Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Two women stood in the godswood, leaves of the plentiful alders and oaks rustling at the constant urging of the wind like an insistent gasp. It was early morning in King’s Landing- the crash of high tide reaching inside the carefully knit stone walls, echoing inside the courtyard that enclosed the tucked away grove. Birdsong chirruped through the branches, suddenly quieting at the tense aura of an impending confrontation. The queen and the princess were standing on opposing sides.

“Tell me the whole of it, Rhaenyra,” the Queen ordered, and by all accounts she meant it. Alicent Hightower gazed upon her stepdaughter with narrowed, critical eyes- her voice firm, demanding, her lips pursed. A keen eye could tell that her cheeks were slightly flushed with distress.

“Your father accused me of something?” Rhaenyra returned her question with an equally accusatory lash, keeping her voice steady was an act that took her concentrated effort. “That I drank wine? That I left the castle after dark?”
“That you fucked Daemon in a pleasure house!” Alicent spat at her in a hushed whisper, giving a quick glance around to see if any servants or doddering groundskeepers may have heard- an action that did not go unnoticed by the princess.

In a very rare moment, Rhaenyra hesitated- certainly something she was not known for doing very often. “That is a vile accusation,” she hissed in reply, gentle features squeezing into a bitter glare.

“Is it?”

Looking back on it, Rhaenyra mused, she supposed she shouldn’t have sounded so defensive- though she spoke the truth in a very strict sense of the word: she hadn’t spoken a lie. After the hostilities had ceased, the princess had darted back into the safety of the Red Keep, weaving her way up the stairs of Maegor’s Holdfast and towards where her room was tucked deep within the colossal monument of stonework and bricks she called a home.

She was stopped suddenly by a guard cloaked in silver armor. “Princess?”
She quirked her head over to look him in the eyes, the man towering over her considerably. But she never fawned in the presence of men, so she stood steadfast, defiant against something that was not at this moment pushing back. “Hm? What is it?” She inquired.
“The King wants to see you in his chambers,” the guard told her, retreating back to his position outside of one of the rooms in the long pillared corridor.
A feeling of trepidation- no, it was irritation, she decided- began to pool her chest as she strode forward towards her father’s room. King Viserys’ room was at the furthest end of the hallway, leaving it looming ahead of her, only barely lit by the sconces hit affixed to its side. If she had been introspective enough to notice, she might’ve thought of it almost as a conquest, or an enemy at the end of the road, but the thought escaped her just as it flitted into her mental grasp.

She pushed the door to her father’s quarters with a small, audible grunt. The doors were awfully heavy for someone of her stature but she had long grown used to them. Her fingers reached down to clasp the thin silken fabric of her pale yellow daygown as she brought herself into a terse curtsy.
“Father?”

Viserys was stirred by the breathless call of his daughter. “Rhaenyra,” he said, turning around to look at her from in front of his chair by the fireplace, casting him in varied hues of orange and purples. He reached down and grasped at the arms of his chair, as he stood up on seemingly unsteady legs. His kind expression faltered for just a moment, and he looked at her with his best attempt at being austere. 

“You wanted to see me?”
“Rhaenyra…” He repeated. A glint of uncertainty creased his ever-pallid features, but he continued. “We need to talk about...your-” he cleared his throat “-behavior.” 

The princess’ lips curled into a scowl. “My ‘behavior?’ Or what Ser Hightower tells you of my behavior?” She asked, the ratty tone in her statement left utterly unhidden. 

For once, Viserys asserted himself. “I believe Ser Hightower…has been misinformed,” he started. His nose scrunched as he brought his hand up to his chin, brushing it against the stubble that adorned his face, thinking carefully of his words.”However,” he went on, “you cannot keep taking risks like this! You’re the princess, heir to the Iron Throne- you have to hold yourself to higher standards! You cannot go prancing around with the commonfolk in King’s Landing, or be spending your time with whores who have long soiled their maidenhood.”
“It’s an act of treason to question a princess’ purity,” she snapped back, both the weight of her own title and that of her father’s easily brushed aside with the brutal hand of anger. “If I was a man and sired many bastards you wouldn’t say a word about it.”
“Funny,” the king gave an ill-humored chuckle. “That’s exactly what Daemon told me.”

