Archive of Our Own

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129 AC, The Third Day of the Third Moon - King's Landing

In fitful slumber, images flicker and burn into her weary soul.

One queen ripped open from sterum to hip. Another, a decade later...clothed in green.

Her misinterpretation of a king’s last words to his eldest daughter. A corpse king's last breath, calling for his only love, his first wife who he killed in search of a dream.

A never-ending, blinding storm.

A pearlescent wing washing ashore.

Screams and blood, a beheaded son.       

iā tresy syt iā tresy. [a son for a son]

The images flash by so quickly she cannot understand them all at once. Yet a few keep.

A silver-haired woman's body upon the spikes of the Red Keep’s moat. The red of her blood dripping on the spikes.

A dreamer fallen, a dreamer not listened to.

For dreams are warnings, not blessings.

A voice whispers: "This, Viserys did not learn." 

Eventually, the dawn comes with a weak morning light…extinguished by grayish hues of hard, petrified stone instead of scales in brilliant colors. Then, a large lake in the shape of an eye…

Two dragons drowning in greenest waters of blackest silt. A sapphire falls, gleaming in the dark silt, the sunlight barely reaching…the scene shifts, and Rhaenys screams for her cousin’s demise. A Valyrian sword gone in a blizzard of white. Green wildfire extinguishing the Iron Throne, the red and black heraldry too.

A frost so, so, so numbing cold,  never ending…

…that it bathes the world in life-ending icy, death-bringing blue.

They fall in the endless sky…one gold and two green dragons devoured by the blazing sun. One shot with arrows, another burning, its neck ripped apart. The third…the third is nothing but ash when the sun dims, destroyed and eclipsed by the moon…which also disappears. Only blackness reigns.

Then, she is only aware that she is falling, Meleys' life is gone from her eyes...and she, a proud dragonrider...meets a dragon-lords death, as she wished when her own kepa died, and all went awry.

Rhaenys startles awake with a silent scream on her lips, phantom flames dancing on her skin. She feels like she is still burning. But she is alive, as she inhales shakily upon a featherbed, It takes her time, as the hours pass, for the visions of her past life (and that future to come), to settle into her mind.

Bless the fourteen flames for this vision , she mouths. And may she beseech their forgiveness, for she has erred.

Oh, how she has done wrong by her children, who are dead in their crypts deep in the seas of Caraxes domain, the Merling King's too. 

Oh, Fourteen, thank you for this gift. Rhaenys prays for the first time in decades, lighting a match to a candle on the nightstand. 

For her heart, first shattered by her father’s death, then shattered by Jaehaerys picking Baelon over her, then truly died when Viserys won the Throne. Mayhaps what broke her the most were Laenor and Laena’s deaths, yet, even with Meleys, she’s been a husk without fire for decades . The fear and pain still linger, for she knows that Viserys has made his last few breaths, but now…mayhaps she can fix things?

In her black nightshift embroidered with silver seahorses, she padders to the door. As quietly as possible, she tries the door…finding it locked. Knocking softly, she waits as the door opens. Whoever opens it is cautious, for no noise sounds in the echos of the night.

Opening it the rest of the way, Rhaenys faces a white cloak.

She shudders, Ser Criston’s bloodlust on Laenor’s wedding night heavy in her mind.

Hopefully, not a turn-cloak.

“My Lady?” a soft, velvety voice inquires. As the cloak peeks his face inside the doorframe, pale eyes and a trimmed beard stare into her lilac ones. One of the twins, then? Which one?

“Ser Erryk?” He nods in assent and Rhaenys chokes. The fire in her dreams dries out the voice in her throat, “I require your counsel. Come.”

“Of course, Princess.” he rumbles, green eyes glinting in question.

Inside the chamber, the Kingsgaurd listens as Rhaenys inquires about the door’s lock. He explains his orders and how he must navigate them carefully and makes a vow to a Queen, to the Queen that Should Have Been. They plan their escape, then stay in their places, managing their positions to none the wiser. Rhaenys does not tell him of her foreknowledge. Erryk does not tell her of the coronation plans, nor the Green’s council, for he was not there- only told.

It goes as such when the sun pales a weak morning light: When the Red Keep fully wakes, it is under the tight vice-grip of green, venomous vipers. Rhaenys feigns confusion to the Dowager Queen, beseeching her to not continue to follow the whims of men. Rhaenys knows it is all in vain, for Alicent shall not know the truth of her words until she is faced with her failures of her own actions. In time, in time ,  Rhaenys repeats to herself, patient, yet cold. Unwavering, yet still angry at Laenor, and at Rhaenyra for their stupidity. Daemon’s brashness only can get them so far in court. Fury only does so much. And as thus, Rhaenys changes into her riding leathers of black scale and red armor, adorning her headpiece of horns. A homage to her mount, the Red Queen. She eats the meal brought to her, and she waits for the White Knight to do as instructed. To wait for a time to slip away.

In the bowels of Flea Bottom, where despair clouds the rays of sunlight through the depths, Ser Erryk tries in vain to convince his twin of Aegon’s unworthiness and treachery, and bides his time.

After, recalled back to the Keep, with a sadness upon his face to his twin, the Kingsuard sneaks into the Silent Sisters, kneels in front of his king one final time. Rhaenys lurks behind him, the walls having sheltered her. The sisters, silent as their due, do nothing as everyone prepares for the Dragonpit.

Everyone cared for the King when he lived. Now, with his mortal coil gone, he is nothing to the vipers who sustained him.

Saying a prayer below Viserys’ mortal frame to the Father and the Stranger, Ser Erryk stares pitingly at the man he served for most of his years. He remembers when he was initiated into the Kingsguard five and ten sunturns ago, his brother to his right. Ser Harrold held Blackfyre in Viserys’ steed (his sickness came and went more frequently, then), placing it upon his shoulders after he vowed his life to the royal family. Ser Harrold was the one to place his white cloak upon his shoulders. It is to Ser Harrold and the Princess- now the Queen- who he holds his loyalty to. For he knows that Viserys, this King now corpse, never wavered in twenty years about his heir. His heir, whom Arryk and himself share a birth-year with; 97 AC.

 Rhaenys stands behind him, a cloaked phantom in gray.

He kneels for a moment, gathering his strength for a final goodbye.

“....My king, I saw your devotion to your eldest, and your ever-growing weakness

after Queen Aemma’s death. I swear upon all the Gods, old and new, Valyrian and not, that I shall serve your daughter all the rest of the days of my life. First, though…”

With a quick caress on rotten skin, Ser Erryk carefully pries the crown from the King’s stiffened hands. He places the Old King Jaehaerys’ golden circlet, the very one Viserys wore for his entire five and twenty year reign, into his worn and weathered satchel.

“...your crown shall sit upon the true Queen’s head by ‘morrow’s dawn.”

 His whisper lingers in the room, almost seemingly permeating the air. Erryk backs up for Rhaenys to kneel and pay her respects, watching for any interruptions.

“ Oh, cousin… ” Rhaenys sighs, placing a gentle hand on his lifeless shoulder. Shared memories and decisions flow through her gaze like a roaring tempest at sea.

Viserys’ roaring laugh at her wedding feast to Corlys. His blinding smile at Aemma with a toddling Rhaenyra on the beaches of Dragonstone, when they all gathered, that last vacation. 

A younger her, Daemon and Viserys sliding on freshly waxed floors, barrling into a stunned Jaehaerys, Aemon and Baelon about to hold court in the Throne Room.

Rhaenys and Viserys pouring over Valyrian books as small teens in the royal library, before her father’s death. Gossiping in Valyrian, teasing Daemon for his dedication to the sword. Congratulating Rhaenys on claiming Meleys. She remembers the joy of both brothers as they clamored upon the Red Queen’s saddle for flights across the Blackwater. Those stopped after Balerion died, and Jaehaerys and Alysanne tore them all apart by their choices in heirs and marriage.

Rhaenys apologizes in Valyrian, the ancient language throaty on her tongue, “What could have been, if we only knew what would become. I am sorry, cousin, for my bitterness and arrogance. These were our burdens, but not our choices. I should have supported you more, instead of the vipers sinking their venom into you.”

Even in life, were you ever at peace? She questions. Even if Otto had not had his venom injected into the throne to make it Hightower green in all but name, was the weight of the crown ever kind to you?

Nay! For thrones were burdens on those who wore them. Aye, even she was known as Lady of Driftmark, the true Lady of the Tides in all but name these past six years. For her husband abandoned her in his grief. And she turned to ice, numb to the turnings of the moons. Only a few who had the aptitude for handling burdens both on themselves and their kin ruled well.

Viserys is- was -not one of those.

Even Jaehaerys and Alyssane, at their respective ends, were much too leeched from personal strife to function, leaving the snakes to pour their alluring venom into the Red Keep.

When dragons lose their young or their mate, they are shells of their true potential. Such is she, without her young, her mate led astray by grief to the sea's embrace. Such was Viserys, from Aemma’s death (and Balerion’s, too), Jaehaerys from Alyssane, Alyssane from Daenerys and Aemon and Baelon and Alyssa and Daella and Viserra and Gaemon and…and..too many. Too many flames extinguished.

Rhaenys lets a few gathered tears fall for the tragedy of their house. She is sincere as she quickly kneels, knees stinging in the cold brick.

“May you flourish with Aemma in the Fourteen Flames.” She vows in Valyrian, “May Balerion guide you home. May you toast with kepus Baelon and kepa Aemon at the Great Hearth. Watch over us, little cousin...My valonqar in truth.”

