him have it. Let him be the one to pull his hair out figuring out how to solve the city’s water supply; let him be the one staying up at night sorting out how to repay the crown’s debt to the Iron Bank. But another part of Rhaenyra loathed that thought. Her uncle was no ruler. He was Daemon the Rogue Prince, Daemon the dashing dragon rider, not Daemon the organizer or negotiator or delegator. He could not be king—his accession meant ruins for the Seven Kingdoms. Rhaenyra was the only choice. That was the rationale Rhaenyra used to convince herself. This is for the good of the realm, she lied to herself.
But then again, who knew how many would stand behind her in support. She was not born with a thing between her legs, which somehow removed much of her claim. Daemon was the Rogue Prince, a name rich with distain and respect, while Rhaenyra was the Realm’s Delight—a thing to adore and enjoy. It would not do. No one took their cat seriously. To stand a chance in her claim, Rhaenyra needed something to prove herself worthy, something that said watch me soar.
When the time comes, everything below will be hers. Rhaenyra was blessed with a sharp vision. From atop her dragon, she could see the city life that teemed below with vivid detail. Women gathered near Alysanne’s water fountains, their pitchers clinking as they drew water, laughing as they traded the day's gossips. Children chased each other through the narrow, winding streets that were filled with carts and carriages used by merchants to supply the city. Near the coast, sailors wrestled with ropes as ships bobbed on the gentle swell, dockers moving in and out to unload the shipments. By the dock, the red priests gathered around outside their temple, chanting.
For the night is dark and full of terrors. Rhaenyra didn’t have to listen to know their words. A decade ago, the red priests began streaming in, first in pairs here and there, then in droves everywhere, spreading their faith in Westeros. Theirs was a hard faith. Where Faith of the Seven spoke of the heavens that housed its loyal followers after a life of service and abstinence, the priests of R’hllor spoke of the Long Night, when the sun hides its face for a generation and millions die. The doom was ice and winter, while R’hllor was fire and summer. Azor Ahai, R’hllor’s champion, will bring an end to it in the final battle between ice and fire, they said.
For the coming doom that must be defeated, these followers of R’hllor were supposedly without mercy, without aversion to unsavory methods. Maester Gerardys said that in Essos the red priests burned their enemies alive at the stakes. They were a faith of doomsdays, using tales of darkness and terror to scare men into sheep. Herding sheep was always easier than leading man.
Rhaenyra waited for two heartbeats to see if R’hllor would strike her down from the sky for that. Nothing happened. Not so powerful after all, she smiled slyly.
Faith of the Seven had long been dominant in Westeros, but in King’s Landing, worship of R’hllor was starting to dislodge them. Here, the red priests had been pleasant, handing out sustenance and shelter to the needy in exchange for their ears. There was no want of gold for them. Gold from temples all around the world were flowing into the Westerosi ones, and their ranks were growing quickly.
Maybe we should woo them to our side, Rhaenrya thought. Her family’s relationship with Faith of the Seven had been tenuous at best. The need for dragon riders to protect their bloodline made it necessary to marry brothers to sisters, a practice strictly forbidden by the Faith. Jaehaerys extracted concessions from the Faith, but who knew how long that might last. Faith of the Seven was strict on adherence to moral principles. R’hllor, on the other hand, was all about fire and struggles. Rhaenyra resolved to learn more about these curious fellows. Pragmatists made better partners than blind believers.
Her attention soon shifted when the Street of Silk passed below her. Excitement crept up in her. This is the best part. She thanked her parents once again for her sharp vision as she looked down.
The Street of Silk was packed with unsavory establishments of the city, stores of forbidden medicine, taverns where illicit trade took place, and brothels. Scores of brothels of varying expense and service. Rhaenyra took a slightly perverse pleasure in watching the people in the streets from atop, hoping to find a familiar face. She has found she could get just low enough to see faces without them ever noticing. People don’t like to look up.It was a futile effort most of the times: either there wasn’t anyone of interest, or she would get too low and someone did look up, which meant in a heartbeat everybody was looking up.
But when it worked, it worked.