Rhaenyra was seething in her chambers after her ‘talk’ with her father, though she wouldn’t call it that. A beratement maybe, an unwarranted one at that. She ducked inside the privy attached to her room and took a deep breath, leaning against the only window and peering out after it, the sun beginning to dip below the sea that stretched across the horizon, staining the ocean scarlet, the color reaching in like a gentle wisp to tint the stone on the furthest all from the window.

She was drawn away from her comfortable perch peering out the window by the sound of knuckles wrapping against her door.
“You may enter!” She called, raising her voice considerably so it would travel through the two rooms. She hopped off of her spot and peeked out of the wooden door between the garderobe and her sleeping chambers to see who it may be, assuming a handmaiden or another one of the many castle servants had wandered in with the intent to bring her dinner, or perhaps ask if she’d like a bath to be made for her. Instead of an attender working their way into her room however, she was faced with the stocky frame of Maester Mellos as he closed the door behind him, the thin clatter of dishes emanating from his elderly, shaking hands. 

“Princess,” he rasped, voice pointedly quiet as he gave her a quick bow as a greeting. He stooped, awkward against the grit of his joints to place a teacup sat upon a plate onto the low-standing table in the center of the room. “I have brought this for you, on your father’s request.”
“What is it?” She asked, appearing out of the privy more fully as she moved to approach him with apprehensive strides, the length of her dress left wrinkled after a long session of pacing.
“A tea to rid you of any…unintended consequences,” the old fellow murmured, giving her a look with gentle eyes. But Rhaenyra felt there may be judgment in them. 

He continued nonetheless, ignoring her slowly blooming frown. “It had to be brewed carefully, for it can be dangerous. Take care to drink it all, your Grace,” he instructed, before bowing again, and scuttling out of the room with not a moment spared to allow her to respond.

The young Targaryen watched after the maester as he disappeared back into the hallways of Maegor’s Holdfast that were ever darkening along with the fading light of the sun beyond its walls. She pondered for a moment if she should stoke the offendedness that prickled within her, perhaps go kick her father’s door to give him a fright- but with gritted teeth she resumed the ever-familiar pace between the two ends of her room. 

Damn him, she thought irritably. Damn Mellos. Damn Father. She wasn’t sure how to feel at her father’s continued insistence of her wrongdoing as well. With grim intent, she marched over to where the maester had placed the cup of tea and snatched it up in her light nimble hands, and stormed over back into the privy, only regaining enough composure to ease the door shut at the last moment instead of slamming it.
She leered out of the window again, resting her elbows on the stone, cup in hand. She was going to pour it out, she had decided.

But…She hesitated. What if Ser Christon’s seed took? Began to burrow in her womb and grow? Her hands trembled. It wasn’t a sure thing, she knew- not all women have ease growing pregnant, let alone after only laying bare with a man once. Her thoughts flashed immediately to her late mother, torn apart by the maesters to free a good-as-dead babe from her insides. Aemma had died covered in her own blood, and her son died choking on his mother’s clots stuck in his tiny lungs. 

She shuddered at the thought, a fear coiling in her belly like a sodden vine, wrapping tightly around her organs with snake-like fury. She looked down at the tea, liquid a toasty brown and smelled vaguely of mint and damp moss. A tendril of smoke drifted from its surface, whisked away by the gentle coastal breeze. She felt bile rise in her throat but pushed it down, putting the clay cup up to her lips, pinching her nose with her free hand, and she swallowed it all in two hurried gulps.

She took a long awaited gasp and slammed the cup back down on the dish, almost afraid she’d shatter it with the force she’d use. It tasted foul, minty needles feeling like they were puncturing the flesh of her throat and tongue. She coughed a few times as what started as cold slowly creeped into heat, and then to what felt like fire. This wasn’t right.

She coughed again, stumbling over to the mirror hung on the wall to get a look at herself. Laying her hands on the stone carved vanity and making eye contact with her own reflection. Rhaenyra found herself looking pale, lips fading to an odd enough color- she wheezed, opened her mouth and tried to peer inside but the low light made it impossible. 

Fuck- she thought, what was wrong with her? Had she been poisoned? She barely had enough time to toss about theories as she felt her throat tighten, swelling shut with each and every breath she could manage. She staggered into her bedroom and towards the door to the corridor, shoving it open as she sucked in a desperate mouthful of air. She lurched forward, collapsing to her knees on the rough stone floor, feeling pain strike at her legs through the material of her dress.
“Help-” she gaped, the last of the air escaping her as she heard a servant begin to run.