She breathes deeply, looking upon Viserys’ form. She pictures his alive, quietly physically suffering countenance. His acceptance in the face of suffering. His burdens, his love, and his care for many. He cared too much about what others thought, and Jaehaerys’ looming shadow to do the right things.

A few tears fall from her eyes as she vows, the Valyrian flowing from her mouth with finality and purpose, “I will protect Rhaenyra and your grandchildren, and see her continue the Conqueror's promise. This I vow on my future ashes, and the watery tombs of the fruits of my womb.” 

Rhaenys kisses his brow, as gently as Aemma and Alyssa once did. She turns to Ser Erryk, her compatriot in escape, and nods. 

These utterances the gods hold in their clutches. Ones that holds true, as Ser Erryk’s white cloak snaps in time with his steps. He guides Rhaenys (the Dreamer) through Maegor’s tunnels in tow, lurking in shadow. It is with the Flames’ blessing that they escape the clutches of the vipers' lair, together.

They briefly pause by Balerion’s skull, the altar already gathering dust, lighting a candle each. They hope beyond hope that their plan will work, despite the chaos and danger lurking in the Red Keep and the Landing both. A miracle keeps the pair together as too many are herded for a farce of a coronation, in the dragon pit. Where both beast and pawn are tied to chains not of their own desires.

At the Dragonpit, Aegon is crowned by Ser Criston. He lifts Blackfyre into the air, drunk on approval (oh, that’s all he’d ever desired) and power (all he craved) from the confused smallfolk. 

Otto stands triumphant and unrepentant, his plans seemingly succeeded. No remorse for the man- the king who considered him friend- tortured life and death. Otto grins at his ingenuity, a wan smile on his face.

Yet, the beast comes from beneath the boards. 

A gigantic red beast arises with a snarl, raging from the ground, breaking both the crowds and ground apart with her rage. As the Red Queen Meleys roars echo in the smallfolk’s chaos, her rider sits erect, triumphant in her Targaryen armor of old, Ser Errick clinging to her waist. His white cloak flows across Meleys’ scales, intertwining with Rhaenys' stark black. The one of both her Houses: Baratheon and Targaryen. Fury pairs well with Fire and Blood, especially in this moment.

The greens turn pale on the makeshift stage, terrified of their impending deaths. Some smallfolk stay, having fled to the stands. 

“The false king will fall, and his supporters will reap what they sow!” Rhaenys roars, her voice ringing in authority her cousin, the King, never possessed. She warns, not that the Greens and their supporters shall heed her warning. Rhaenys does so for the smallfolk to witness her might, her poise amid chaos and force. If anyone knows the power of their tales, their whispers she knows. For they will travel across the Realms.

She snarls at the false-King with Aegon’s Crown upon his head, Blackfyre limply hanging from his hands. Always favoring drink and lust to any attempt to master a sword or further himself in anyway. Rhaenys echos Viserys, at least what he wished for while alive. This, he never erred.

“The House of the Dragon cannot stand divided! I implore you, Hightowers! Do not continue this vile usurpation!” The Greens step back as Meleys creeps forward.

Rhaenys holds her head high, her diadem hitting the light just so, creating a halo upon her vistage.

“The true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, is the eldest of Viserys the Peaceful and Aemma the Admirable! Queen Rhaenyra! The First of her Name!”

The remaining smallfolk cheer Rhaenys’ and Rhaenyra’s names, captivated by her glory and might despite the pain in her eruption from the ground. Otto and Alicent visibly pale, stunned by their failure. None move upon the dias, terrorized by the Red Queen’s brilliance. Rhaenys smiles, for her dragoness shows her fangs to the King’s Guard. Pulling on her bond with Meleys, Rhaenys stops her dragon from engulfing the royals in flame.

As much as she wants to murder both her murderers, the damn taobi in the life that could have been, she cannot do so here. She cannot start the bloodshed.

She must let Rhaenyra prove her mettle, her worthiness to rule that Viserys knew. It is not her hands that will hold the crown’s power. It is her good-daughter that does. 

“I shall spare you once, for I will not be the one to start this bloodshed!” she snarls. Meleys blasts through the open doors of the Pit, Ser Erryk clinging to her all the while.

Instead of spreading word of a king’s coronation, the smallfolk spread tales of the Queen that Should of Been. Her mercy towards her traitorous kin, with a warning they should have listened to. Her regal mount roaring brilliantly, heralding the promise of fire and blood to come, bursting through the Dragon Pit’s cellars. 

King’s Landing spies the Red Queen heading East. To Dragonstone to the whore of a claimant, or to her lord husband’s seat on Driftmark, they do not know.

Alas, despite their failure to contain the news of their usurpation until the ravens have been sent, the allies secured, the serpent-like Greens slither anyway, to parley and gather their allies from the west and far-off eastern storms. For the coronation went through, and Aegon has the symbols of legitimacy that matter. His namesake’s crown, the Iron Throne, and the Sword of Kings. 

Will that be enough? Only time (and the Gods) will know. So the Queen Dowager prays to the Seven in the Sept before the feast in the Keep that her choices are true and good.

At the hasilty thrown feast, the new King hands his wife another cup of Arbor Gold, telling her to stop her nonsense.

Helaena, now the new Queen, spouts a line that they don’t listen to. Black gains wisdom true, a spile of blue and double black turn all to flames of red.

Aemond looks on, preparing to fly to Storm’s End…wishing once more for Helaena to be his, for Aegon to appreciate what he has. For One-Eye will marry Baratheon, not the only Valyrian beauty he deserves. Yet, he will do his duty with grace, with all expected of him. 

That doesn’t mean he has to like his duty, though. Aemond grumbles while sipping Arbor Gold, asking the servants for more. His sister can't be right. The first-born son must rule...isn't that the Faith's rule? Isn't that what is right and true and good?

When Dragonstone looms in the distance, Rhaenys breathes a sigh of relief. Yet, a pit of dread weighs heavy at the bottom of her stomach. Mayhaps this was all for naught? There is much she feels- the gut forewarning, the dizziness, a flash of what could have been.

A long awaited, long loved stillborn daughter…much more dragon than human. A stone faced Daemon, a rigid Rhaenyra…

Losing a child…Rhaenys has lost many before their time. Five, including Laenor and Laena. She will not let it happen. Even Daemon and Rhaenyra, despite what they’ve done to her and Corlys, did not deserve such pain. No one did, in truth. Yet, such is the world they all live in.

Dismounting from her loyal steed, Rhaenys calls for a Valyrian priest and Gerardys, the maester of Dragonstone to attend to her swiftly. Breathing in the sulfuric ash of her blood, she climbs the fortress’ steps, Ser Erryk beside her.

They stand outside the chambers, hastily announced.

Her eldest grandchildren run to her, all four of them, and Rhaenys clutches them, saying to each of them: Blood of my blood. She is like a dragoness with her hatchlings as she does so, and she does not regret, after seeing their deaths in her eyes.

She smiles at Luke, ruffling his hair as she used to do, before grief froze her heart colder than the lands beyond the Wall. When she found out that those rumors were true, two sunturns before Joff was born. When she found Laenor and Qarl asleep in his rooms in Driftmark, supposed to be in the Keep.

When Rhaenys is announced into the chamber of the Painted Table alone, Daemon and Rhaenyra are at the table. They turn as one, a bastion of hope. Twin flames of a single soul.

Silence reigns, a question lingers. Pleasantries are needed, for her visit is unexpected. 

Rhaenys does not pause as she did once, in another life, a cold distance away from her family. But she does not know of what could have been, what she would have done in that life. For things have changed.

She treads to her good-daughter and good-son, placing a leather-gloved hand on one of each of their shoulders. After a moment, they lean into the touch, as hatchlings do for dames. 

Rhaenyra composes a flash of emotion -a small surprised uptick of her eyebrows- but regains her queenly, regal mask. Only a lifetime gives the eldest of Viserys the political acumen to do so.

Rhaenys breaks the silence, asking gently in Common, “Have you received any ravens?”

The Princess of Dragonstone replies, a graceful hand on her pregnant stomach. “No, not any have come to us.”

“Princess Rhaenys…might we hope for news of Lord Corlys's recovery?” She hums, hope and concern gleaming in her amethyst eyes.

Rhaenys pauses, thinking of the babe...as the storm, the wing, the falling, the burning collects in her mind’s eye. A conversation between her son and her good-daughter, the plan they made. Rhaenys swallows heavily, the weight of it all upon her shoulders.

Too much it is too much to bear. She shuts her eyes, tears painfully welling up. 

Have faith, my daughter… A long lost voice whispers. You are not alone.

Channel your fury. Her long dead mother grins, her tall stature beside Rhaenys.

Our blood is everything. Her father hums, his pale white hair shining.

The sharp, icy cold wind makes her shudder. Dragonstone is filled with ghosts? she wonders. 

She does not want to cause Rhaenyra any grief, for the fire in her eyes to dull to embers, for the madness and despair to grip tightly on her heart. For she has seen what that future holds.

Here is where everything changes. Here is where I make a choice against my own resentment. Here is where I rise above my own pain and misgivings.

“Rhaenyra… You must be strong .” The Queen that Never Was starts, switching into the language of their ancestors. It flows off her tongue, not like honey as it usually does, but more…haltingly. Unsure. Daemon cocks his head (just like Viserys did), when she switches to Valyrian. Rhaenys has forgotten what it is like to do so, for her husband has Valyrian too, and they have not spoken in moons like lovers did.