Like that time Rhaenyra caught her dear uncle Daemon entering a brothel known for...flavors. She laughed for hours afterwards, then she told Alicent and laughed some more. That one was famous for allowing guests to play as characters in their fantasy.
There was that other time, when Rhaenyra caught cousin Laenor entering a brothel famously packed with man of chiseled stature.
That was less funny and more… exciting. A spell took over, and for days she imagined what manner of things Laenor did with a hunk of a man. Something about it was just… thrilling. She never told Alicent about Laenor, even though they shared everything. That one seemed private.
It was also her best catch by far. She did not expect to top that one, less she caught Ser Otto, the haughty, uptight man who is Hand of the King.
She felt a tickle in her mind. The brothel she saw in the distance was unassuming, with a plain facade that spoke of minimal upkeep. The walls were freshly painted, though the rest of the building was plain. If not forThe Handbook for Restless Travelers in King’s Landing, Rhaenyra would never have suspected it was a brothel, which she supposed was the point. Discrete and inexpensive. But that must not be what tickled her. She scanned again. And then she saw it.
A lone white mare was left by the brothel. It would have been an ordinary sight, if not for the mare’s distinctive long, black tail that swept left and right, driving away flies.
No way, that was her first thought. Her second was NO WAY. She checked the sun. It was setting in the west, so she was not dreaming. She pinched herself to really make sure. It hurt like hells.
The horse itself was not important. The important part was who she saw riding it this morning.
Jon. Snow.
Laughter left her mouth before Rhaenyra even knew it. She found herself grinning ear to ear. This was too delicious.
For years, the bastard has tormented her. She still remember the solemn boy, his head held high with dignity when they first met, sadness in his eyes. They were both ten, separated by a few months. Lord Rickon Stark of Winterfell had decided his household needed men who knew the south, so Jon Snow was sent down to squire for Daemon. That was what she was told. What she heard, however, was much and more. There were gossips that Lord Rickon’s lady wife was incensed that he had kept the bastard so close to her true born son. In those stories she gave him a choice: his lady wife or his bastard.
Rhaenyra had pitied the boy at first. She couldn’t imagine how she would feel if she was torn from her family and sent to a strange land a thousand miles away. She realized very soon she should have pitied herself.
Her lessons were taught by Maester Gerardys, a kind man who did not have it in him to discipline children. He gave Rhaenyra readings and writings to complete, but she soon found coasting along carried little consequences. When the need arose, she only had to put on her most innocent smile and play coy. “I am sorry Maester, it just confused me a little. Can you teach me?” Maester Gerardys would sigh a little, pet her on the head, and continued with their lessons. He was the first victim to this remarkable trick that has served her faithfully for years.
Everything changed when Jon Snow joined her lessons.
“My princess, can you tell me the event that made your father the Heir to the Throne” Maester Gerardys asked on their first lesson together.
“Ah…” Rhaenyra hesitated, “the uh, grand…royal election?” She guessed, smiling.
“No.” Maester Gerardys sounded disappointed. “Jon?”
“The Great Council at Harrenhal.” The solemn bastard did all his readings and writings, and well.
“Well done.” Maester Gerardys looked pleased and petted Jon’s shoulder.
That made Rhaenyra furious. Maester Gerardys was gentle with her, but she saw the man’s passion coming through teaching a student that cared. It was subtle, but she knew: the maester cared for the bastard as much as the princess. That’s not fair, she wanted to say, he is my maester. Mine.
Rhaenyra was not about to cede the bastard any ground, but to her horror, she found herself far behind in knowledge owing to years of neglect. For months she endured the humiliation and late nights, laboring over her past readings and writings, fighting to keep up. And she did. A time came when she answered correctly all the maester’s questions in one sitting. It was her second proudest moment, just behind claiming Syrax and becoming the youngest dragon rider at seven.
She never found out how Jon Snow came to be in her lessons, though. She learned later that Lord Rickon wanted his bastard to receive a lord’s education—he had only one trueborn son, Cregan Stark, so he needed a spare for his heir. Rhaenrya was the king’s first born, so she received a lord’s education as well, but surely there were other maesters around who could teach the boy. Why did she have to endure the bastard?