Her vision bobbed in and out of blackness as she finally saw Maester Mellos, blade in hand, aimed to puncture her throat.

Chapter Text

“The idea that we control the dragons is an illusion,” Viserys had told his daughter once. He wasn’t wrong.

While princess Rhaenyra lay suffocating on the floor in the long darkened corridors in Maegor’s Holdfast, Syrax bucked wildly at her chains. The truth was, no matter what was done, a dragon’s complacency was a must-have for keeping them secured in the Dragonpit. Syrax’s jaw unhinged as she let out a desperate roar and thrashed, the chains wrapped around her haunches and neck pulling with a diligent force against the century old cave walls. Small pebbles crumbled against her might, falling to the ground with a light pattering.

The other dragons housed there began to bellow as well, howling ragged war cries in what could only be interpreted as encouragement. Dreamfyre wailed low and deep, Caraxes gave an undulating whistling whine- with one last fateful lunge, the chain affixed around Syrax’s throat was torn away from the wall. The young golden wyrm whipped around and gnawed at the iron rung around her haunches, tearing it with the great force only a beast of such size could manage.

All the commotion had not failed to draw the attention of the dragonkeepers, rushing in from their own nearby chambers to see what the commotion was about. The elder dragonkeeper kept calm, lit a torch and dashed into the passageway that connected all the caves carved out of the earth under the copper dome of the Dragonpit. Firelight danced on the walls as the pair of men made their way further into the tunnel, their gait urgent and noisy against gravely floors. 

Syrax snaked forward through the blackened tunnels, the wyvern familiar with its deep twists and curves. There was light approaching, the light rattle of the footsteps of men, as she continued to crawl towards them, the chain still hanging loose from her neck clattering loud as she moved.

The men both startled, and the dragon stared at them. Her eyes were wide and insistent as her lip curled up into a snarl to bare her long, yellowing teeth. A thick string of drool hung like a thread from her maw, the rotten odor of meat and sulfur hitting the two men like a wave. 

The elder, wise of his limits, stepped aside and tried to pull the younger man with him. “It’s no use Vinarr,” he urged him.
Vinarr shook his head, stubbornly- naively. “Dohaerās!” He cried. ‘Serve.’ The dragon did not yield to him- it reared up as high as the roof would allow it.. It was their job to serve the Crown, protect their dragons, and secure their mounts. He wasn’t moving.
He repeated himself, standing resolute. “Dohaerās.”
Syrax leaned down again, letting her wings support her weight as she nosed her way just a bit closer to the younger Dragonkeeper, as if inspecting him. She took one step forward, chain dragging abruptly behind her. And then she took another step. And another. Vinarr was crushed beneath one of her large taloned feet, a sickening meaty crunch of tissue and bones as she broke into a gallop. The elder one still left alive, stifled a gag at the nose and huddled down, covering his neck with his hands in a last ditch attempt at protection. He remained unscathed as he watched the length of the chain disappear down the length of the tunnel, the dragon it had once contained barrelling towards the exit.

The she-dragon lurched towards the door, hitting it with a resounding metallic thud, forcing her entire body weight against it. The copper doors stood firm, unmoving, even against the burden of a dragon rutting against it with all its power. Frustrated, Syrax gave a guttural hiss, a lash of fire beginning to rumble in her throat like a growl. She sucked in a gasp of air through her mouth, air whistling through the small gaps between her fangs.

Flames lapped at the door along with her exhale, fire curling from her tongue as she breathed her essence upon the door to the Dragonpit, turning it red-hot, almost oozing with liquid metal.  She panted from the exertion, giving herself a shake as she took only a momentary rest to maneuver her head and neck to look back at the tunnel she crawled out of. The elder dragonkeeper stood in the doorway, huddled towards the side and silhouetted in shadow.
They locked eyes as the dragon panted, inhaled again- breath this time left uncharged except for a shrieking roar, a few remaining sparks flying from the back of her throat. Many meters away, the man trembled and fell to his knees in submission, breaking eye contact, gazing only into the dirt now where he lay.