“Se ribazma iksis se ossēnagon hen zūgagon (fear is the mindkiller).” She confesses, her eyes pleading for them to understand. Or, to at least to hear her, and make an attempt.

“I have dreamed of fire and blood to befall our generation. All that matters for our house, it starts now.”

Rhaenys retrieves her hands from their shoulders, and slowly kneels before Rhaenyra. Looking up into her face, Rhaenys exhales.

“The time has come for you to rule, my queen.”

She sighs, grief in very form as she clarifies Rhaenyra and Daemon’s confused faces, “Viserys is dead.”

Daemon pauses, his amethyst eyes alighting with Caraxes’ rage, his fist tightening around Dark Sister’s hilt.

“Sparos Āegenkon Dēmalion dēmassis?” he asks, voice chopped and broken. (Who holds the Iron Throne?)

“The Usurper Aegon, crowned by Ser Criston the Kingmaker at the Dragonpit.” Rhaenys replies in Common, looking at Rhaenyra’s pained face, and swallows, still kneeling.

Daemon is silent, his body quivering slightly that even Rhaenys can see it. He is taut with tension. A sword, needing to be used. To protect. To fix. To rage.

Rhaenyra takes a deep breath as she looks at Rhaenys, gripping the table hard with her hands that they are as white as the snows of the North. Not even her actions can suppress the waves of grief. Even if this was coming, for Viserys was declining for an age.

“How did my father die?” she finally asks, her voice small, just as it was many…many moons ago, when her mother passed.

Rhaenys stands, thinking back to the dream, to the images still held despite the time since her slumber.

“In his sleep. His last words were for you, Rhaenyra. And his last breath for his true love, Aemma.”

“How long ago?”

“A morn past, in the Hour of the Wolf. I was made a prisoner in my quarters while the Dowager Queen and her ilk made their preparations. They did it…quickly, as if they were preparing for this moment.”

Daemon snarls, Caraxes’ whistling roar echoing in the Keep, “Viserys has been slain! The High-cunt demanded you declare for Aegon?”

Rhaenys replied, willing Daemon to hold his anger, “Daemon, yes, the Dowager Queen did try. I refused her, for my loyalty is to you both.”

Daemon’s eyes flash dangerously, “And yet you are alive?!”

Rhaenys scoffs at the accusation. The dragon needs a dame to calm him.

“I escaped the Keep with Ser Erryk’s assistance, but we were driven into the Dragonpit. The High Septon anointed Aegon. I witnessed it myself just before I fled on Melyes with a warning. They crowned him before the masses, but the smallfolk will spread my proclamation that the true ruler is our Queen.”

Daemon grumbled, the fire simmering in his blood as he takes Rhaenys’ words, “That whοre of a queen murdered my brother and stole his throne, and you could have burned more for it.”

Rhaenys replied “I shall not be the first to alight the world with dragonfire, to turn our kingdom to ash. A war is to be fought over this treachery, to be sure.”

A wet splash resounds in the chamber. Rhaenyra’s waters, broken from the shock of her father’s death. It is no surprise to the Queen Who Never Was. Such happened when her own father, Aemon, passed.

The older woman continued, looking at Rhaenyra’s grief-filled form.

“The war is not mine to begin. It is for me to guide you, Rhaenyra. We will prove your worth, but it must be you leading and making the moves. The Greens are coming, Rhaenyra. Yet, we shall be ready.”

Rhaenys guides Rhaenyra with steady hands to leave the chamber.  “Daemon, call for your allies in the Crownlands, make haste to ready the isle’s defenses. I shall help the Queen in her labors.”

“This should not be happening…” Rhaenyra rages, outpouring pain and rage. In Visenya’s-Kepa Aemon’s- no…Rhaenyra’s chambers, the midwives circle the uncrowned, mourning Queen. She refuses the help of both the birthing chair, the bed, and even the midwives’ expertise as she labors for the sixth time. A steaming bath awaits near the Maester, the Valyrian Priest, and elder Cousin Rhaenys standing a few meters away by the open aired balcony. Grayish blue waves crash tumultuously upon the black sand shores.

Rhaenys watches from the side, muttering Valyrian over an indiscriminately old chalice. It shimmers gold above the red liquid, a sign that the ritual is working. Maester Gerardys stands beside her, always there for his charge, but respectful of her fear. Maesters near the birthing bed is an understandable strain upon the woman.

Blood and magic come alive once again , Rhaenys sighs, thanking the Flames for this success. Gerardys glances and pauses at the Targaryen matriarch, enraptured by the scene before him.

Clutching her stomach, the laboring woman snarls, causing the midwives to scatter like ants.

“It is fucking happening!”

Giving the chalice to the priest, Rhaenys approaches the Queen with Maester Gerardys, having told them her plan for the babe to live, even if a moon early. Even if laboring under deep grief.

The uncrowned Queen’s eyes glint, confused.

“Why are you helping me?” she asks, her breathing short and stilted, “I thought you blamed me for Laenor’s death? For being a woman heir, chosen by a man and kept as heir.”

Leading her into the bath, Rhaenys looks into Rhaenyra’s lavender haze,

“My Queen…Rhaenyra…my good-daughter…” she pauses, awaiting the words to come to her, “I apologize for the way I have spurned your children. Laenor could not be changed, despite my husband’s ambitions and wishes. You and Daemon should have never been kept apart. Jace, Luke, and Joff are just as lovely as Baela and Rhaena. So strong , fine, temperate and soulful dragons.”

In the moment’s calm, Rhaenys ends, contrite. She thinks of what Corlys said to her, long ago by the hearth at Driftmark. With the dreams, she says to Rhaenyra, “History remembers names, not blood.”

“We should have known that Laenor needed to be free from Westeros to survive in this wretched world. His death was Corlys and I’s fault. What could have been, if we had known what life would bring? What more could we have cherished? I wish I would have cherished you more, Rhaenyra, and tutored you in reigning. Instead, I wallowed in my grief, agony freezing my soul. For the men in my life made choices that doomed my future. Yet, I did not make my own of it all...of their choices. Instead, I grieved, allowed resentment to feed my soul.”

“Please,” she pleads, “give me the chance to do one thing right in my life. To advise you, to serve you, my Queen…that is my desire, my calling. My atonement.”

Rhaenyra stares at Rhaenys, both their violet eyes shining with unshed tears. Rhaenys shushes the Queen who grunts in pain, another contraction before she says anything, telling her to focus on the birth as she lowers her into the bath. The steam roils, directly from the Keep’s hot springs underneath.

“Bring me the chalice,” Rhaenys turns to the priest and the maester, her voice commanding as the eldest matriarch Targaryen in the room.

“Chalice?” Rhaenyra asks, her voice high and reedy, fear shooting into her previously relaxed form in the bath.

“Issa,” Rhaenys replies as she takes the chalice from Maester Gerardys’ concerned face. Rhaenys prays that this will work.

“Dragon’s blood, a Valyrian custom to strengthen you and the babe.” She kneels beside the tub. Rhaenys does not mention the contents of the goblet; the blood from her hand, nor the scales from a dragon’s egg, the ashes from a sacrifice too taboo to mention.

Raising it to Rhaenyra’s lips, Rhaenys urges the uncrowned, skeptical, fearful Queen, “Drink it now, and with speed. Lean into your bond with Syrax as it takes root!”

As Rhaenyra drinks, wincing at the taste, Rhaenys waits. A few contractions come forth, the laboring woman moaning through them softly. 

The dragon’s blood coils around the babe in the womb, causing scales and dragonic features to abate to fire-proof skin, and organs to develop, her lungs to strengthen.

As they lift a rejuvenated, exhausted, and still laboring Rhaenyra out of the pool and dry her, the Queen’s skin glows with an unnatural golden sheen. Naked as the day she was born, Rhaenyra breathes deeply as the once-lost ritual, the blood magic changes the babe, and changes…her.

“What did you do to me?” she asks, speechless as she perches behind the birthing chair. Rhaenys stands impassively, unwilling to reveal her secret. At least, not yet.

A time many moons ago as a little girl in Dragonstone, while her father was occupied, she explored these very chambers of Visenya. Methodical and mischievous even in accidentally revealing a secret chamber from a prick of her blood from the desk’s dragon’s maw. In there, an altar stood with a book of spells. If the Faith knew, if her father knew, only trouble would brew. So Rhaenys spent plenty of time in the secret chamber, left it undisturbed, and gleaned its secrets. Even at Driftmark, she never even told Corlys about it…eventually, she even forgot what knowledge she revived. Rhaenys waits, holding Rhaenyra’s hand as the labor progresses.

When Jace and Luke arrive, it is with Ser Steffon of the King's -no- Queen's Guard in tow, white cloak swishing behind him, his armor clanking.

Rhaenyra groans as another contraction hits her, calling out for her eldest. Jace gives a look to Rhaenys that she cannot decipher, and carefully treads to his mother, squeezing her shoulders as she bears the pain through another contraction. Luke stays towards the door, a slightly green parlor to his face. Rhaenys doesn’t blame the younger boy, seeing his mother in such a state must be quite the horror.

“Your grandsire, King Viserys, has passed.” the Queen sighs, the grief evident in her expression. Jacaerys frowns. Luke swears quietly behind, intelligible.

She continues, despite the pain in her heart, and Rhaenys is proud, “The Greens have repudiated the succession and claimed the Iron Throne. Aegon has been crowned king.”

Jace’s blackest eyes light afire, almost a dark amethyst. He processes the betrayal with a calm countenance, Rhaenys observes that he is not surprised. 

