Rhaenys POV
The sound of crackling firewood filled the air as princess Rhaenys of Houses Targaryen and Velaryon sat in the dimly lit chamber, nestled within the comforting embrace of her family's ancestral seat.
The room was adorned with tapestries depicting the ancient victories and glories of House Velaryon - a sentimental and clever gesture on the Queen's part - but the somber mood within her heart made the vibrant scenes seem dull and lifeless.
Her fingers traced the intricate patterns of the armrest, lost in a web of memories and emotions.
Her thoughts drifted back to a time when her father, Aemon Targaryen, eldest son of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne, rider of Caraxes and heir to the iron throne, was alive and well.
She had always idolized him as a child. He was modest about his great deeds and encouraged her to follow her passions.
He had also made her a promise that would forever shape her destiny. The warmth of his presence enveloped her, his voice resonating through the chambers of her mind.
"Rhaenys, my daughter," he had said with unwavering conviction, "I will make you a queen. You shall sit upon the Iron Throne and rule with wisdom and grace, for you carry the blood of dragons within your veins."
Oh, how those words had filled her young heart with hope and purpose. She had believed in her father's vision, in his unwavering faith in her abilities.
But the harsh realities of life had shattered those dreams, relegating her to the sidelines of power and influence.
A stray arrow meant for Lord Caron had ended her father's life. In one fell swoop she lost her greatest confidant, her unborn child's grandfather and any hope of ever proving his faith in her wasn't misplaced. That she was worthy of the crown.
The Wise king Jaehaerys, the Old fool was her husband's preferred epithet, declared his new son Baelon would succeed him as prince of Dragonstone.
What a great folly that she should expect otherwise. He himself claimed Aerea's rightful throne after Maegor's death. At least Queen Rhaena had agreed with his decision in the beginning. He had some semblance of justification then.
But why is Rhaenys such an ill-fit to follow in his footsteps? Baelon is a great warrior yes. But there are stronger, more brilliant military commanders in the kingdom. The monarch can utilize them to protect and defend the realm. If she learns about strategies and tactics does it matter or not if she carries the sword herself. Her dragon Meyles would assure she's in battle anyhow.
But of course. The threat of insurrection is too dangerous. Decades of peace cannot be jeopardized for a woman's whims. Even if she's the legal heir by First Men and Andal customs.
Eight years after her initial usurpation, her uncle Baelon died.
In an ironic way, the Gods both smiled at her and ridiculed her.
The Great Council, that gathering of pompous lords and self-proclaimed arbiters of destiny, had chosen Viserys over her.
Her cousin had none of Baelon's martial or political prowess. Nothing to make him a more favorable candidate.
Except his cock.
That's what it came down to.
They had dismissed her rightful claim to the throne, blinded by their own prejudices and narrow-mindedness. The sting of that betrayal still lingered, a wound that refused to heal even now.
Resentment simmered beneath the surface, a resentment she had learned to mask with a veneer of duty and loyalty. But in the solitude of her chamber, she allowed herself to feel its weight, to acknowledge the injustice that had been done to her and her family.
War wasn't the answer. She would never stoop that low. Throw the board in a huff like some impulsive child because she didn't win the game.
No matter how sweet it sounded.
**
Rhaenys' anger flared, fueled by the unbearable grief that had recently befallen her.
The deaths of her beloved children, Laena and Laenor, had ripped her soul apart. It was a wound that refused to close, a wound inflicted by Daemon and Rhaenyra, who had conspired to wed one another, disregarding the consequences their ambitions would bring.
She closed her eyes, the memories threatening to drown her in an ocean of sorrow.
Laena, with her fiery spirit and adventurous soul, had been taken from her too soon. She didn't even get to say goodbye. That's the worst and most brutal thing. For ten years her daughter was an exile in all but name. Daemon had prevented her from returning. A selfish prat from his formative years, but a cruel one she just learned.
Laenor, her gentle-hearted son, had been swept away by the cruel tides of fate. Found dead in their own castle days later.
Suicide. How foolish did they think she was.
