Work Text:
The wolf woman tells her, before anyone else. Your husband is dead.
Rhaella Targaryen is seventeen. Her son Rhaegar is three, seated on her lap, unaware or unconcerned by the dark-haired woman with glinting grey eyes. Her mother has been dead for a year; her father for five months. The rest of her relations perished at the fire of Summerhall, the same night her son was born.
And now Aerys is gone too.
Rhaella is the only grown member of House Targaryen left.
She stares up at the stranger, who appeared in her chambers without warning, without so much as a flicker of sound or motion. She does not feel afraid. She does not feel saddened. There is nothing but a void inside, grown wider than before, and the toddler playing with a toy dragon in her arms.
It is several moments before Rhaella finds the wherewithal to speak. “Is my son in danger?”
The glint grows. The woman says, “Not while I’m here.”
A courtier who tries to tell Rhaella she should send her son away for his own safety loses a finger. Another who doesn’t even wait a day to ask how soon she will remarry, and whom, loses an ear. The causal ease with which her new protector doles out bloody violence should scare Rhaella, and yet... She doesn’t want anyone to take her son. Neither can she stand the thought of marrying another like Aerys. The woman with glinting eyes never says a word, never asks a question, but simply looks at Rhaella’s reactions to these men, and ensures their suggestions become nothing more.
It doesn’t scare her. It’s too much of a relief.
Whispers swiftly spread of ‘the Grim Wolf’, the mysterious woman who stands at Rhaella’s side when she is pronounced to be Queen Regent. Unknown, unnamed, an armed shadow who scares many of the more witless folk at court into silence by her mere presence; even those made of sterner stuff feel reluctant to try their hands at manipulation when she lingers near.
Rhaella is nothing but grateful. For that, and other things. There isn’t a particular moment she comes to realize her wolf was the one to kill Aerys; the knowledge creeps in slowly, if indeed it wasn’t present from the first moment they met. He put on a good show for the court, her brother, but he bothered with no such noble niceties with Rhaella.
She is glad of his slip down a narrow staircase.
More glad, perhaps, than she might have been, without her wolf’s support and protection.
Tywin Lannister remains as Hand, and Protector of the Realm. The first time he and Rhaella’s wolf stare each other down across a room, everyone else waits with bated breath to see who will come out on top. Eventually, Tywin tips his head. A tiny, almost imperceptible gesture. But a gesture nonetheless. And afterward, when Rhaella bids him to remain following the council meeting’s conclusion, her wolf offers a hand to clasp. More than that, she offers knowledge.
“If you marry your cousin Joanna, she will die in childbirth,” Rhaella’s wolf tells Tywin, in a tone that brooks no argument. It was the same tone she used to tell Rhaella she would become Queen Regent, rather than hide in a pitcher of sweetwine. “And you will despise the child born from her death, until the day you turn your back on him for good, and he kills you with a crossbow on the privy.”
(Joanna Lannister is sent back to Casterly Rock a week later.)
Rhaella has known Tywin since the days he and Aerys and Steffon Baratheon first began running about together in her grandfather’s court. She knows he is not one to bend easily, and certainly not to break.
Her wolf woman brings Tywin to heel in a way no one else could ever hope to achieve.
And that... that makes Rhaella feel powerful, in a way no one else could ever possibly offer.
A year after her brother’s death, when Rhaegar is four and beginning to make true strides in his lessons of books and swords, Queen Regent Rhaella stands before the assembled court, and announces she has decided to take a new husband, a man of proven loyalty to the crown and strength in the field. A man she deliberately did not discuss the matter with ahead of time.
It is clear to all that Tywin Lannister is stunned, in the brief seconds before he masters his expression. When Rhaella gestures, he moves without hesitation to stand beside her at the foot of the Iron Throne.
In the shadows of that throne, grey eyes glint.