Their heir to the throne, she muses, is the best of them all.

“What is to be done about it?” he asks, voice sure and calm despite the news. A heavy boulder in the fast river, directing their path, as House Strong's words were.

Rhaenyra growls as another contraction runs through her, but her eldest steadies her, giving her an instructed breath that she matches instinctively. This is not his first birth he's helped her through, though those were much easier.

“Nothing yet, my hatchling. Let the babe be born, first.”

“And where is Daemon?” He should be here is left unspoken.

Rhaenyra clenches her eldest’s hand, her conterance regal as she declares to him,

“Whatever claim remains to me, you are now its heir. Naught is to be done but by my command.”

“Jacaerys.” Rhaenys says, “Tell Daemon that his Queen needs him despite his grief and fear.” Her eyes communicate the rest. Get him in here, even if it means someone dies.

“Lucerys.” Her gaze softens at the bewildered gaze of her husband’s heir, “Dearest Luke. Tresy hen ñuha tresy (Son of my son). Gather the rest of the Kingsguard on Caraxes’ Cliff. I will be there shortly to assuage their loyalty."

"Jace," she calls after him before he reaches the doors, "after escorting Daemon here, we will meet Luke. Make sure the hatchlings are with Baela and Rhaena in the Stone Drum, where it is most secure.”

The dark haired boys leave the chambers quickly, ever dutiful and loyal. Even when confused by their munazama’s sudden warmth to them this day. Rhaenys sighs gently, glad that their successors have a tempered fire to them. But still had fire and blood.

We can have a Daemon every generation, but no more than one. He is enough to handle as of now . Rhaenys sighs in the silence, the past sennight having worn on her.

As Rhaenyra’s labor progresses, the mother wails for the father.

“Daemon!” she screams. He rages in his grief, coiled like his dragon. Her father’s dragon.

Kneeling, Rhaenys closes her eyes, putting her hands on the Queen’s distended stomach, and breathes.

As she says another Valyrian blessing imprinted deeply into her brain, as her parlor weakens ever slightly from her blood channeling the magic, the Queen that Never Was hopes for Daemon’s fire to simmer, his grief to abate just slightly for him to attend his beloved. The little flame must breathe.

“Daemon!!!” Rhaenyra roars as the doors fly open. The Prince, the consort rigidly stands still, frozen, arms out. Rhaenys stands from the Queen  and crosses toward him, tense. They know the last time he entered a difficult birth from his wife, she was dying. Little Egg and Vis had easy births, that much Rhaenys knew.

“Cousin. I know this is hard for you, with Laena’s and Alyssa’s fates in your mind.” She whispers forcefully.

She hums, makes a growl not unlike her dragon Meleys does at Caraxes, her younger brother.“You must be here for your wife and babe. Be the consort for your Queen. I will swear in the Queen's Guard that are here on the island and organize the children.” 

Violet on lilac rage a silent war. A war to understand their own perspective. A war of grief, suffering, loss of a brother, and pure inferno.

Rhaenys sighs, ever weary. “He is dead. Be here for his daughter, your mate.”

Daemon blinks slowly, as if out of a trance, and places an icy cold, clammy hand on Rhaenys’ armor-covered shoulder. He unbuckles Dark Sister, sheath and all, giving it to Rhaenys. He moves to Rhaenyra, offering soft-spoken apologies in Valyrian.

Rhaenys watches as they cling to each other, twin flames roaring, interwined. She hears the Valyrian echo in the silent room.

Zaldrītsos…Iksan vaoreznuni…Nyke ōdrikagon lēda ao.

…Avy jorrāelan…Iksan kesīr.

Rhaenys nods to the couple, taking her leave out of Visenya's chambers, a silent Jace intercepts her in the entryway of the Keep past the Stone Drum placing himself steps behind her. Pulling on her greaves and hooking Dark Sister's sheath through her waist-belt, she walks to the cliffs upon the Keep’s beach to the West of the Mount, feeling Meyles’ answering call to her position.

As Rhaenyra and Daemon bring forth their babe, Ceraxes and Syrax coil above the keep, their flames torching the sky in hues of crimson and gold.

Rhaenys looms over Ser Steffon Darklyn and Ser Lorent Marbrand, Ser Erryk resting from the flight, his first and only. The Red Queen snarls beside her, an orange-red ball blooming threateningly in her jowls. To the left of Rhaenys, Jace stands tall, Lucerys hanging just a few steps behind.Brothers, united. Unlike Aemond and Aegon’s tension, Jace protects Luke, and Luke is an ever-present constant at his brother’s side, though two sun-turns younger.

They are strong , their Targaryen fire tempered by Riverlands loyalty and honor. Rhaenys muses, regret briefly shining in her eyes as she stares at them. If only Ser Strong had married Rhaenyra, perhaps things would have been different? She shakes her head, recalling the fire…though that was a haze of a letter, for Laena had died that moon.

Yet, Harrenhall still happened. If it was a curse, mayhaps it was greed. She shudders, remembering Lyonel’s crippled son from court, the unnatural gleam in his eyes.

Rhaenys pauses to gather the correct words, but Jace steps forward before she can say anything. 

“Your King is dead, the true heir fighting for her babe’s life after the news came this ‘morn.” Jace says, his voice clear yet heavy with grief for his grandsire. Turning to her, Jace nods, allowing her to take over.

“Swear your vows to the true heir, Queen Rhaenyra, the first of her name! Or you shall face dragonfire, a swift and kind death.” Her eyes shine as she commands the whitecloaks standing before her, 

Ser Steffon Darklyn, Rhaenyra’s most senior whitecloak, kneels first into the grass, followed by Ser Lorant mere seconds later. Ser Erryk rests from flying sickness, having to do his vows at a later occasion, which Rhaenys is satisfied with, for his loyalty has already been tested and assured. 

Meleys withdraws to the sky, joining Ceraxes and Syrax in their calls, summoned by the blood magic releasing on the isle. 

As the claimed dragons roar in tandem, roar as one, a newborn princess makes her first battle-cry, delivered bloody in her father’s arms. Visenya Targaryen, Bloodborn. The Queen’s Hope, with small scatterings of dragon scale imprints on her temples, a sign of magic. Not a curse, as the opposition, said. 

Just…a sign of what could have been, without the Queen Who Never Was, the Queen that Should Have Been, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen-Velaryon. The Rider of Meleys, the Red Queen.

Perhaps it is not a full triumph on the fifth day of the third moon, but the books and songs will write it as a new beginning. Not only a new Queen, but for a new cause to be won.

As Rhaenys gathers the seven children into the foremost hall to greet their youngest sibling and Queen, she thanks the Fourteen Flames. She is astounded at Baela and Rhaena’s beauty and brilliance, and forever wishes Laena were here. Nothing is bright without her daughter, but her grandchildren are shining gems in the darkness. All of them, even the ones not of her blood, but of her son’s love and affection, anyway.

Rhaenyra’s solar eventually opens to the brood of children at an hour that all should be in bed, preparing for sweet slumber. A tired, sweaty Rhaenyra softly smiles at her children, with

Daemon sitting at the foot of the bed. They both attempt to smile, but it falls flat after the trying day.

Rhaenyra gives Rhaenys a chance to hold the babe first. Behind the newborn’s left ear is a glyph, showing the Fourteen’s blessing, and the magic burns with golden dragonscale imprints along the babe’s temples. 

“What is the spell’s price?” The Queen asks quietly to Rhaenys as she nurses Visenya, once the children are gone, Daemon shepherding them to bed (as the Valyrians of old used to do).

“A dragon’s life.” Rhaenys replies, sadness in her eyes. What she does not say, is that the caster lost fourteen moonturns of life. But she is grateful despite her hetacomb, for the new life abounds a new and better beginning for them all.

Rhaenyra does not reply, speechless. For Rhaenys’ sacrifice and changed demeanor, even with dreams, are things she cannot understand. At least, not yet.

Later that evening, when the hatchling dragonkeepers open Visenya’s egg’s cradle with Daemon’s supervision, they find a peculiar and disturbing sight….

…A hatchling with gray, petrified skin. It’s vitality is drained, and where eyes should be are stones, and a beating heart should be…a dark hole. The promised hatchling, the egg of Caraxes’ red and Syrax’s gold is malformed with human skin upon the temples, and cold red blood in place of hot dragon’s blood of obsidian black. 

Daemon refuses to let Rhaenyra see the ghastly sight, and directs a redheaded dragonkeeper, the tracker of Sheepstealer, to carefully leave the egg and corpse out on an abandoned beach to the east, where a certain dragon roams. 

In the Hour of the Nightingale, as the keep sleeps, the Cannibal roasts the sacrifice with flames of blackest night. The dragon consumes it and leaves to its darkened roost in the Dragon Mount’s bowls, the beach is scorched with a layer of ash. 

As the dawn comes and the winds blow the ash away, it reveals the dragon’s mysterious gift… the long stretch of sand has turned into blackeden dragonglass with shades of red and gold, silver and iridescent white. Indestructible, even by the Narrow Sea’s ebb and flow. Restless in slumber, the new Prince of Dragonstone flies Vermax to calm his anxiety for the future, and sees the peculiar sight for himself. Uncaring for the alarm it causes, he flies his green and red steed directly to the Keep, landing upon the dragon patio of his mother’s chambers.

