Chapter Text
“Do you think my mother might return soon?” Valaena asked, pacing what the small space she and Corlys shared in the Black Cell. Her skirts dragged upon the floor of the cell, weighed down by mud and dust.
Corlys, weary from age, was sitting, and watched his granddaughter with apprehension. While she had been free under her mother’s control of King’s Landing, once Rhaenyra had fled with her boys, Valaena had been left at the mercy of the self-proclaimed king, Trystane Truefyre—a ridiculous name by Corlys’ own judgment. The man had made clear advances upon Valaena, hoping to use the girl’s clearer ties to House Targaryen and what little favor she carried in court to his advantage. However, she had refused him, much to his annoyance and had proclaimed she rethink his offer in the Black Cells. With her charm she managed to convince the soldiers to put her with Corlys, much to his relief. While he was no longer in the best shape, he would be able to defend the girl if any man angry at Rhaenyra wished to take it out on her daughter.
While Valaena had always been the more even tempered of Rhaenyra’s elder children, especially when compared to the girl’s punch-first-consequences-be-damned twin brother, Valaena looked as though she were fraying at the seams. Her skirts were not the only evidence of her lack of care, but her dark hair was a mess, her braid coming undone and frizzing to the point of her contemplating, on more than one occasion, to chop it all off. And then the dress itself hung from her body. It was obvious that she had not eaten as much as she should have, always insisting that she was younger and could handle it. But she had been wasting even before being thrown in the cells.
“I am sure your mother will come for you as soon as she is able,” he said gently.
The loss of Joffrey had been a terrible blow. She had been the one to go out and recover the body, shouting at any of the soldiers who dared touch her younger brother’s mangled corpse until he was properly buried beside his grandfather. Many wondered if she had gone mad, but many said if she had, it was not nearly as bad as the last queen, Helaena. The thought of the girl he had hardly known made his stomach churn. Her death had been the death of most of the dragons. Valaena’s dragon, Kirine, had been out for a flight and had stayed well away from King’s Landing since then. Corlys, who had always thought dragons mysterious in their own right, wondered if the beast was slowly becoming wild, enjoying the freedom never felt since Valaena had hatched the beast herself.
Corlys could still recall when she and Jacaerys had been born. He recalled the celebrations and feasts that had been prepared for the upcoming birth of the king’s first grandchild—children based on the maester’s calculations. Corlys and his beloved wife had been thrilled at the prospect of a grandchild who stood to inherit the Iron Throne. The line of Rhaenys and Viserys, of Aemon and Baelon, united at last. Corlys had felt a sense of rightness in it all, even though Laenor had a look of guilt about him. Corlys had merely assumed it to be the jitters of a man about to become a father. He had felt them himself every time one of his children were born. It was natural.
And then the birth came and then, as custom, the child was to be presented to the king at court, publicly showing the line of succession was secure. And when the news of two babes, a boy and a girl, the court had begun to whisper gleefully of the possible future of another Old King and Good Queen. And then they were presented.
Corlys had stood beside Rhaenys, gleeful to see his grandchildren. With two they would be presented by not only the father but by someone the father of the children trusted—Corlys now knew the man to be one of his son’s lovers. When his son had come into the throne room, shame still traced his features, although only Corlys and Rhaenys had been able to tell, as most parents often did. Laenor presented the children and soft gasps and whispers began to echo across the court. The young queen looked mortified.
The children did not bear a hint of Valyrian blood in their features, save their noses. They did not look even a bit like Velaryons either. Their dark hair and eyes only further highlighted the paleness of their skin. Perhaps if Rhaenys had taken after her Baratheon mother, people would have made no obvious notice, but these children did not even look Baratheon in their coloring. Baratheons had tanner skin and black hair, not the dark brown the children bore.
While the king proudly proclaimed his grandchildren with the names their mother had given them, Jacaerys and Valaena, Corlys could hardly look at them. He and Rhaenys returned to Driftmark the next morning with very little acknowledgement of the children his son had claimed as his own.
Laenor had written to them often, continually claiming them as his children and trying to get his mother to come and see her grandchildren, claiming they took after her Baratheon mother, but Rhaenys would not budge and neither had Corlys.
And then Lucerys had been born, this time his presentation had been private by order of the queen and while Corlys held no favor for the woman that had taken the title from his own daughter, she had, at least, freed House Velaryon of more public shame.
Laenor had continued to write, often expounding on his children’s virtues to the point of being repetitive—as though he never truly had any in-depth analysis of the children he claimed.
And then Corlys saw his granddaughter’s by Laena and saw what a true Targaryen-Velaryon union could produce and the difference was only more obvious, despite the tragic circumstances that he had to compare them to. He had heard that his good daughter’s lover had died, and it was obvious that Laenor neglected his duties to the boys he claimed, although he more openly favoring Valaena, who had stood solemnly in front of her father during the funeral, his hands firmly on her shoulders as support. Corlys had tried to take up the role of grandfather to the boy his son had claimed as his own heir, but the boy was in no mood for any such attention.
And then royal blood had been spilt in the halls of Driftmark and then his son was dead.
Corlys had buried himself in battle and had neglected everything that he had once held dear. Rhaenys had been correct, he had abandoned her. He could not help but wonder now if things could have been different had he interceded at all. Had he been able to show clearer favor to the children his son had claimed, would Laenor still be alive? Would Rhaenys? Would Laena? Would the boys?
The steps of soldiers began to make their way towards the cell and Corlys pushed himself to his feet, taking Valaena by the hand and pushing her behind him. “Do not cower,” he told her. “The type of men you fear feed on such fear from a woman.”
How was it that a child who had named her dragon after happiness should be forced into such a vulnerable position?
