"I know," Rhaenyra said, her voice low and strained. She stood, hands braced against the cold black stone, staring out at the endless waters below. "I know what duty demands of me. But I do not want to wed. The moment I see those lords, with their thin smiles and hungry eyes, my stomach turns."
She closed her fingers into a fist, nails biting into her palm.
Rhaenyra understood the grand principles well enough. She had been raised on them. She knew what it meant to be the named heir, what the realm expected of her womb, her blood, her future children. Yet understanding did nothing to dull her loathing.
Those men did not look at her as a woman, nor even as a princess. They weighed her like coin, appraised her like a vein of gold buried in dragon flesh. Every time she caught their eyes lingering, calculating, she felt an urge so sharp it frightened her. She wanted to rake her nails across their faces, to blind them for daring to measure her worth.
Baelon leaned against one of the dark pillars of Blackheart Tower, arms folded loosely across his chest. He had listened without interrupting, as he always did. When she finished, he tilted his head, a faint glimmer of mischief touching his otherwise composed expression.
"Then take a consort from within the blood," he said lightly. "A prince of House Targaryen. It would spare you the sight of grasping hands and false courtesy."
Rhaenyra turned at that, silver-gold hair sliding over her shoulder. Her brow furrowed, suspicious.
"I think Aegon would do well enough," Baelon added, watching her carefully.
He was, in truth, curious. Curious what would happen if she took that path. Curious whether the black banners and the green might truly be bound together by marriage, whether the poison that had seeped into the court could be diluted by blood.
Rhaenyra gave a short, humorless laugh.
"Alicent would never permit it," she said. Her tone was flat, stripped of warmth. "She is convinced I dream of her sons' deaths. If I so much as suggested marrying Aegon, she would swear I meant to poison him in his sleep."
Her gaze drifted away again, out over the dark horizon. For a moment, something weary and wounded flickered across her face.
Once, Alicent had been her closest companion. Once, they had shared whispered secrets and laughter behind cupped hands. Since the day the crown had been placed upon Alicent's brow, that closeness had withered into something sharp and brittle. Each passing year only widened the distance between them.
Baelon was silent for a time.
"Then there are no suitable princes left for you within the house," he said at last. "My father remains wed to Lady Rhea Royce, and all signs suggest that will not change."
At the mention of Rhea Royce, his thoughts shifted, turning inward.
Daemon's marriage was a matter Baelon had no intention of meddling with. For now, Daemon's sole claim in the Vale lay through that union. Should Rhea Royce meet the same end she had in another life, Daemon would, by all lawful right, inherit Runestone.
In the original story, Daemon had failed to secure that power. This time, he would not allow such an outcome.
House Royce, ancient and proud, was the second-greatest house of the Vale. To bring it under control was to place a firm hand upon the region itself. Among the Vale lords, bound by custom and sworn oaths, legitimacy was sacred. No conquest held weight without lawful claim.
Once, the Royces had styled themselves the Bronze Kings. Their lineage was old, their pride ironbound. They were the perfect fulcrum.
Baelon had long believed that when King Jaehaerys arranged Daemon's marriage to Rhea Royce, it had been for precisely this reason.
"No," Rhaenyra said quietly.
Baelon looked up.
"There is one more."
She had turned fully now, facing him. Her expression was composed, almost eerily so. Violet eyes fixed on his with an intensity that made his chest tighten.
"One more," he echoed slowly.
Understanding came a heartbeat later.
"You mean me."
For a brief moment, he hoped he was mistaken. Then he saw it in her eyes, bare and unflinching.
Seven hells.
"No," Baelon said at once. He straightened, the humor draining from his face. "That is impossible. I am already betrothed to Laena Velaryon."
The words came out sharper than he intended, edged with urgency. Disaster loomed too close for comfort, and instinct drove him to push it away.
He should have known better. Rhaenyra had not flown all this way to Harrenhal merely to unburden her heart. She had come with purpose.
And that purpose was folly.
"Why not?" Rhaenyra demanded, stepping closer. Her calm fractured, irritation bleeding through. "You are betrothed, not wed. An engagement can be broken. My father is king. He can command it annulled."