After two days of vigorous preparation and rest, the royal family and the Keep’s staff, the Celtigars, Bar Emmons, Sunglass and other houses of the Crownlands, the knights, the smallfolk servants, the dragonkeepers, and the Fourteen Valyrian village priests and priestesses, augurs and candle-bearers gather at the dragon glass beach when the sun hits the highest point in the sky.

Rhaenys gazes at the dragonglass marvel, wearing a black dress with gold and red accents that was once her mother’s -the Lady Jocelyn’s- when she was Lady of Dragonstone. Caraxes, her father’s dragon - now Daemon’s- coils about her breasts and shoulders.

They would have to rename the landmark, for Balerion’s Beach, or Cannibal’s sacrifice as it was unofficially known, would not work for what Rhaenys, and everyone here, is witnessing. 

Queen Rhaenyra’s coronation. The First of her Name.

It is not what it should be, Rhaenyra upon the Iron Throne with Blackfyre in hand, Daemon crowning her, all by her side. But it is not to be…not yet.

At least there is a piece of her father with her, Rhaenys muses.

Now, Ser Erryk renews his vows to the Queen, The Old King Jaehaerys’ crown, well, King Viserys’ Crown, in gloved hands, the Queen’s Gaurd reverently hands it to the Prince-Consort, who then crowns his wife, resplendent in her house colors, Visenya cradled upon her chest. A proud mother, as all the religions venerate, but especially the Valyrians of old. The wisdom of Tessarion, the fierceness of the fecund goddess Meleys, the revelry of Syrax, and the matronly protection of Vhagar, the goddess of war and bloodshed. 

“All hail Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen! First of her Name! Lady of the Seven Kingdoms!”

Rhaenyra smiles. As everyone kneels, including Rhaenys (for why should she not kneel?), she observes Daemon’s gaze, oh so similar to the one he gave his brother, when he placed the very same crown upon his weary head. The last time Viserys sat the throne, not even a sennight ago. 

How much can happen in a sennight, or even a day. Rhaenys hums, thinking of the morning before this moment.

At breakfast a few hours past, while Rhaenys wrangled Joff to eat his food upon his plate, her cousin Daemon spoke harshly to the Crownsland allies present. His voice broke through the din of the meal and side conversations dispersed.

“I shall never be King-Consort. Being King of the Narrow Sea was enough for me, and I gave that title to my brother.” The last surviving of Jaehaerys’ grandchildren in Westeros glared at Lord Massey, who suggested the title. Daemon held his youngest, Visenya, in his arms. His gaze gentled at his youngest’s whimper. The very picture of a dragon protecting his hatchling.

Brokering no argument, the Rogue Prince continued, “My wife is my Queen, my ruler, who shall sit the Iron Throne as is her right. I shall stand at the dias, adding the weapons of our enemies, forever her protector. My sword is hers, my dragon her dragoness’ mate, our children…”

Jacaerys and Lucerys stiffen ever so slightly, and Daemon quirks a brow, ever so slightly growls under his breath, for his sons' skins should be thicker around their allies.

“every child, even not of our union, are our children.”

Rhaenyra grins, delight in her violet orbs as she scans all of her children, even Rhaenys’ grandchildren by Laena, too.

“Prince Jacaerys shall rule after her." Daemon places his knife down upon his plate. 

"Though I doubt I shall see his ascension, I will assure it. Let us make sure the realms are razed of bad blood, to rise anew.”

“Fine words, Prince Daemon.” Rhaenys smiled.

He hums, shifting his arm for a cooing Visenya to calm, “My thanks, cousin.”

Rhaenys knew Daemon never lusted for the title of King. He only wished for his brother’s love, instead…all he received was distrust. Queen Alysanne was not ‘good’ in passing that mistrust down to her grandson. At least, in that respect.

She remembers Rhaenyra’s words, closing the conversation of her consort.

“Prince Daemon is correct. When I rule…when the war is over, we shall make it law: The eldest, regardless of sex shall be Heir to the Iron Throne, the Prince or Princess of Dragonstone.”

Rhaenys shakes her head out of the memory, glancing at the dragonglass surface below, then to her cousin.

The sun peaks from behind the clouds, the glass’ reflection creating beautiful rainbow hues dance around her, sparking as she holds an hours old Visenya.

Rhaenyra smiles, but then refrains. Standing resolute, she watches as the crowd continues to kneel before her. 

The two women gaze at each other, sharing the moment together. Queen to would-be queen. Woman to woman.

Rhaenyra then beckons all to stand once more, and for Jacaerys to rise and come forward.

“Kneel, my son.” the dark-haired Targaryen-Velaryon carefully kneels upon the dragonglass. The Queen continues the ceremony, taking Dark Sister (in place of an absent Blackfyre) from her husband.

She places the blade upon her son's shoulders as she says the words every Targaryen lord in Dragonstone since Aenar has proclaimed, 

"I, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of my Name, charge my eldest child and heir, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, to be true and brave to all Seven Kingdoms. From the shepherds of old, we claimed dragons by blood. With flame and grit, the Valyrians rose to become lords and rulers in their own right, until the Doom came from their folly and ignorance. Only three families were left: Celtigar, Velaryon and Targaryen, but only one were Dragonriders. Listening to Daenys, Aenar came upon the first dragon of our family-named Syros- to Dragonstone. Thus, with the claim of one of the forty families- this cloak of our dead dragon's scales, I proclaim you, Jacaerys, Prince of Dragonstone."

Rhaenyra places a cloak of dragonscale- the traditional cloak of the Targaryens of Valyria-  only repaired twice since the conquest, adding two lines of dragonscales. The Pearlescent white for Meraxes, and Balerion’s pitch-black. Meraxes scales’ were repossessed by Jaehaerys during the Fourth Dornish War terms for surrender, but not all her bones. Only her head was kept as a shrine in Dragonstone, alongside two skulls in the crypt for the two who died before the conquest. Scales of dragons were worn to honor their still-living riders, descendants of riders who died with that dragon, or as signs of conquest or duel.

A first-shed scale a rider witnessed was precious, usually a necklace burned with the rider upon death. Dragonscales were fire-resistant, arrow-proof, if not mostly fire-proof, except for the most direct of dragonflame. A cloak was a sign of legitimacy, but a Valyrian one…not one recognized by the Faith. 

Jacaerys looked every inch a dragonlord of old with the cloak upon his shoulders. He kneeled and vowed to serve the Crown, the Queen and the realms.

"Do you vow to protect your family?"

"Kessa. I vow to protect my flock with dragonflame and claw, sword and shield."

Rhaenyra grins as Vermax, Jacaerys' dragon, comes close to the dragonglass marvel and trills. The dragonbond afire, if any was.

"I vow to protect them- with my blood if need be, until Balerion takes me." Jacaerys vows, solem. For they all know in the coming moons that mayhaps be a reality.

Lastly, Jacaerys rose, his cloak gleaming like living flame, and vowed to the crowd- the ones who would take to the caretakers in each village, to the barkeep in Fish’s Heap- the port town of Dragonstone, to the market and the brothels, to all of the isle- to protect them all as well, until his last breath.

All kneeled in return, Daemon and Lucerys yelling the loudest, proclaiming him Prince of Dragonstone. Cheers then roared across the isle as Rhaenyra raised her husband's blade- the names of the Queen and her heir.

A bard would one day sing of the day’s events, a ballad of the war-born daughter, the rotting corpse of a King, the resplendent Queen and her consort, and the worthy Prince of Dragonstone.

With the modest feast thereafter, Rhaenys sipped on Essosi wine and tried to banish a dark thought: What could have been, would have doomed us all.

Thus, the Queen that Never Was became a dreamer, arising anew for the future that will be. Guiding Rhaenyra and Daemon, she hoped her choices thus far had pleased the Fourteen. She did not know that another choice would come soon enough. Just one driven by instinct would prevent another catastrophe and change the coming war.

Two days later, The blacks gather around the Painted Table, its candlelight glow casting a yellow warmth in the rather drafty room. Rhaenys has been here before, an age ago.

Her father lifted her in his strong arms, telling her she will be Queen one day, ruler of all the land you can see on the Painted Table.

“It glows just for you, sweetling. Just like the flame inside of you.” he said.

Rhaenys shakes the memories of her long dead father away, the ghosts still appearing to her periodically during her stay here, as she traces Dragonstone and Driftmark on the table with her finger.

Yet, their long dead ancestors' ghosts are still with them. The Conquerors Aegon, Visenya and Rhaenys loom ever so especially on this day. It is said that the table was commissioned by Aegon, but Visenya and Rhaenys convinced him that there needed to be a way for them to see their plans in the darkest nights. 

For the land would be theirs to rule, by fire and by their blood.

As the doors open, Daemon announces Rhaenyra to the Black Council.

His voice is commanding and proud, yet a hitch of fresh grief in his voice is present, “Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men…”

Rhaenys mouths silently as he says the rest of the words. “Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

“Your Grace.” Rhaenys calls, the first to say so.

Rhaena, not so young anymore, swiftly attends to the Queen, procuring a goblet of Arbor Gold in her hand. A cupbearer is needed, and Rhaenys is glad that it is her still dragonless granddaughter, given an important purpose.

“Thank you, Rhaena,” says the Queen, smiling at her adopted daughter.

The new Queen stands tall in glistening dragonscale black. Syrax is embroidered upon her breasts, red entangled throughout her dress. Her epaulettes give her an illusion of strength the grieving woman lacks at the moment, allowing her to straighten her spine. The new Prince of Dragonstone, Jacaerys moves towards his mother, Visenya upon his chest in a blood-red sling, asleep. A small circlet, a flying Vermax, rests upon his brow. The topaz and jade of his dragon’s scales gleam nicely against Jace’s raven locks.