Syrax was appeased, understanding the gesture in a primal sort of way. She turned back to the melting door, cooper globs meandering down its length, holding oddly firm against the will of gravity. Glass shattered and semi-solid metal groaned as she once again rammed against it, this time with such force that she punctured through it, sending strips of red hot copper flying outward onto the cobblestone path atop the hill of Rhaenys where the dragonpit stood. 

Glowing lava sizzled against her fire-resistant scales, thin scraps of coal-black smoke curling upwards from the contact. The golden hided dragon stumbled forward, giving a mighty shake to disperse the searing remains of the erupted door off of herself. Another roar tore from her throat, this time potent and triumphant as she crawled towards the edge of the hill. First on all fours, and then her wings opened up as she ran bipedally, finally giving a leap as her wings caught the wind, soaring over the slums of Flea Bottom within a mere instant, huge leathery wing beats drawing awed gazes from the tiny peasantfolk below.

Syrax, easily soaring upon the salted coastal winds blowing in from the East, glided towards the Red Keep with little effort, muzzle scrunched and eyes tightened against the whipping force of air. As she reached the castle, she didn’t stop- she flew past Maegor’s Holdfast, past the coast, past Blackwater Bay- she was flying to Dragonstone.

Rhaenyra writhed with her throat clamped shut, muscles curling in on themselves in rebellion against her desperate hunger for air. She found herself pawing at her chest and face, sticking her own fingers into her mouth, trying anything to get her own airway to open of its own accord. As the hazy ring of darkness tinged at the corners of her vision, she felt sweat slick her cheeks and hair, stinging panicked tears brimming at the corners of her eyes- the sclera beginning to crackle with rupturing blood vessels, red fissures staining the whiteness.

By the time Maester Mellos was kneeling over her, her vision had blurred so much he was only a foggy figure donned in grey. His words were as vague and clouded as she perceived the rest of him, but it seemed he was talking to her…
His words were rushed, and felt dizzyingly loud. Pain increased in her chest the longer she couldn’t breathe, leaving her thrashing about with all the strength she had left, but the more she moved, the more she felt an disconcerting exhaustion start to colonize her muscles and invade her very consciousness itself. It felt like, despite it all, her thoughts were growing sluggish. 

The vibration of more approaching servants resonated through the floor, she could feel it in her back against the stone, even though her eyes were shutting in fluttering uneven intervals. She heard her father’s voice somewhere, though it sounded distant. Or maybe it wasn’t her father, maybe it was wishful thinking. 

I want my mother, the thought drifted past before she could grasp it, the yearning as intrinsic as that for her insatiable need for oxygen. Mother…

The pinch of a blade rupturing the sinewy muscle in her throat drew her back to reality, just for a moment. She kicked out weakly, her foot hitting what felt to her like an impenetrably strong barrier- it was just the old maester. She felt something- utterly sickened by it, she felt something sharp, something hard, digging into her wound. Blessedly, finally, she sucked in a breath of air with the same desperation and wet gurgling as a newborn babe. 

Her senses came rushing back to her, her heart began racing like it had done no other time. She continued to gulp air down and out but she realized- she wasn’t breathing out of her mouth, or her nose. Confused, terrified, exhausted- her fleetingly refocusing vision bottomed out beneath her and her consciousness fell away.

“Princess?”

Rhaenyra felt her mind bobbing up and down between layers of sleep like an apple suspended in water. What sounded like a familiar voice was beyond beguiling, she grasped towards it with her consciousness, groping blindly for some semblance of awareness. She felt focus crawling back to her, the heaviness of her limbs and weight of her own body drawing her further back to reality. 

She kept her eyes closed, still fully wrung dry and energyless, but as she slowly regained her senses, she noticed what felt like a damp cloth set against her forehead. Nearby she heard a toddler hiccuping softly, and the gentle ‘shhsh’ of someone shushing them while they bounced the child on their knee. Pain throbbed in her throat, stinging like a wound had just been sewn shut.

The princess peeked open her eyes, her eyelids feeling heavier than she thought they ever had before. First face she locked eyes with was that of Maester Mellos, and  her lips furrowed into a glaring frown. She remembered what had happened. She had been poisoned.

Mellos straightened up from his position of leaning over her. “Your Grace? She’s awake.” He stepped back and disappeared from the range of her vision.