Rhaegar becomes an elder brother at the age of five. He is the Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to the Throne, and easily delighted when given a task of ‘great’ importance. Sitting upon the cushioned floor of his mother’s bedchamber, his small face is schooled in a look of intense concentration as Tywin sets a swaddled babe into the boy’s lap.
“This is your brother Jaemerys,” the young man says, a thumb gently stroking over downy golden hair. “Jaime, for short.”
Lying back in her bed, Rhaella watches, their daughter Cersei cradled to her own chest. She remembers being weak and half-present for so long, after Rhaegar’s birth. After fleeing the blazing destruction of Summerhall in the midst of her labor pains, then carried to safety with the blood barely dry against her thighs.
This? This is much better.
By the door, her wolf woman keeps watch, a faint smile at the corners of her mouth. She still carries her needle-thin sword and more slender knives than Rhaella has ever managed to count; still wears grey tunics and dark breeches, sturdy boots and leather bracers. But her hair is longer, bound in a braid that drops to her waist, and she watches less warily than her early days of safeguarding Rhaella and Rhaegar. Twin clasps hold a short cape to her shoulders: one the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, the other a snarling direwolf of House Stark.
(Tywin only asks once if Rhaella’s sworn protector is truly a member of the ruling family of the North. Tucked into the circle of his arms, hidden by darkness and relaxed from gentle love-making, Rhaella answers, “I do not doubt she is a wolf. But the pack that raised her is gone, and she has found a purpose with me.”)
Lord Rickard Stark visits King’s Landing some months after Jaime and Cersei are born. The night before his expected arrival is the first and only time Rhaella ever sees her wolf to be nervous, pacing instead of her characteristic stillness. Thankfully, whatever fears gnaw at her are gone by the time the new Warden of the North enters the throne room. Only a few years older than Tywin, Lord Rickard is taller and broader, with a thick beard that makes him seem older still.
He spots Rhaella’s Grim Wolf in the shadows beside the throne, and pauses with clear surprise. It takes a cough from one of the men beside him to prompt Rickard back into action, kneeling and paying homage to the Queen Regent.
Several hours later, young Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard lets the northman into Rhaella’s solar, where he jumps through a far hastier and less solemn greeting before asking for her wolf’s name.
“I used to be Arya Stark,” the woman answers.
“I’ve never heard tell of a cousin named Arya.”
Her eyes do not glint; they darken, with grief. “Because I am not your cousin. In another life, I would have been your granddaughter.” She speaks briefly of his toddling sons Brandon and Eddard. Of the babe currently in his wife’s belly, who will be called Lyanna, and another son, to be named Benjen. She speaks of White Walkers beyond the Wall, and a Long Night and Great War, and all her family going into the dirt, thanks to Aerys, and Rhaegar, and Tywin after them.
“Catelyn Tully will be a great lady for the North, whichever of your elder sons she marries,” Rhaella’s wolf tells the grandfather she never met. “Send your daughter here to foster, as soon as she’s old enough.”
Rickard Stark leaves the solar pale-faced and grim. But he doesn’t argue, and before he departs from King’s Landing, Rhaella makes him a pledge to see the Night’s Watch restored to former glory, so that they might stand firm against the threat to come.
She does not bother to inform Tywin of the full details of her wolf’s warnings - he wouldn’t believe half of it. Her caution not to wed his cousin Joanna spooked him, yes, but Rhaella doubts it would have held, if she herself had not taken the step of marriage to keep Tywin at her side. There is no doubt in her mind, however. Not when there are dragon skulls kept within the castle. The mighty beasts once ridden by her ancestors might all be gone, but when Rhaella places a hand against the still-warm bone, she can feel an echo of power. Of magic.
And she knows there are many and more mysteries left still in the world.
When Rhaella is twenty-three, she births a son who is small, and sickly, and not expected to live. His limbs seem too short, his head too large. But Rhaella’s wolf takes him from the maester after he is cleaned; brings him back to the birthing bed. “He needs his mother,” she says sternly, and Rhaella keeps him desperately close all through the night.