Rhaenys smiles at the babe the heir glances at, her full head of white-platinum hair identical to her long gone father’s, Aemon’s, a rare shade among the Targaryens. In the light of the room, Visenya’s skin glimmers with the etchings of little golden scales upon her temples.

A sentence in Visenya’s journal comes to Rhaenys’ mind. Blood magic, especially the healing kind, leaves its mark.

“What is our standing?” Rhaenyra inquires, her sire’s golden crown upon her brow. Now, her crown.

Daemon recounts the garrison of the island they reside upon, a wariness to his voice. They have experienced much in the past many hours. Sleep has been few and far between for the consort and his Queen- mostly from the newborn, for Rhaenyra knows she cannot spend as much time rearing her daughter as she would like, given her new responsibilities. Not to mention, that now there will be war.

“We have knights, a hundred crossbowmen, and men-at-arms. Dragonstone is relatively easy to defend, but as an instrument of conquest, our army leaves a lot to be desired.”

Rhaenys recalls the standing of her adoptive home, as Daemon continues, pensive, hand upon the hilt of Dark Sister- the steady presence of Visenya the Conquerer, Visenya the Blood-dancer.

As Lady of Driftmark while Corlys was….away, playing at war, Rhaenys bolstered their land defenses at Spice Town. One could never be too cautious with the lifeblood of the island- trade. Thus, she assured visiting merchants security with more than just her dragon’s presence on their daily flights.

Three watchtowers of Arryn stone rose upon the port, creating chokepoints for entry to High Tide. Manned by archers with flaming arrows, they would catch any invader unawares. Another three by Castle Driftmark, the old, drafty thing the home of now-alienated Velaryons. Not all cared for Vaemond’s righteous cause- that included his eldest son, Ser Daemion…who just sired a daughter, Daenaera, a sweet little one with silver hair laced with gold, and her mother’s eyes, as blue as seas in summer. Rhaenys hopes she will take a toddling Daenaera upon Meyles again, once this war is over. 

Three hundreds of war ships in their naval fleet, the highest it has ever been. It is an accomplishment, despite the loss of their children. Rhaenys’ heart may have froze, and Corlys’ tempest aimed at the damned Stepstones, but they did not forsake their people in their pain. An additional fifty trading cogs controlled their presence in the Free Cities and beyond.

Not like Viserys did anything for the smallfolk, for the people of the realm, having that damn snake as Hand, again.

Half the naval fleet at the Stepstones, precariously holding the inhospitable rocks from pirates seeking plunder, violence, and slaves. A quarter, about fifty ships of Velaryon men in Essos, Leng, Qarth and the Shivering Sea…protecting trade routes. Another fifty stationed in the Gullet and the isle, increasing trade with the North in White Harbor, the Vale in Gulltown, and the Crownlands houses, respectively. Their wealth had never been higher, despite Corlys’ nine voyages occuring of time long past, never to ocurr again. Her lord husband was getting old, as Rhaenys liked to jape at him.

The Queen replied, Jacaerys devotedly sticking black pawns upon their allies.

“My lady mother was an Arryn. The Vale will not turn cloak against their own kin.” What goes unspoken is Daemon's fraught relationship with the sheep of the Vale. Rhaenys understands why, for Alysanne erred greatly and Rhea was unpleasant at the best of times. Yet...still, did Daemon always have to be so abrasive when stuck?

“Riverrun was always a close friend to your father, Your Grace.” a councilmember interrupts Rhaenys' thoughts. She grimaces, thinking of Lord Grover’s vote at the Great Council. He has never been fond of powerful women…especially when a certain Targaryen denied his suit, though that was long ago.

"The Blackwoods have always been friendly to us,“ Rhaenys adds, placing a black pawn upon their lands before Jace can do so, grinning at the heir as she does.

“I'm going to treat with Lord Grover myself.” Daemon replies, eyes stormy.

All of them pause, pondering the map for a moment. Steffon Darklyn, the Queen’s Lord-Commander, breaks the silence.

“What of Storm's End and Winterfell?” he asks.

The Celtigar, middle aged Bartimos, a crab upon each of his shiny pauldrons, replies.

“There has never lived a Stark who forgot an oath. And with House Stark, the North will follow.”

“Lord Borros Baratheon will need to be reminded of his father's promises.” Rhaenys contributes, a sharp pang to her stomach at the words. If only Uncle Boremund were alive, then they would be assured of the Stags’ backing.

“What news from Driftmark?” the Queen prompts, her violet eyes meeting Rhaenys’ amethyst ones.

Rhaenys replies, carefully navigating her promises with ease, “Lord Corlys sails for Dragonstone, to declare for his Queen. The Velaryon fleet is in my husband's yoke. He decides where they sail, not I.”

A courtly mask remains upon the royal Queen as she finishes.

“We shall pray for both you and your husband's support. Just as we prayed nightly for the Sea Snake's return to good health. There's no port on the Narrow Sea that would dare to make an enemy of the Velaryon fleet.”

Rhaenys smiles tightly. It will be a journey to convince Corlys of this endeavor. When his tempest runs out, nothing makes him come alive again…except for time. Such are the seas and their storms.

If grief froze her so much that flames would not warm her, it made the Sea Snake much more of a tempest, his storm never abating. Forever drowning in his grief and ambition, until injury or defeat.

“And our enemies?”

Someone coughs, grunting “We have no friends among the Lannisters.”

Everyone can at least agree to that. A green pawn is immediately placed upon the Rock.

“Tyland has served the Hand too long to turn against him. And Otto Hightower needs the Lannister fleet. Without the Lannisters, we are not like to find any allies west of the Golden Tooth.”

“No.” Daemon clenches a fist upon the pommel of Dark Sister.

“The Riverlands are essential, Your Grace.”

Lord Massey interrupts, grumbling, “Pray forgive my bluntness, Your Grace, but talk of men is moot. Your cause owns a power that has not been seen in this world since the days of Old Valyria. Dragons.”

“The Greens have dragons as well.” Bartimos replies.

Daemon replies, resolute. “They have three adults, by my count. We have Syrax, Caraxes, and Meleys. Your sons have Vermax, Arrax, and Tyraxes. Baela has Moondancer.”

The Queen childs him, horrified at sending dragons to fight against each other. And there is the matter of Vhagar.

For a moment, Rhaenys feels the phantom of a heavy storm, the screams of boys and roars of dragons. Waves crashing…awaiting.

Vhagar, daor!

Lykiri!

A pearlescent wing awash upon the shore.

A voiceless yell. A vow of revenge. Spiraling dragons.

Rhaenys blinks, and is back at the Painted Table, staring at Storm’s End. Her mother’s home.

Daemon grumbling snaps Rhaenys out of…whatever that was, his defending of Caraxes typical.

“Mine has seen war, as has Seasmoke.”

Rhaenys recalls the vision of a time ago. She knows her late-son’s mount, for she picked the egg herself with Alyssane’s urging.  

Seasmoke does not have pearl colored scales, his are the color of mist and fog, of seafoam and surf.

“A true mount for the Heir to the Tides!” her husband proclaimed with their son upon his lap upon his claiming of the hatchling. Once, they were joyous.

Rhaenys hums, “There are also unclaimed dragons. Seasmoke still resides on Driftmark. Vermithor and Silverwing dwell on the Dragonmont, still riderless.”

Daemon adds, “Then there are the three wild dragons, all of whom nest here.”

Rhaenyra asks, “And who is to ride them?”

Daemon shrugs, “It is war, sometimes we must need those whom are loyal to us…and only us, to take upon the mantle of rider.” He glances at Rhaena, his dragonless daughter, who refuses to wilt at her legendary father’s gaze. Daemon is thinking of what, exactly, Rhaenys could not discern.

“I also have a score of eggs incubating in the Dragonmont. The Dragonkeepers are still in their rotations. The trackers on the wild and unclaimed ones, the hatchlings duty, and the seven in charge of the claimed, but I have diverted more resources for wartime armor and protections. They must protect the dragons and make sure they are healthy, for they are the source of our legitimacy.”

Jacaerys ponders aloud, his voice calm after the dragons have been spoken of and put to rest, at least for now. 

“Now... we need a place to gather, a toehold large enough to house a sizable host.”

Daemon grins, studying the table, “Here, at Harrenhal. We cut off the west, surround King's Landing with the dragons. And we could have every Green head mounted on spikes before the fucking moon turns.”

A horn calls off in the distance, and a messenger rushes in brown Dragonkeeper garb, panic in his barely purple eyes.

“Your Grace…” the boy manages to bow, “a ship has been sighted offshore: a lone galleon, flying a banner of a three-headed green dragon.”

“Alert the watchtowers. Sight the skies!” Daemon yells, and the room explodes in frantic activity.

Rhaenys sighs, then indicates to Rhaenyra that she will coral the children to safety while they amass at the Keep’s bridge. She does not need to be there.

Rhaenys hears what occurred upon the bridge rather than witnesses it herself, busy with the hatchlings as she is. She corrals the smallest children - Aegon and Viserys with their nursemaids - to the innermost chamber of the Stone Drum. Once Aegon the Conquerer’s chambers, and Aenar's long before his, all Targaryens since Maegor have abandoned the bedroom due to its construction. Preferring the salt and seaside views of the Sea Dragon tower, where Visenya’s chambers were located, or the garden views of Rhaenys’ and Daenys’ Chambers in the Wind Wyrm. Both had views of the mount as well, but they weren’t as confining.