Regardless, Maester Gerardys was overjoyed by her progress. “The princess has been bright and diligent,” he reported to Father in the small council, where Rhaenyra served as the cup bearer, “and Lord Rickon’s natural born son has been excellent as well.” He smiled strangely.
The next day, much to her astonishment her course work was increased by half. Half! The horror! She knew exactly who the source of the problem was. The bastard had pushed her hard, which tipped off Maester Gerardys that she can handle much and more, and now they both suffer for it.
Jon Snow ought to pay for that, but Princess Rhaenyra was nothing if not magnanimous.
That day, she put on her best smile and approached the bastard boy.
“Jon,” Rhaenyra said, doing her best to mimic what she heard in the small council meetings, “may I trouble you with a… mutually beneficial proposal.”
There was curiosity and caution in Jon Snow’s voice. “How may I help, Princess?”
“I have been thinking, this… friendly competition between us has been well and all,” She said, “But I propose we put a stop to it. Our work has doubled, and for what? This is time taken away from what we really want to do.” Rhaenyra paused briefly to ponder what Jon Snow wanted. “Dragon riding for me, sword practice for you. What say we answer the maester’s questions equally, half right, half wrong. That ought to put him off for a while.”
Jon Snow looked at her, a silent judgment in his grey eyes. That was all it took for Rheanyra to know Jon’s opinion of her. He thinks me a spoiled, pampered brat, she thought. He was right, of course, but it didn’t mean she can’t be angry about it.
“You jest.” The bastard boy said.
“If I were to jest, I would have said you were witty and comely.” Rhaenyra replied.
The match was on from that day since. Rhaenyra worked long and hard to best her lesson mate, but so did the bastard, to her frustration. Even now, years later, neither could prevail over the other. No one won except Maester Gerardys, whose smile was brighter than ever for his ever-diligent students.
Thinking of that day still roused her. She approached Jon. Her, Rhaenyra Targaryen, offered him a kind gesture and a better deal, and he told her off? And judged her? How dare he? Who did he think he was? The Last Hero?
Fire and fury filled her chest, burning her. She breathed in deeply, hoping to calm herself. To her terror, she felt the saddle shaking. Beneath Rhaenyra, Syrax’s massive chest expanded with a deep, resonant intake of air that thrummed through her very bones. It was a powerful rumble, like rolling thunder, growing in intensity as Syrax filled her lungs with air.
“Syrax, no, wait, wait, WAIT” Rhaenyra yelled. Too late.
The fire that burst forth was a brilliant surge of orange and blue flames, shooting forward in a focused stream. The girl and the dragon would have been fine, only the flames was pointed straight ahead, and the pair plunged into the heated smoke trail left by the dragon breath.
Emerging from the smoke, Rhaenyra gasped for breath as she coughed her lungs out. Tears streamed from her irritated eyes. Her face was partially covered with soot, the grime mingling with tears and leaving streaks on her cheeks. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, her vision blurred both by tears and the sting of smoke. Beneath her, Syrax shook her massive head, trying to dispel the discomfort. Syrax could withstand much and more, but it wasn’t her own ailment that Syrax felt. A rider and her dragon were not just partners but extensions of one another, two entities shared across scale and skin.
“Gods damn it, Jon Snow,” Rhaenyra cursed. She was glad no dragon rider was around. Running into your own dragon breath was the amateur mistake. She would have sooner died than being laughed at. It was her fault for letting feelings slip across boundaries, she knew, but she can’t let the bastard get her again. She marked down another one on her list of grievances for Jon Snow. He can’t keep getting away with it.
Not today. Today he will pay. But in what way?
That, Rhaenyra needed to think of. In truth, seeing Jon there was more surprising than seeing Ser Otto. The boy struck Rheanyra as the dutiful kind, the kind that gave everything to honor and service and nothing to themselves. Jon was always aloof in the Red Keep, either training with Daemon or helping out Maester Gerardys, and no wonder. He was sharp and mistrustful, with a temper for incompetence.