The babe lives. They name him Tyrion.
“He’ll take to books, not swordplay,” her wolf states, some days later. “And he’ll be a great administrator, given half the chance. But right now, what he needs is love.”
Tywin clearly can’t bring himself to express as much affection for their newest member of the family as for the other, properly formed children; and even then, he offers stern instruction more than soft gestures to the twins. Rhaegar is, as ever, his pupil and student more than his son, but there is still a fondness there for respect to be built upon.
Rhaella knows Tywin will never hurt her firstborn child, even if it would put Jaemerys on the throne instead.
(Her wolf would never allow it.)
“The Targaryen name is what binds the realm together,” he tells all their children, when Rhaegar is twelve, the twins seven, and Tyrion only just turned three. “But your mother’s forebears only rarely allowed scions of their house to marry elsewhere in the Seven Kingdoms; understandable when they needed their blood kept pure, to maintain their status as dragonlords, but a foolish tradition after the dragons died out. King Aegon the Unlikely understood this folly, and desired to marry each of his children to the daughters and sons of the Great Houses, so that all the realm would be brought closer together. They chose otherwise. Now, they are all dead and gone, and your mother is the last great lady of the Targaryen line. She has no remaining close kin, besides her cousin Steffon of Storm’s End, and his sons, Robert and Stannis. It will be up to each of you, instead, to secure our dynasty.”
Rhaegar seems to take the lesson to heart, and Jaime is ever following in his big brother’s footsteps. How much Tyrion understands or not is a matter of some debate; the greater trouble lies with Cersei, who wishes ever to be treated like her brothers, and chafes under the restraint expected of a princess.
“I will be another Grim Wolf,” the girl insists. “I will wield blades and walk in breeches, and dance in shadow, and everyone will fear me!”
“Even your own family?” Rhaella asks her daughter.
“Of course not - we aren’t afraid of her.”
“That is because we trust her,” she says gently, “But if you run from your lessons and refuse to do the things we ask, how could we ever allow ourselves to trust you in the same way?”
For once, the words give Cersei pause. And afterward, Rhaella’s wolf takes a hand in things as well, escorting the girl on short rides and hunts through the Kingswood, teaching her to shoot a bow, as well as how (and when) to throw knives. The attention and physical activity alike thrill Cersei, more than any drilling she might have done with her brothers in the training yard, and she becomes that much easier to manage in more formal settings after wearing out her energy beforehand.
Not half a year later, Lyanna Stark arrives in the city, sent to be a companion for the princess. She curtsies in court wearing a pretty wool dress, dark hair clean and brushed, face serious and somber.
It takes almost no time at all, however, for the child to reveal herself to be just as much a wild thing as Cersei yearns to be - as Rhaella’s wolf must have once been, for her to manage the girls so easily. Soon enough, a new competition arises on feast nights, where any number of highborn ladies with elaborate hairstyles could retire at the end of the festivities to find narrow slivers of wood splinters caught in their piled braids. Jaime complains that his sister and her new friend won’t let him play the game as well. Cersei only laughs. “You have to learn how to throw a blade half as well as we do, first!”
Tywin disapproves, but tolerates. He’s learned by then when to pick his battles with his children, and the wolf who teaches them.
At the age of six, Tyrion begins trying to sneak into Small Council meetings, and this too Tywin tolerates. Already vastly more articulate than either of the twins had been at that age, it’s clear the boy is following the predictions made by the Grim Wolf, and that is all his father needs in order to take on a more direct role in his education.
The same year, Rhaella becomes pregnant again. She worries, but... it is not the sort of all-encompassing dread that had taken root when she was four and ten, and newly bound to Aerys and his whims.
As her belly grows large, so too do the plans for a grand tourney, a chance to host all the greatest lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms, to reassure them of Rhaegar’s health and fitness before his sixteenth nameday arrives. It will also be a chance to see all the potential matches they might make for the younger children, a fact that Tywin downplays, but which Rhaella can easily see.