There was also the fact that Maegor tortured Viserys, Jaehaerys' elder brother there, using Bolton techniques to flay him alive. Rhaenys does not mention that to the little ones, nor to Joff who asks so many questions about the chambers he's never seen. The third-born son of the Queen is not so little anymore, Rhaenys muses. She does love that age, when the child's personality strengthens. When you can see what kind of person they will become. 

When the idiotic, smug Ser Otto’s ship is far away, back upon its return voyage to King’s Landing, Rhaenys makes sure Daemon does not send an enraged and gleeful Caraxes upon the ship, placing a sleeping Visenya into his arms. 

Rhaenyra laughs at her husbands’ bewildered expression, telling Rhaenys that she knows her husband well. 

Rhaenys replies that of course she has, for she remembers their childhood. Thus, the two recount memories of a young Viserys, the children enraptured by the stories of their now-dead grandsire. 

Many hours later, the children are safely absconds in bed. Rhaenys holds little Visenya, content in her arms to give Rhaenyra and Daemon some much needed rest, waiting at the docks. Another ship pulls to port, not the abhorrent gold dragon upon green but a seahorse instead. The Sea Snake is here, her husband finally home. His home was always her, he says. She hopes Corlys still means that, even now on the eve of war.

Rhaenys startles awake at the sound of her husband’s voice. 

“I've had men whipped for falling asleep on their watch.”

She hums, taking a moment to look upon her love. Corlys looks worn and weary, a bandage upon his neck. Maester Gerardys says he is in the clear but should not do anything to aggravate it. That the worst was over. 

Rhaenys hopes for that to be true, but she is not optimistic. They must come to terms with their mistakes.

“You are no man.” she saids, cracking her knuckles and stretching out of the chair. She stares deeply into her love’s blue eyes ringed with lilac.  She wills him to understand her.

“You abandoned me… when I most needed you. Both our children, stolen from us. I needed you.” Corlys frowns, his eyes downcast.

She tips his chin gently for him to stare into her eyes once more. 

“Baela and Rhaena needed you, and you abandoned us for more adventure at sea. As has always been your way.”

Corlys hums, silent for a moment. “I had no other place to turn. I lost everything.” 

Rhaenys interrupts, grief in her voice. “- We lost, Corlys. We.”

She longs for him to hear her, to see her. Yet what he says next means he does not.

“I understand we have a new king. The Stranger casts a long shadow over this family.”

Rhaenys sighs, realizing he hasn’t heard the news of Vaemond, “Your brother is also dead.”

Corlys only groans in response, but Rhaenys continues.

“In his haste to bury you and claim your seat, he stood before the King and denounced Laenor's sons as illegitimate.”

“Daemon took his head for it?” Corlys asks, and winces at his wife’s affirming nod.

He mutters “Heedless ambition has always been a Velaryon weakness.”

It takes them a moment for them to gather their thoughts. It is their way, after their hardest storms where they drift apart in grief and loss. When things don’t go either of their ways in life. Rhaenys hums, wondering that if instead they weathered the storms together, what could have been. But then dismisses it, for she has to deal with that and move forward, not regret. 

”You were right, Rhaenys.” Corlys says, not for the first time in their resolutions. For that she is glad, that her headstrong, ambitious, and proud husband can admit that his wife is right.

 “I reached too far…and for nothing. Our pursuit of the Iron Throne,” he gasps, “is at an end.” A pit of dread hits low in her stomach.

“We shall declare for no one. We will retire to High Tide to be content… with our grandchildren and...”

“No.” Rhaenys replies, gripping Corlys’ hand. “Jace, Luke, and Joff are our grandsons. They are claimants to the throne. Our boys will not be safe so long as Aegon is king. And Aegon should not be king, as much of a drunkard and rapist that he is.”

“Rhaenyra was complicit in our son's death.” Corlys argues, muttering “That girl destroys everything she touches.”

“No.” Rhaenys replies, strength in her voice returning.

It is as if her parents also speak through her. 

“The world sees Rhaenyra, when in fact it is the Hightowers who destroy the Targaryens. That "girl"... is holding the realm together at present. It is not only her that was at fault to not prepare her, it was I to not guide her, Viserys’ willful blindness and inaction, too.”

“Every man standing 'round the Painted Table urges her to plunge the realm into war. Rhaenyra's the only one who's demonstrated restraint. ”

Corlys falls silent for a moment, thinking. He does that, ebbing and flowing, changing like the seas he's flourished upon for most of his sunturns.

“She is doing what we once did.” he says.

“Aye, she is smarter than her sire…not as furious as Maegor. She is like Jaehaerys, but less conciliatory to the Faith. She is not a dreamer like Daenys, but she will be like Aenar, taking correct advice when no one else did. She is like Alyssa, our shared ancestor, a fair mother who loves all her children, even those not of her union. She is like Aemon, and Baelon, the best of us all.”

“She is our Rhaena.” Corlys smiles, his eyes alight with hope again. How sweet the sight is, for Rhaenys.

She kisses her husbands cheek, holding his hands. “Yes. Our Queen.”

Later, she calls for a meal. Once they rest, they will attend the council together. It is what they agree to, after all, to be united once more. United as they always have been, when she rode to the wedding altar in the Godswood on Meleys, her soon to be husband beaming with joy.

Ser Erryk proudly annouces them into the council room. They've been at it at least an hour without accord.

"Lord Corlys." Rhaenyra greets her former good-father with a small smile, "It brings much relief to see you hale and healthy again."

"I'm very sorry about your father, Princess." Corlys replies, his condolences truthful. "He was a good man." What is unspoken is that he was not a good king.

Rhaenys does not see Daemon, thinking he's preparing the dragonkeepers and securing the isle. Corlys looks down, studying the table.

"Your declared allies?" he asks. At the affirmation, he reflects steadily, "Too few to win a war for the throne."

"Well, we would also hope to have the support of Houses Arryn, Baratheon, and Stark." says Bartimos, Corlys' rival and friend. 

Corlys grumbles "Hope...is the fool's ally." Rhaenys, at least the pragmatic side of her, agrees with her husband.

The Queen interjects, her voice calm. "Both Arryn and Baratheon share blood with my house. But all of them swore oaths to me."

"As did House Hightower...if I remember." says the Sea Snake, humming.

The Queen replies. "As did you, Lord Corlys."

Corlys is quiet for a moment but spares a glance to his lady-wife. Her eyes gleam as her dragon's do when urging for flight and action. A silent conversation, not in words occurs between the couple. What Rhaenys sees at the end, Corlys' eyes twinkling, she is satisfied.

"Your father's realm...was one of justice and honor," Corlys starts, placing both hands upon the head of his cane-a sea horse.

"Our houses are bound by common blood, and common cause. This Hightower treason cannot stand! You have the full support of our fleet and house, Your Grace." he bows as much as he can toward his former good-daughter with a small smile upon his face.

The queen allows herself to grin with a bit of relief present upon her brow. "You honor me, Lord Corlys. Princess Rhaenys."

Her brow furrows greater, the crown upon her head dulling slightly as the sun is eclipsed by the fog of the day.

"As I said to my bannermen, I made a promise to my father to hold the realm strong and united. If war's first stroke is to fall, it will not be by my hand."

Corlys questions this, countless strategies and paths dropping in his mind from her words, "You do not mean to act? Taking caution does not mean standing fast."

Rhaenyra hums, taking in the elder's wisdom, "I wish to know who my allies are before I send them to war."

The Sea Snake directs Lucerys, with a weary grin, to place a black pawn upon Driftmark, then a second upon the Stepstones. The boy does so, eagerly.

"The consequence of my...near-demise in the Stepstones...is that we now control them." Corlys says.

"I took care to fully garrison the territory this time. With Rhaenys' assistance in Driftmark, the Narrow Sea is ours. The Triarchy have been routed. A total blockade of the shipping lanes will be in place in days, if not already. If we... further seal the Gullet, we can cut off all seaborne travel and trade to King's Landing."

Rhaenys, wariness in her soul, makes an offer…despite the warning in her heart. “I shall take Meleys and patrol the Gullet myself.”

Bartimos studies the map, interjecting. "When we drain the Narrow Sea, we can surround King's Landing, lay siege to the Red Keep, and force the Greens' surrender. If we are to have enough swords to surround King's Landing, we must first secure the support of Winterfell, the Eyrie, and Storm's End."

Gerardys hums, carefully bowing to the soverign. "I'll prepare the ravens, Your Grace."

Jacaerys interrupts, surprising the Queen and her council.

"We should bear those messages, Your Grace. Dragons can fly faster than ravens and they're more convincing."

"Send us." Lucerys pleads, wishing to prove his worth, mayhaps. 

Corlys supports them "The Princes are right, Your Grace."

Rhaenyra reluctantly nods, recognizing the burden her children have to prove themselves, but weary to lose them to Balerion. She orders the dragonriders as thus.

"Prince Jacaerys will fly north. First to the Eyrie to see my mother's cousin, the Lady Jeyne Arryn, and then to Winterfell to treat with Lord Cregan Stark for the support of the North. Prince Lucerys will fly south to Storm's End and treat with Lord Borros Baratheon."

"We must remind these lords of the oaths they swore. And... the cost of breaking them."

The Queen takes a moment, gathering a small box upon the table. Calling for Corlys, she opens the box and wordlessly places a Valyrian steel pin upon his doublet.

The Pin of the Hand. Specifically, Baelon's intended pin, put in storage upon his untimely death. 