Laenor was restless at court for years. Desperate for another battle to breath life back into him. His marriage to Rhaenyra was doomed from the start. She knew that, but she didn't fight hard enough against the decision. Her silence will haunt her for the rest of her days.
But avenging his murder takes precedence. Her Maester claimed he noticed an oddity when the silent sisters came to prepare the last rights. The fall may have caused the neck snap obviously. But they were signs of further damage prior to his fatal leap.
Many maesters would've missed it. Or even accused him and Rhaenys of seeing enemies everywhere trying to rationalize her grief.
But she knows he's right. That Laenor didn't abandon her of his own free will.
He couldn't have.
Her children's laughter, their innocence, their dreams—snuffed out in an instant.
Tears welled up in her eyes, cascading down her cheeks like crystalline rivers of grief. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms, as she fought to contain the torrent of emotions threatening to consume her. The weight of loss and betrayal pressed upon her, threatening to suffocate her spirit.
In the solitude of her chamber, Rhaenys allowed herself to mourn and reflect. The room seemed to echo with the ghosts of her pain, as if the very walls absorbed her anguish. Each flickering flame whispered to her, offering solace and understanding.
She gazed into the depths of the crackling fire, its dance of light and shadow mirroring the tumultuous journey of her life.
Targaryens were heat resistant but never fully immune. Never actual gods like they claimed. Just flesh and blood.
As the embers glowed with a renewed intensity, a fire ignited within her. It was a fire fueled by the shards of broken dreams and the ashes of her grief converging into a blazing inferno of determination.
The game of thrones was far from over, and Rhaenys Targaryen Velaryon would not be silenced or forgotten.
***
Rhaenys looked up from her troubled thoughts as Corlys and Vaemond entered her quarters, concern etched on their faces. She rose from her seat, her voice trembling with a mixture of sadness and resolve.
"Corlys, Vaemond, I am glad you are here. We must discuss what has transpired and the choices we face in the upcoming trial. Daemon's actions have brought great devastation upon our family."
Corlys' eyes mirrored the pain in Rhaenys' voice, and he reached out to hold her hand, offering comfort.
"My love, it is a difficult situation we find ourselves in. The attack on Daemion has shattered our trust in Daemon, and we must consider the consequences of remaining loyal to him and Rhaenyra."
Vaemond, standing at the window, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon, spoke with a mixture of anger and resignation.
"Daemon's actions have stained our house and our name. My son is dying because of of him". Her good-brother's voice trembled. A mad Leviathan on the precipice of devouring the world. "Our family has known naught by bloodshed and disregard under Rhaenyra's coat of allegiance, and we must distance ourselves from her and Daemon if we are to salvage what remains of our honor."
Rhaenys' eyes welled up with tears and rage, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Daemion lies near death, and for what? Loyalty to a worthless cause? We cannot continue to stand by Rhaenyra's side, not when it comes at the cost of our family's well-being."
Corlys drew Rhaenys closer, his voice filled with a mix of love and concern.
"Rhaenys, my heart aches for what has happened to Daemion, but we must consider our actions carefully. Abandoning Rhaenyra and Daemon at the trial would have far-reaching consequences. We risk further fracturing the realm and inviting chaos."
Vaemond finally turned away from the window, his voice filled with mocking derision. "That would be something, wouldn't it? Inviting devide is their privilege. And we are but their faithful servants. Are we not brother?"
"Brother. I only council caution and planning. Is that madness? Viserys is still king."
"Lord crypt keeper holds no power. It's the Queen who will preside over the trial. Now is the time to denounce Rhaenyra's bastards for what they are. Laenor's blood stains that whore and her kinslayer husband's hands. We cannot let their tainted line define us."
"Mind your tongue. They're might be spies you fool." Corlys tried to quit his wrathful brother but his attempt was futile.
"Let them. From Dorne to the Wall, I want the truth to be heard. We've been docile silent lambs for too long." Vaemond stared at his brother's much larger form, not a hint of fear or remorse for his words.
Rhaenys at last intervened, a newfound strength emerging in her voice. "I agree, Vaemond. We must prioritize our family's legacy and the well-being of our grandchildren. We cannot let blind loyalty obscure us to the truth. We must stand for justice, even if it means turning away from Rhaenyra and Daemon."