She’s done her best, over the years, to dissuade her daughter from wanting to marry either her twin or elder brother. Whispered stories of Aerys, and other Targaryen siblings who were ill-matched, but ordered into bed with one another regardless. There are still moments of fear, when Cersei presses herself up alongside Jaime for a better view of something, or she jumps onto Rhaegar’s lap to demand his attention, but for the most part... Rhaella chooses to believe her daughter won’t demand the right to recognize her Valyrian heritage. She hopes Cersei will prove to be more of a lion than a dragon.
(“But what if I want to be Queen?” Rhaella overhears once, and only once. Her wolf answers, “Then you would spend twenty years clawing at everyone around you, afraid they would try to take your power, until you managed to tear to shreds your brothers, your children, and every single chance you might have had at being happy.”)
A week before the tourney is officially due to start, Rhaella’s fourth birth goes more easily than the third, and her latest son arrives a decent middling weight, with hair more silver than gold. She decides to name him Viserys.
The spectacular jousting takes up a full two weeks; they hold three separate melee battles to include all the men who wish to take part. And women, too - twelve years of the Grim Wolf’s presence in King’s Landing has led to other members of the gentler sex taking up arms in service to their queen. No highborn ladies, or at least none who admit to it, but the so-called Grim Guard are nimble and crafty, and lend themselves well to taking advantage of being underestimated by their opponents.
Two women in particular make names for themselves in the melee: a slip of a maid who calls herself Dancing Rose and a blacksmith’s daughter known as Fay, later dubbed the Furnace. Neither win outright, but become beloved of the commons in short order - Rose for her ribald humor and tawdry taunts, enraging her opponents so they trip more easily to her wickedly swift staff, and Fay for repeatedly picking up a chosen man and bodily heaving him into groups of others.
Yet, after each takes their hits and falls, the Grim Wolf herself goes down into the fighting field to raise them back up. At the end of the tourney, Rhaella makes a point of presenting each with gifts from the crown, and offers them positions of honor in her Guard, the armed girls and women who safeguard servants and the back passages of the Red Keep. From then on, even as the wolf herself remains in the Queen Regent’s shadow, these other two are often seen watching over the royal children, from the heir Prince Rhaegar down to his newest infant brother.
Tywin spends most of the tourney in conversation and debate, speaking directly with nearly all the greater lords who’ve come to attend rather than through the letters he so often writes. Princess Kymeria of Dorne comes with her son Doran and his new Norvosian wife, along with members of Houses Yronwood, Dayne, and Toland. Lord Steffon arrives with all three of his young sons: the stout Robert, leaner Stannis, and ever smiling Renly, barely out of swaddling clothes and yet determined to throw himself headfirst into excitement. Other Stormlords include members of House Swann, House Connington, and Evenfall Hall upon Tarth. Luthor Tyrell of the Reach is a notable lack, due to ill health, and his heir Mace proves far more attracted to the feasts and entertainment than politics, but the Lady Olenna well represents the interests of Highgarden, as well as the families of Tarly, Fossoway, and Hightower. Tywin’s brother Kevan and small nephew Lancel arrive with a train of Lannister cousins, as well as Lords Crakehall, Clegane, Farman and Westerling, with a wealth of sons and daughters. Hoster Tully brings his daughters and infant son, along with heirs from Houses Vance, Blackwood, Bracken, Frey and Mallister. The new Lord of the Vale, Jon Arryn, comes to the city with eager young knights who hail from the lines of Royce, Belmore, and Grafton, as well as members of House Baelish from the Fingers, and House Borrell of the Sisters. Rickard Stark brings all three of his sons to visit Lyanna, and to introduce at court further youths of the Manderly, Dustin, and Mormont lines.