It was strange the relief he felt when he saw the golden dragon of the Greens emblazoned upon the armor of the soldiers that opened the cell door. “King Aegon Targaryen, second of his name, has taken the city,” one of the men said. “You are to be escorted to the small council chambers to discuss your pardon.”
“As long as my granddaughter is taken to the rooms her grandmother once held,” Corlys said, making sure to keep himself between Valaena and the men. “She is a princess of House Targaryen and the daughter of a crowned queen, she should be treated as such.”
The two men shared a glance of unease.
“Speak,” Corlys demanded.
“Rhaenyra Targaryen has been executed for treason against the crown and the true king,” the second man said simply.
Corlys felt Valaena collapse to the ground behind him and an inhuman scream that reminded Corlys of Rhaenys when they found the body of Laenor resounded in the Black Cells as he knelt down beside his granddaughter and brought her into his arms as all the horrors of the war seemed to compress on her fragile frame and shattered what little sanity the girl had held onto.
—
Valaena had been settled in rooms befitting someone of her birth, guarded by men Corlys recognized and trusted enough to leave her there. He was then led to the small council chambers which had already begun to drop any of the pretender king and Rhaenyra’s colors. Amongst those gathered, Corlys recognized Queen Alicent, who looked just as exhausted and thin, just as Valaena was. He remembered then that she had been imprisoned as well, however being the wife of Viserys had afforded her better rooms in her sequestering. She was no longer the quiet girl who earnestly tried to regain the affection of Rhaenyra, nor the woman begging her husband for justice, now she was a broken woman, her hair dull and graying early from her stress. The other member of the council that Corlys recognized was Larys Strong. The man had backed Trystane Truefyre and Corlys was surprised that he had been allowed back on the council. The next was Tyland Lannister who had faced Rhaenyra’s wrath. Corlys had seen the man after torture and it was as grotesque as it had been the first time.
Aegon the Elder sat at the head of the table in his chair that had been fashioned for his movement. His burn scars had begun to heal, but marred his once handsome face. While a green blanket covered his lap, Corlys knew his legs were mangled underneath. His arm seemed ruined as well. A cripple. Corlys wished to laugh. The boy had despised his father greatly and now he had been reduced to a similar manner.
“My mother and Lord Larys Strong have begged for mercy on your behalf,” Aegon said, his voice as strong and clear as ever, although a sense of weariness twinged it. “I will even agree for her to remain legitimized under your son’s line as long as the both of you bend the knee. I shall even make Alyn Velaryon your heir to Driftmark. You’ll recall we gave my half-sister fair terms before this war started, fairer still than the underhanded terms she and her husband employed to my family and those who followed us.”
“I will agree to your stipulations, your grace, if you will allow me to make my own. I wish for my granddaughter Baela to be pardoned and for Rhaenyra’s youngest sons to be released into their eldest sister’s custody.”
“You will find I am being generous in even allowing my niece to be given any pardon at all because she did not fight as your other granddaughter did—the granddaughter who did this to me.” Aegon motioned to his face. “Perhaps I should call for all of Rhaenyra’s line to be wiped from Westeros in exchange for your trueborn granddaughter? Shall I make you choose as your good son’s goons made my wife choose?” There was such bitter hatred in the boy’s voice that a shudder ran up Corlys’ spine.
While Aegon the Younger and Viserys were not his blood, not even by claiming, Valaena was not his blood either, but he could not abandon those children as their parents had in death.
“I have an idea that might end this war more smoothly, your grace,” Corlys said, making his voice firm. “Instead of ending Rhaenyra’s line, use her claim to your advantage. By the right Rhaenyra pushed for her claim over the children of a second marriage, use the same logic to put for Valaena’s heirship under her mother above that over her younger half-brothers.” He begged the gods to forgive him for this lie. “I can even attest that Rhaenyra left Valaena in King’s Landing as her heir in hopes to set things to right when she and the boys left.” Left rather than fled. “I suggest a betrothal, your grace, a marriage between yourself and Valaena, combining your claims in the way your grandfather, Lord Otto, had suggested between yourself and your half-sister, as well as the match Rhaenyra offered between Jacaerys and Queen Helaena.”
Corlys realized his mistake upon mentioning the late queen as the king’s eyes filled with such extreme hatred, only for it to subside like a mask slipping into place. “And would the lady be willing for such a marriage, I did have her mother killed, after all.”
“Just as you love your brothers and sister, your grace, so too does she. She would be willing to do anything for those boys.”
“I will not have Rhaenyra’s daughter—” Queen Alicent began.
“Mother, hush,” the king said, watching Corlys with a mix of curiosity and contemplation.
“Aegon, not only is she a bastard, but you cannot trust that she will remain loyal to you in marriage. Perhaps she will even try to pass on another man’s child as your own. Besides, it has already been discussed that you would consider a marriage to Cassandra Baratheon.”
Aegon held his hand up to quiet his mother’s complaints. “I will agree to the betrothal if the lady is willing. However, her brothers will be stripped of their titles. Viserys will one day be sent to serve in the Citadel to train to become a maester while Aegon the Younger will one day choose between joining the Kingsguard or taking the Black. Your granddaughters, the lady, her brothers, and yourself must also publicly bend the knee. Once the betrothal contract is signed, copies shall be sent to all the remaining forces that fly under Rhaenyra’s banner. Either they bend the knee and accept my right as king or else I will hang the bodies of my half-sister’s line from the ramparts.”
And Corlys knew he would do it too. “I will speak to the lady, your grace. I only ask that I be allowed to speak to her after she has rested and bathed.”
Aegon waved his hand, dismissing him to be escorted back to the rooms that had been given to himself and Valaena.