She could hear her father strain himself to his feet, mumbling curses to himself at the strain on his joints. He tottered over and softly grasped her cheek with his good hand. “My sweet child,” he breathed, looking grateful to the gods themselves. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

It was on instinct, but she pressed her face against the warmth of her father’s palm, a feeling of comfort settling over the room. Despite this, she continued to frown. “He tried to kill me,” she told Viserys, voice full of raspy venom, “with poison.”

Her father blinked at her, looking obviously bewildered. “That’s a serious allegation to hurl at the man who saved your life,” he told her, giving a short and single chuckle beneath his breath. The maester shuffled back over towards her direction and Viserys stepped aside. Polite for a king.

Maester Mellos held the bowl of a mortar and pestle clasped in his elderly, gnarled fingers. He didn’t seem to take the accusation so kindly as he cleared his throat. “I apologize for what happened tonight, Princess,” he bowed to her best he could manage. “But I did not try to end your life. What I suspect happened is you have an intolerance for pennyroyal. If I had known this I would’ve suggested…a different treatment,” his voice faltered.

“And my throat?”

“I had to insert a hollowed out bone so you could breathe without the use of your mouth or nose. It’s a technique only practiced in emergencies.”

Rhaenyra’s defensive hackles finally settled as her hands rose from her sides to brush against the small, stitched wound on her throat. She supposed it was small enough to not scar too badly. She looked away from the Maester, cheeks tinged peach from the embarrassment of jumping to such a negative conclusion. “Thank you Grand Maester,” she coughed.

He nodded to her, his grandfatherly facade flickering just for a moment into a terse silence. He held out the mortar bowl to her as she scrambled to sit up on the fainting couch she’d been placed on inside her own chambers. 

She took the granite bowl out of his hands and peered inside it, giving the chunky green and orange mushy poultice inside an unhappy glance. She raised one of her eyebrows at him. “What am I supposed to do with this?” She asked, a tinge of irritation on her tongue.

“Breathe in the fumes, it should help with the inflammation in your throat and sinuses,” Mellos advised her, gave a curt bow, and shuffled away with the distinct hunched gait of a tired old man. He left the room and drew the door shut behind him, leaving the royals alone.

Now fully sitting up and with the Maester no longer blocking her view, she spotted the source of the quiet baby hiccups. She saw the queen sitting on a chair nearby, young Aegon settled on her knee. He looked red-faced and snotty, and his mother looked distant as she bounced him. Viserys hovered nearby, but kept his eye on Rhaenyra. 

Alicent grappled with little Aegon as she wobbled to her feet, impaired by the toddler she held on her hip and the babe she had swaddled in her womb. She gestured for Rhaenyra to tuck her legs back so she could sit on the couch as well.“We worried for you, princess.”

The younger girl obliged though not happy about it, and her face remained taut and posture unwelcoming. Her eyes darted down to the chubby arm of her younger half brother, which on a short portion was reddened and covered in light welts. Perhaps that was why he was crying, she thought. She reached out to touch the little boy with delicate, shaking fingers and Alicent allowed it. “What happened?”
“Maester Mellos thought it wise to see if he was averse to pennyroyal as well,” she explained. “He is. Better to know now than risk it in the future.”

Neither of them commented on the use of pennyroyal, but the strike of eye contact between them laid one thing out clear as day: they both knew.  

Rhaenyra in a rare act of affection stroked the towheaded boy’s unruly curls and he whined and burbled crossly, veering over to hide his face in the spun silken fabric of his mother’s bosom. Both women gave an uncomfortable lighthearted chuckle. 

The princess retracted her hand and scooped a tiny bit of poultice out of the bowl she held in her lap, smearing some of the browning mush onto Aegon’s patch of hives. He wailed and tucked himself further away, but the redness disappeared at a noticeable rate. It had helped, it seemed. She smiled just slightly.

There was a hurried knock at the door, the whisper-yells of several people evident despite the thickness of the wooden frame. The servants did not wait for an invitation as the royal family (aside from Aegon, still hiding) turned, surprised, as the door swung open with a harsh creak of its hinges in protest.

A disheveled older man was brought into the room, escorted by handmaids and at least a few guards hovering around somewhere in the back of the crowd. From his robes, it was obvious he was a dragonkeeper. He spoke in only High Valyrian despite his obvious alarm. “Your Grace, Princess-” he sputtered,
“Syrax has escaped.”