Carts of food are brought in daily; ale, wine, and other drinks flow freely every night. Coins change hands constantly for meals, wagers, whores and lodging, from copper groats, pennies, and stars up to vast numbers of silver stags and golden dragons. Members of the City Watch are kept on their toes dealing with those who indulge too much and lose themselves to high emotions, but for the most part, the grand tourney is hailed far and wide as the most splendid the kingdom has ever seen. Queen Rhaella is praised as a savior of House Targaryen, with Lord Tywin her steadfast Hand and Prince Rhaegar hoped to further his mother’s legacy in days of peace and prosperity. Cups are regularly raised to the younger princes and princess, too, and even a few quiet toasts are made in thanks to the Grim Wolf, without whom the first days of Rhaella’s reign could have gone quite differently indeed.
And even in the midst of celebration, the wolf continues to do her work.
Ser Gregor Clegane, heir to his family’s house and a fearsome young man with the moniker ‘the Mountain Who Rides’, is found dead one morning, naked in his bed, throat cut so deeply the wound nearly took off his entire head. Rumor immediately runs wild, from speculations he’d taken the wrong woman to bed to the insistence he must have made exorbitant wagers his father then refused to pay. A few days later, less excitement arises over the aged Walder Frey falling from the stands where he’d sat for the day’s jousts and breaking his neck; the lord of the Twins had been seen drinking quite heavily, after all, which made the narrow steps more than a bit precarious to navigate.
When at last the festivities wind to a close, as streams of highborn and smallfolk alike begin to pour out from the city’s gates to return to their distant homes, a few young guests that came do not depart. Steffon Baratheon leaves his second son Stannis in King’s Landing, to be a cupbearer for Tywin. Another Stormlander remains too - Galladon of Tarth, heir to Evenfall Hall, three years younger than Jaime and yet already the same height, if not slightly taller. And though he takes all his own children home, Lord Tully is convinced to relinquish a boy who would have been fostered by his family after the tourney: young Petyr Baelish, a child so nervous at being abruptly left behind that it emboldens Tyrion into offering to share some of his favorite books.
Rhaella trusts her wolf’s judgement, and makes the requests personally. Only afterward does she bother to ask why.
“Stannis needs to learn when to bend, so he will not break,” she is told. “And his father could use more time to put into Robert, to lead him away from drink and women. Galladon I want to teach myself, so he fights faster and keeps his balance on unstable ground. Petyr will be of great use on the Small Council someday, but I want him loyal before then, to more than his own purse and power.”
“And the deaths?”
This takes a moment longer for her wolf to answer. “Murderers, the both of them. One for pleasure, one for greed.”
The wolf woman has yet to lead Rhaella astray, in the nearly thirteen years since her unexpected arrival. She needs no further explanation than that.
Rhaegar’s official nameday celebrations are small, compared to the grand tourney, but still lavish by any other measure. And they continue in the form of coronation celebrations, when the High Septon arrives from Oldtown to anoint him in the Sept of Baelor, and declare Rhaella’s firstborn son to be King of the Seven Kingdoms.
Her title is officially changed from Queen Regent to Dowager Queen in the same moment, but Rhaella can’t bring herself to care. Rhaegar lived, and between herself, Tywin, and the Grim Wolf, he will become a king truly worthy of his crown.
“As long as he marries right, and holds to his vows,” her wolf does caution, in the late hours of the night. “But even if he does do something stupid, Aerys won’t be around to make the consequences a hundred times worse.”
“Good,” Rhaella says quietly. “And my other children?”
Her wolf lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I’ve done what I can. The rest will be up to them, soon. But there aren’t any secrets hiding in the dark, or resentments waiting to turn into murder and betrayal.” On the surface, it’s reassuring. There’s something in her voice, though, that catches Rhaella’s attention. So she continues to look intently at her wolf woman, and after a few moments, there comes one last matter. “I don’t know if you’re going to survive to raise the last baby.”
Ah.
Rhaella takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. “Whether I do or don’t... I have to believe the others would look after the child.”
“I think so too,” her wolf murmurs. “They’re all... different. In good ways.”