And full of surprises. Daemon said something about punishing his squire for insubordination in a family dinner a few days past. Rhaenyra was bewildered then. She never thought Jon Snow was capable. That made her even more curious. What command did Jon disobeyed? Command against whoring? Surely that is the last thing Daemon would do.
Or is this how Jon Snow lets out the preasure? Her mind ran wildly. A knight in the streets, a freak in the sheets?
Another question came unbidden, one with grave consequences. How long does he last? Rhaenyra knew she needed to hurry.
When Syrax landed at the Dragonpit, Rhaenyra did not wait for the dragon keepers to carry her down. She slid from her mount and landed gracefully on the floor as soon as she was unchained.
Alicent Hightower waited a few paces away by the carriage, her green gown fluttering slightly in the breeze stirred up by the dragon’s wings. Before Alicent could say anything, Rhaenyra snatched her by the hand and took her into the carriage. “Take us to the Street of Silk.” She said to her rider.
The men looked back, unsure about his order. “My Princess…” he said, no doubt he was aware of the place’s reputation.
If the old knight refused her, it was all over. Rhaenyra was nervous, but she flashed her sweet smile. “Do not worry, Ser. We will be good and stay close to the carriage.”
Ser Westerling paused for a moment, then nodded. Yes, Rhaenyra felt a jolt of excitement.
“Rhaenyra!” Alicent objected loudly.
Rhaenyra turned to look at her dear friend. Alicent had kind green eyes and oval-shaped face, tapering gently to a softly pointed chin. She was delicate and beautiful, the way a proper daughter of a highborn house should look.
“It will be quick,” Rhaenyra said softly, “No harm will come to your reputation.” She did feel bad dragging her Alicent there with her, but she didn’t want to leave her at the Dragonpit either.
“No,” Alicent looked a little scared, “That is not what I meant. I was not thinking about my name. It’s just…” She hesitated.
“What?” Rhaenyra was intrigued.
“I heard bad things are happening in the city, unnatural things.” Alicent paused, as though speaking the words might breathe life into dark tales.
“Unnatural things… like what?” Rhaenyra took Alicent’s hand into hers. Alicent had cold hands, and Rhaenyra liked to warm them with her own.
“Like dark powers. I heard a girl was killed by dark powers in the Street of Silk, just this morning.”
Oh. The pieces were starting to come together. The bastard might have a wholly different motivation to be in the brothel. A much more interesting one, Rhaenyra thought. She looked past the carriage window at the city streets outside.
There were no men of the City Watch anywhere she looked. They were charged with keeping the city’s order and maintaining the King’s justice, but for as long as Rhaenyra could remember, they have been ill-armed and poorly disciplined. The City Watch was a ragtag bunch, more interested in bribes than service. Though at least they used to be present more. Since Daemon was named Commander of the City Watch, few watchmen can be found on the streets. He must have pulled them away. Rhaenyra wondered what Daemon was stewing in his pot. And why is Jon Snow there despite all this? An idea came to her.
Life in the city almost seemed to go on as usual. Almost. This was but momentum, Rhaenyra knew. Order existed today because men assumed it existed. Without the City Watch to deal out justice, sooner or later people will realize there was nothing behind the fine facade. What happens then She could not imagine. Daemon always liked to dance on the line.
Wait a moment, Rhaenyra thought, how did Alicent hear about these things? She was never the center of gossip for courtly matters, let alone a murder in the city this morning.
A sly smile crept up on her face, “You heard it from Ser Otto, didn’t you.”
Alicent looked surprised. Her lips moved, but it never opened. A silent admission.
Fascinating. So Ser Otto has been keeping tabs on city crimes. The Hand of the King and Daemon had been at each other’s throats for as long as Rhaenyra served as cup bearer in the small council. Whatever stew Daemon was cooking with the City Watch, Ser Otto wanted a scoop and more.
As her carriage inched closer to the Street of Silk, Rhaenyra sat giddy with anticipation. Life in the Red Keep had been so monotonous. Every day was much of the same, and nothing truly happened.
After the long calm, there was now the beginnings of a stir.