Corlys held Rhaenys' hand tightly, his voice filled with determination.
"We will face the trial with integrity, making our decisions based on what is right, not just for us, but for the realm as well. We must be prepared for the consequences, whatever they may be."
As the three of them embraced, a sense of unity and purpose settled upon them. The choices they would make could alter the course of their family's future and the realm itself.
The Old. The Brave. The True.
They'll bring back the name to its roots.
***
Jon POV
For the Watch.
Blood on his tongue. Smoke out of his broken body. The snows embracing him as his namesake always intended.
Ghost. A long mournful howl in the darkest night.
Jon Snow awoke with a start, his heart pounding in his chest, drenched in a cold sweat that clung to his brow.
The room was shrouded in darkness, save for the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the window.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and when they did, he saw her by his bedside. Sansa Stark, his sister, and now his confidante.
It was an odd ritual they started. So much longing for any kinship or intimacy bound them together. The terrors of their own memory stalking them without fail. Their only solace was each other.
"Jon?" Sansa's voice was gentle, filled with concern as she tried to sit beside him. He'd woken her up with his screaming. Her touch was soothing, her hand resting comfortingly on his arm. "Another nightmare?"
He nodded, his voice barely a whisper. "It's always the same. Castle Black haunts me still, even after all this time."
Sansa's eyes softened, understanding the weight he carried. She had seen him at his lowest, witnessed him oscillating from detached and aloof to a feral monster on the drop of a hat.
R'hollor supposedly chose him according to Melisandre. But he kept a part of his soul with him. Why else is he forever feeling a tether splitting him in half.
No peace. No rest. Just a gaping pit of bloodlust and rage.
Unless with her.
Sansa had stood by his side. Named him a Stark. And their bond had grown stronger with each passing day.
"It was a terrible ordeal," Sansa murmured, her voice laced with empathy. "But you came back, Jon. You defied death itself and returned to us. To me." She said the last word with a mere whisper.
Jon's gaze met hers, a mixture of gratitude and sadness reflecting in his eyes. "I know. But for what? To be King in the North. I had no right to the crown despite Robb's will. To save our people against the Others? Even with the Vale forces and the remaining Northmen, we will be slaughtered."
Sansa's hand tightened around his arm, offering strength and support. "You carry the weight of our family's legacy, Jon, but you do not bear it alone. We stand together, as we always have. Robb knew you'd make a good king. The Houses know it. As do I. "
A wistful smile tugged at the corners of Jon's lips as he looked at Sansa.
"What?" She looked at him with a slight blush that made think of all the wrong things.
Bastard blood. It must be.
Lady Catelyn always knew he'd usurp her children. If not by intention, then just his Stark appearance will win him popularity.
And any potential sons he fathered will pose a threat to her own grandchildren. If he doesn't became a Daemon Blackfyre, his line might produce one sooner or later.
He had join the Night's Watch to prove her wrong. To prove to himself that bastards aren't creature of lust, deceit or treachery. Always wanting and scheming to steal what doesn't belong to them.
But now, with her daughter, his half-sister in bed. Not engaging in any inappropriate behavior but knowing how much he wants to.
Maybe bastards are cursed.
"It's nothing. Thank you, Sansa."
Sansa's breath caught, her gaze meeting his. There was something she didn't say. But he probably imagined it."You're welcome."
Jon reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair behind Sansa's ear. His touch was tender, filled with a mixture of longing and confusion. "I'm sorry I disturbed your rest."
Sansa rolled her eyes, her voice jokingly scolding. "It was horrible of you. How will you ever make it up to me?"
Anything. A small whisper on the tip of his tongue.
"I could ask Lord Manderly for his lemon stock. I know how much you love lemon cakes."
Her smile became genuine. "Alright. Goodnight, Jon."
"Goodnight, Sansa."
Just as they lied down together, the big grumpy direwolf jumped on his bed, licking Sansa in the face.
Traitor.
Sansa hugged and nestled to his snout.
It was beautiful.
Bastard blood. Tainted heart. Shredded soul. A dead man living.
Everything he touches is fated to wither and die.
But it can't be her.