Corlys stands proud, cane in hand, Pin of the Hand on his chest. Lucerys looks to him, admiration and something unsure in his eyes. 

They can hope for the future, grow and thrive after the blood is sown. Right now, Rhaenys thinks, we must have war.

As the preparations for the messengers and war set upon the island, only a small meal is cooked in the eve, for those still present following Queen Rhaenyra’s coronation two days past. They all know, with how small Visenya looks swaddled to Daemon’s chest, that perhaps there should have been a funeral instead.

Rhaenys piles her plate with fish from the sea sprinkled with herbs and lemon, thinking of her adopted home, her husband beside her.

This is food for a dragon’s flight, as hearty as it gets for hungry soldiers and thinking minds. If any of them make a mistake, it will be life changing, if not fatal.

The next morn comes faster than any in the Keep desire. Swhishing mint leaves through her teeth and mouth, she kisses her husband’s weathered cheek. They do not say goodbye, at least not with words. Only a gaze and a nod, and she is off, as is their way. Mounting her Red Queen is easy, as always. Her flight is smooth as she heads towards the Gullet to patrol the setting blockade from any wayward ships.

…Mayhaps only an hour into her flight,  Rhaenys’ vision changes. It is not her own. Instead, flashes of a storm run through, with a pearlescent wing torn.

Arrax!! 

Luke!!  

Her mind screams. 

Maternal instincts taking over, both the Red Queen and the Queen that Never Was speed with urgency to the land of neverending storms. The land of her long-dead mother. The land of her traitorous, stupid, brash kin. Luckily, Meleys is the fastest dragon alive, so mayhaps they will make it in time. She prays to the fourteen that she is not too late.

Rhaenys has flown through countless storms, traveling to see Kepus Boramund and her muna, when they were alive. No storm has been as vicious as this.

She is constantly pelted with bitter-cold rain that feels as if it is almost bruising her skin with its intensity.The wind roars not only in her ears, yet also in her bones, rattling them. The silver haired woman is unable to see more than looming, dark shadows. Mayhaps the two long raven streaks in her hair are blown into her face, weathered by time.

Even with Meleys’ speed, she prays again that she is not too late.

Flying above Storm’s End, she spies two looming shadows circling one another. Vhagar, chasing a dragon-sheep, Arrax, as if it was child’s play, as if this wasn’t death he was wanting.

“An eye will suffice.” she remembers, growling at the one-eyed boy upon her late-daughter’s mount. Damn fool, this vengeful boy! This boy, who knows naught of Valyrian dragon claiming rituals nor laws, nor the proper respect to another Prince. Rhaenys growls again, spurring Meleys to fly above the clouds, utilizing a slip stream to move silently above her as they move higher, higher, higher.

Quickly, quickly, quickly! To outpace Vhagar is not a chore for the Red Queen. But to get there in time? For a chase with a panicked dragon and an incensed, ornery dame.

It was difficult. But nothing is impossible.

Meleys climbs towards the sun, surpassing Vhagar. hoping beyond hope that her daring action will cause them to escape alive. Hopefully with Luke.

“Luke!” she roars as Arrax stills with the brown-haired boy above, refuge occuring only for a moment.

He sees her. He sees her barrelling towards him. At least he sees her and not Vhagar’s maw behind him

Arrax moves towards them, just close enough to save his rider.

But not him, as Vhagar snatches half the dragonling’s body in its maw with a crunch and a squeal.

Vhagar does not take the Tides’ Heir.

For Rhaenys caught him as he flew from the jaws of the beast.

And Red Queen Meleys deftly, swiftly, blindly, miraculously escapes Vhagar’s void.

The gaping silence crushes as Arrax’s wings fall, as the dragon is torn from life’s grasp. Vhagar’s bloodlust is too much. Vague yelling from the Hightower’s second-son roars from below, but it is nonsense with the wind Meleys produces as she takes advantage of Vhagar’s girth.

Meleys swipes a claw at the rider and dragon, causing a large wound to slow the beast.

Sobbing, shocked, and barely breathing, Luke clutches Rhaenys in the saddle as they dive back into the storm.

The rest is a blur, the only sounds are Rhaenys’ breath, the roar of the storm, the pelting of the rain.

Vhagar fails to chase the quicker Meyles, to catch another dragon. Meyles the one to always win against Laena’s Vhagar when they raced. But they do get hit by some dragonflame as Rhaenys struggles to place Lucerys in front of her. The poor boy shaking from cuts and bruises, dragons’ blood and burns. Soon,  the loss of a bond, the dreaded bondsickness that changed Viserys takes hold upon Lucerys, a fever starting with the rain as they fly away.

Speed is not only what makes a dragon win a dance with a mighty dragon of old. Flame and claw, teeth and scale matter too.

Vhagar retreats back to Storms End when Meleys’s crimson flames hit Aemond just right, his leather shredding. He screams. The rider is flame burnt and claw ridden…half mad with bloodlust, half mad in pain.

Rhaenys does not recall any of this, for Meleys did not escape unscathed from the largest dragon in the world. For the pain in her right thigh and shoulder, her back is nothing but pure agony. Lucerys is barely hanging on. The only thing she knows is that her grip on the heir of the tides is what keeps him alive as they fly for scant hours, eventually out of the storm that still chatters their teeth.

Only adrenaline sends the three to Dragonstone’s spires in record time, for Meleys crashes into thousand-year-old cobblestones on a bridge Meleys knows better than most near the Wind Wyrm.

The family and guards leap and gather towards the collision. Daemon and Corlys frantically grasp a catatonic Lucerys in the grief of dragonbond sickness, bleeding from Vhagar’s maw and Arrax’s scales. As Rhaenys looks into Daemon’s orchid eyes as he cuts her out of the saddle, out of her ruined armor, she begs him in Valyrian.

“ Wait. Wait. Wait for the vipers to strike. Tresy o tresy on a battlefield, not through subterfuge, the walls shall not weep blood upon the floor. ”

“Why?” He chokes. As a warrior with plenty of scars, even he is shocked by the visage Rhaenys paints. Her warning strikes through his fiery scowl, the fog upon his mind.

Vhagar’s carnage is horrifying, enraging, numbing. It was once his wifes’ dragoness, his sire’s, and her daughters’ mount.

“For Viserys…For Laenor...and Laena.” she gasps.

As Gerardys works his hardest, she calls for her children and husband, speaks to her parents as if they are attending her sickbed, delirious…when the images take over, both Rhaenyra and Daemon take note.

For once in his life the Prince-Consort heeds his cousin’s plea, so the Blacks wait for her to wake, their family to heal, before striking true at the traitorous snakes.

Rhaenys opens her eyes, journeying through a few corridors that look like Dragonstone, but are definitely not (she’s confused, dizzy, even).

The next time she is aware, she is walking in a corridor made of black stone. Rhaenys is inside a keep that looks much like Dragonstone, but…this is not the Keep. There are noscrolls kept in diamond shelves, nor shrines to dragons. The sky is filled with stars, but there is no sulfur. Only warmth and a bit of ash. 

She turns a corner and comes face with one fact. She is inside a dragon. 

Not Vhagar, of course, but A great dragon’s maw with thousands of candles alight to the night sky. Inky black upon stars of brightest white.

As described in the texts that survived the Doom. This, where she is at, is the Great Hearth. Where the dead gather to watch the living.

The dead king does not look dead. Viserys at his healthiest and happiest, a little Baelon in his arms. She does not see Aemma. How much Rhaenys missed her cousin, her sister.

Viserys frowns slightly when she asks for her, saying that she does not see him, nor speak to him. He says his father, Baelon, handed him his youngest son by his first wife, and walked away. The Spring Prince was also disappointed.

Rhaenys hums, saying that even she has much regret, and an overdue conversation.

They speak of regrets, triumphs and times past. He does not know what happened after his death, but Rhaenys explains what she was shown, and what she has done. Viserys is speechless, but he says that he wants her to tell Daemon and Rhaenyra that he is sorry for his mistakes. And that he was, and always is proud of them.

She promises to tell them, but asks if it is her time yet, to be here forever in the Great Hearth. Suddenly, Viserys and Baelon fade away, replaced by a beautiful long-awaited sight. At least, for Rhaenys. Aemon, her father and Jocelyn, her mother. Oh, how she hugs them. How kepa smells exactly the same- ceylon and a touch of ash. Her mother smells like jasmine, her mother’s scent.

Both tell her it is not her time. “Not yet, jorrāeliarza. You have some years left. Enjoy the children, revive the dragons, teach them.”

“A rhae to revive each generation. Rhaenys for Aegon’s conquest and rule over the Kingdoms. A Rhaena for Maegor’s demise, you…after repairing the Dance….alongside Rhaenyra the Redeemer. And little Rhaena, oh how proud our great-grandaughter makes us.”

“A beginning, an encounter?” Rhaenys asks, puzzled by her father’s words.

“No, nuha jehys (my ember). A renewal. Flame destroys, yet flame revives."

Queen Rhaenys is the last she sees, a vision with her circlet of pearls and rubies- gone in the sands of Dorne. A phantom…a ghost, promising to be with her, even when she wakes.

“At your lowest point, you will believe it is your end. Know this, that it is not the end. Flame dwindles, yet flame revives.”

When the Queen that Never Was returns to the land of the living, she tells an exhausted Daemon of what his brother said. The consort, flabbergasted, finally starts to believe.

Mayhaps, mayhaps...his cousin is a dreamer, and a savior.