Her voice rose as she spoke, breath quickening.
"You would return to the Red Keep," she continued, eyes bright with desperate resolve. "You would stand beside me as my prince consort."
She felt trapped. Surrounded on all sides by choices she despised. The great houses of the realm paraded their sons before her like wares at market. House Velaryon had already spurned her offer. Within House Targaryen, there were no suitable matches left.
She had searched every corner of her world.
Only Baelon remained.
Baelon stared at her as though she had lost all sense.
He could not fathom how she managed, time and again, to wound every ally with a single stroke. This choice would not merely sever ties with House Velaryon. It would humiliate them. It would shatter years of careful balance.
And it would cut him as well.
She had all but helped raise him. Trusted him. Leaned on him.
If he did not know how reckless Rhaenyra could be, he might have shouted then and there.
Vhagar was nearly within reach, and she wished to cast it aside.
Foolish girl.
"Am I truly inferior to Laena?" Rhaenyra pressed, agitation tightening her voice. "I am fairer than she is. My figure is better. My birth is higher. She has a dragon, yes, but so do I. Why choose her over me?"
Her words echoed, raw and unguarded.
It was not an unfair comparison.
Laena Velaryon possessed a gentle beauty, soft and warm, her charm rooted in youth and sweetness. Rhaenyra, by contrast, was striking in a colder way. Regal. Commanding. There was steel beneath her beauty, and fire behind her eyes.
They did not call her the Realm's Delight without cause. The inhuman beauty of House Targaryen was no exaggeration.
Baelon exhaled slowly, forcing his tone to remain even.
"Do not anger yourself," he said. "Laena and I have been promised to one another. We share understanding and regard. In public and in private, I cannot break that vow."
Beauty alone had never ruled him.
One dragon was enough to weigh his heart, and Vhagar was no small thing.
And truth be told, was Vhagar herself not a wonder beyond compare?
Rhaenyra fell silent.
She allowed him to take her arm and guide her from the balcony to the dining hall. She did not resist as he seated her at the long table.
"You arrived at the proper hour," he said. "Eat. The food here is good enough to soothe even a troubled spirit."
He poured her a cup of Summer Red from the Arbor, rich and sweet. It was a wine favored by Rhaenyra and by Daemon alike, and Baelon kept ample stores of it within Harrenhal's towers.
Rhaenyra had flown straight from court without breaking her fast. Hunger crept up on her now, and the Tyroshi dishes laid before her awakened her senses. As she ate, the tight knot in her chest loosened.
After some time, she set her cup aside.
"I am sorry," she said softly. "I have been under great strain. I spoke without restraint."
Shame colored her cheeks as memory returned. The desperation. The comparisons. The near-begging.
She was the heir to the Iron Throne, and yet she had demeaned herself.
"It is no crime," Baelon replied. "The weight placed upon you is heavy. I know this."
Only when she truly settled did he allow himself to relax. The thought of her acting rashly, of her forcing the matter before the king, had filled him with dread. Such a move would have invited chaos, perhaps even rebellion.
That was why he indulged her now.
What surprised him was that she spoke no more of marriage. Instead, she drank. One cup, then another.
Eventually, her head drooped forward, and she slumped against the table, overcome by wine and exhaustion.
Baelon summoned servants and had her carried to her chambers. He retired to his own room soon after.
The night was deep when a knock stirred him from sleep.
"What is it?" he called, irritation held in check.
"My lord," came the voice of Ser Samond Rivers beyond the door. "Princess Rhaenyra is here. She says she wishes to share your bed."
Baelon closed his eyes.
"Let her enter."
He had expected this. Since childhood, whenever Rhaenyra felt afraid or overwhelmed, she sought him out. It was habit, ingrained in them both.
She stumbled in moments later, the scent of wine heavy about her. Without ceremony, she shed her gown, slipped beneath the covers, and curled against him, arms winding tight as she pressed her face to his chest.
She sighed, content, already drifting.
Baelon stared at the ceiling.
"Well," he muttered under his breath, "at least she remembered to remove the dress. That is improvement enough."
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A/N: If you think you know what comes next… you don't. The answers are already waiting ahead.
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