BLACK SHADOWS [HOTD]

3. puppets for the puppeteer

year 112 ac

There were three things Rhaelena hated the most. The first one waking up with the first rays of sunshine, though the pious septas that were in charge of the Targaryen princess's spiritual education nudged the sisters to sacrifice their morning sleep at least three times a week.

The second one was the arrogant stare of Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King. The way he would bow his head, as if mocking her, and purr out "Princess..", Rhaelyna could swear to the Seven, made her stomach twist like an accidentally eaten piece of a rotten apple. Everything about him disgusted the young princess on some deeper level, as if he was not a human being but a hideous slug, slipping his way into the heart of her father. But not hers.

And what would be the third thing, you would ask? Posing for portraits.

King Viserys requested his twin daughters to be painted every five years. And whenever Rhaenyra and Rhaelena's nameday came in those fateful years, they would know: in the next several weeks they would spend hours sitting down till their limbs went numb, mustering a tight smile as their dissatisfied faces were captured on the artist's canvases.

This time Rhaenyra's portrait was finished first, which gave the Princess the freedom to pursue things that brought her pleasure, while Rhaelena was still continuously confined in her chambers, the skirts of her dress seemingly glued to the velvety surface of the ottoman.

If it wasn't for the chatty presence of her loyal friend and only companion Nylla Corbray, summoned by Queen Aemma Arryn's request specifically to attend to her golden-haired daughter long years ago, Rhaelena would've died of boredom before the draft of the portrait had been finished. Even though she would usually find the talkative nature of dark-haired Corbray lassie somewhat annoying, the daunting hours of posing she could've spent in complete deadly silence were quick to change her attitude.

"That is the lovely tiara you're wearing, princess. I don't think I have ever seen it before," Nylla admitted, her eyes glued to the little golden sparkling object resting on the crown of Rhaelena's head.

A small smile curled the corners of the princess's lips. Nylla did know how to appeal to her mistress: being complimented was one of the things that would always bring visible satisfaction to Rhaelena's face, making her eyes glimmer like the crown of King Jaehaerys in the rays of the setting sun.

"My dear half-cousin, Lady Jeyne Arryn, sent it a gift to me for my fifteenth nameday," the girl uttered, trying not to move her lips much. She had to sit as still as possible while the artist was doing his meticulous job.

"That makes sense, I could've guessed," Corbray girl chuckled. "The sapphires and the feathers. Very Vale-ish. Even the Queen doesn't wear such things anymore."

"My mother is half-Targaryen, Nylla, and married to the King. Wearing any sigils or anything sigil-like would be taken as a bias by evil tongues," Rhaelena stated quietly. "Me, on the other hand... I can wear whatever I want. Even if I wore the Lannister's lion on my chest, nobody would think of it as anything significant."

"You would rather wear the burning tower of the Oldtown, would you not?" Nylla tilted her head to the right, a little smirk twisting her features.

"Why would I?" The golden-haired princess responded blandly as if the question never implied anything.

"I don't know," the dark-haired girl murmured. "Well, not that you care, obviously, but Ser Gwayne was named the participant of the upcoming tourney."

That very second Rhaelena felt dozens of caterpillars cracking inside her body, releasing an array of butterflies in her very stomach.

Gwayne Hightower. Only a single summer her senior. The princess would never admit it to herself, not openly, at least, yet though they never quite talked, she couldn't help but let her mind bathe in the hot pools of his grayish blue eyes, and her eyes savor the beauty of his facial features, so perfectly proportional, as if his face was molded with ivory by the most skillful of sculptors. Rhaelena could recall every single occasion of him briefly bestowing her with a shy smile, and how her heart dropped at the realization of him looking at her. The strange sensation it was. At a single mention of his name, the princess's mind floated away, just like it did almost every night when before drifting off to sleep she would think about how absolutely perfect it would've been if he invited her to dance with him on one of the festive dinner, and what his lips would've tasted like if he were ever to kiss her in the darkest corners of Maegor's Holdfast.