A Month Later, Rhaenyra POV
Rhaenyra watched from the corner of her eye as her half-brother studied the Valyrian glyph texts her nuncle Daemon had brought out from the secret room in Dragonstone—where the scrolls Aenar Targaryen once brought from Valyria were kept. The boy was persistent; Rhaenyra had to give him that.
Aegon didn't seem to possess the same talent for magic that she and her uncle did. Even so, that didn't stop him from trying. Unlike her father, who had set aside his focus elsewhere from the arcane once he realized he lacked the gift, her daughter and brother possess. Aegon continued his efforts—stumbling though they were. Not that both of them were entirely devoid of magical ability, but they simply didn't progress with the unnatural speed that Rhaenyra and Daemon did in advancing through the studies of magics.
"I don't get it. Why is this so difficult? It's like the numbers Maesters droll on and on about," Aegon complained aloud, tossing the scroll aside in frustration. Rhaenyra's first thought was how her uncle would react to such disrespect to the ancient scroll brought back from Old Valyria. If Daemon had seen that, Aegon might have been thrown out of Dragonstone—or at the very least, banned from further lessons.
A moment later, Aegon seemed to realize he wasn't alone. Embarrassment flashed across his face as he avoided her gaze. Rhaenyra didn't hate Aegon as much as Alicent and her ambitious father seemed to believe. She knew her own father well. He would never replace her with Aegon—not after naming her heir, not after telling her what every Targaryen heir had been told since the days of Aegon the Conqueror. That knowledge alone had cemented her belief that she was meant to be queen. And Aegon will be no threat to her as long as she doesn't push him and his siblings to become one.
So when Aegon was born, she hadn't celebrated as the realm had. But she hadn't hated him either. A child had no fault in being born. It was the gods she resented, for giving Alicent what they hadn't given her mother. And Alicent herself—for sliding so easily into her mother's place, not even thinking once about how this would affect their friendship.
Rhaenyra shook her head. Now was not the time for such thoughts.
"What is it that you don't understand?" she asked.
Aegon glanced at her hesitantly before answering in a quiet voice, "It's just… all the glyphs look so similar. I keep mistaking one for another."
He ducked his head again, likely expecting a harsh retort. Her uncle had probably been less than kind in his critiques of Aegon, it seems.
"How far are your studies in High Valyrian? Can you read, write, and speak our ancestral tongue?" she asked, her voice softer than she intended.
"I… I can somewhat read and write in it, but speaking is still hard. The Maester has been focusing on the Common Tongue first," he replied, this time meeting her gaze.
Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow. The boy couldn't even speak High Valyrian properly, and yet was trying to learn Valyrian glyphs? Had her uncle not known? Or had he known and still berated the boy for failing? She sighed and took a deep breath. She would have to speak with her uncle.
"You must learn High Valyrian first, before even attempting to study Valyrian glyphs," she told him.
"But… aren't the glyphs just the letters of High Valyrian?"
"They're not. Who told you that?" Rhaenyra asked.
"Ahm… I… I—"
"You assumed that yourself?" she offered gently.
A small, timid nod was his only answer. She studied the boy. Rhaenyra would never admit it aloud, but Aegon had inherited more of their father than she had. And that face of his, she didn't like seeing it downcast.
"Very well. Let me help you today. And tomorrow, I'll join your lessons and tell the Maester to begin teaching you High Valyrian first. Now, show me what you already know."
An hour passed before the door opened again, and in came her uncle Daemon. Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow when she saw the smile on his face. Not that he didn't smile—but this one was different. And she didn't like it. Not when she wasn't the reason behind it.
"Why are you smiling like Mushroom?" Rhaenyra asked.
Daemon looked up, confusion flashing in his eyes as he glanced at her and Aegon—before a scowl twisted his features. "You would compare my smile to that of a court fool?" he growled, striding toward them and taking a seat beside her.
"I wouldn't dare… if you weren't imitating said fool so well," Rhaenyra replied without hesitation.
"You're free to leave, Aegon," she added, turning to the boy.
Aegon took the opportunity as though he were a dying man, offered water. With a stiff bow and a grateful curtsy, he rushed from the room, a soft sigh of relief escaping him as the door closed behind.
"You teaching that whore's whelps? What next?" Daemon scoffed. "Shall I expect news that the deserts of Dorne have turned bountiful?"
"I hate his mother and her father, not him and his siblings—unless they give me reason to," Rhaenyra said calmly.
"Is their existence not reason enough? Their very existence weakens your claim," Daemon argued, turning to face her more directly.
"In another world, perhaps. But not in this one. There is greater strength than a boy of five and his yet-unwalking siblings. Laenor Velaryon, for instance. And you said it yourself, nuncle—magic will be the new strength of our house. Alicent's children will never rival me in that."
She smiled proudly. Her talents in understanding and performing magic, rivaling even Daemon's, were a source of deep pride for her.
"Laenor is only a threat if you let him be one," her uncle replied with the same line he always used whenever she brought up the Velaryon heir.
"I've written to him," she said bitterly. "And he's replied—curt and cold, as one might respond to a distant cousin. What do you suggest I do next?"
Daemon didn't reply at once, and Rhaenyra thought again of Laenor. The rumors of his preferences—sword over sheath, some whispers—might hold truth. And Laena… she had grown more distant, too, ever since Rhaenyra mentioned her intent to pursue her brother.
"Then you must meet him in person. Going to Driftmark uninvited might not look good, but that doesn't apply to the North. Go there, speak with him, and see for yourself why I've been pushing you toward him so much," her uncle said, leaning back in his chair with a shrug.
"Laenor is going to that snow-filled land?"
"Aye. With how Corlys and Rhaenys are preparing, even the blind can see their son is set to journey somewhere. With a bit of peering here and there, I found out that the Velaryon heir is headed North—to strike trade deals, no less. And it was the Starks who invited him. Color me surprised," her uncle replied.
"Hmm. Then I'll need to return to King's Landing. Once I've informed my father, I can leave from there on Syrax's back in a few days. It's past time the court had my presence again," Rhaenyra pondered aloud.
"You can leave with your father, then. He's arriving here tonight."
"Father is coming? Why?"
"Because I informed him our guest from Lys will be here before sunrise tomorrow," her uncle said, that same smile creeping back onto his face.
"Oh, so she is the reason for your mood? Now I wonder what this Lyseni noblewoman looks like, to entice my blood-purist uncle so? Wasn't it you who once called them 'half-blood mongrels'?" Rhaenyra asked with a raised brow.
This noble family from Lys—who claimed descent from Valyrian mages—had provided scrolls of Valyrian magic to both her father and uncle. Too intrigued to ignore them, both had invited the family's most talented daughter to share her magic, offering to teach her theirs in return.
Not that her uncle truly planned to. He was confident he could seduce the daughter, learn her family's magic, then send her off with a few parlour tricks and empty praise. Rhaenyra was skeptical of that boast—and her suspicion only grew by the moment, especially seeing the look on his face now.
"Half-mongrels and bastards they may be, dear niece," her uncle said with a smirk. "But those mongrels do possess knowledge—and scrolls—from Old Valyria that make their existence useful. And if one family is generous enough to offer it to us, who am I to refuse?"
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