Different from the monsters who tore Arya Stark’s world apart, in her first life. Still lions and dragons, but content lions and dragons, not living under threat from Aerys, or a Tywin given the chance to grow cruel in his scheming. They are fierce, and strong, and confident, but there is an undercurrent of noble kindness in each of her children. The game that Cersei and Lyanna bring back from their hunts in the kingswood go to poorer smallfolk in the city; every squire Jaime beats in a spar is promptly shown a better way to hold their weapon or move their feet. Tyrion takes up a habit of looking after orphaned kittens and puppies in his bedchamber; Rhaegar never ceases in looking for ways to improve the lives of those around him, servants and lords alike.
So Rhaella lets herself believe, if and when she should die after a final birth, that the rest of her family would love and care for their youngest member.
“It should be a girl this time,” Cersei sternly informs her mother, when Rhaella becomes pregnant once more at the age of thirty-four. “Lyanna and I need a little sister to cosset.”
“I think you mean to corrupt,” Tyrion says from his own seat in the room, nose buried in a book practically as large as himself. Cersei sticks a tongue out at him.
“Children,” Tywin admonishes, as he sweeps inside with Rhaegar and Jaemerys on his heels. Viserys promptly wriggles down off of Rhaella’s lap to dash over, and the man easily catches and swings him up. Dancing Rose and Ser Barristan shut the door, but stand outside on guard; only the Grim Wolf remains present to listen to the royal family speak. “I should hope most of you know what we are about to discuss today.”
“Marriage,” Jaime promptly grumbles. His elder brother snorts, and reaches to tousle golden locks.
“Marriage,” Tywin agrees, sitting down with Viserys on his lap. “Your mother and I have our own thoughts, but I have been prevailed upon to give each of you a chance to speak and be considered.”
Tyrion, of course, is the first to begin, after marking his page and closing the massive book with a great thump. “Rhaegar needs a wife from a Great House, and preferably one that hasn’t married a Targaryen before. Jaime too, or at least a better known family, but from a different region than Rhaegar so we aren’t accused of playing favorites. If Cersei wants to rule a house of her own she needs an heir, or if she wants to stay at court it will need to be a younger son who won’t inherit.”
The twins both pull faces at that, but Rhaegar only smiles at his little brother. “And what about you, impling?”
Small fingers tap against the book’s leather cover. “...I probably shouldn’t. Great Houses aren’t going to want to risk their daughters with me, but if I married someone of lower birth, they’d still use it as something to hold against us.”
Rhaella frowns. So does Tywin, though his is more thoughtful. “Would you prefer to be an Archmaester, instead?”
Their eleven year old son shrugs his tiny shoulders, face scrunched up with discomfort. “I don’t know.”
“We’ll consider it more at a later date, then,” Rhaella states. “You are years from coming of age anyway, dearheart, and I’d miss your company dreadfully if you went off to the Citadel.” That manages to make Tyrion smile, if slightly.
After a momentary lull, Cersei pounces upon the conversation. “Rhaegar should marry Lyanna.” Rhaegar promptly coughs, and Tywin arches a brow, to which Cersei continues: “He’d be bored by anyone else, and this way she really would be my sister.”
“And if you took a younger son for your husband, the two of you could continue to be the terrors of King’s Landing,” Rhaella teases, stroking a hand down her daughter’s long hair.
“Exactly.”
“Which younger son, then,” Tywin asks.
“Oberyn Martell,” Jaime groans before his twin can answer. “He said she’s very good with a knife, last year, and didn’t get scared when Cersei offered to hit an apple off the top of his head with one.”
Rhaella can’t help but laugh. “Now that is truly valuable. Do you have a name for your brother in return, little lionheart?”
“Not Lysa Tully,” Cersei says with a sniff.
“And yet, she would be the logical option,” Tywin reminds her. “There are no children of House Arryn, no girls of House Tyrell besides Mace’s toddling daughter. If you were to marry Oberyn Martell, that would make his sister Elia a poorer choice, nor would we want a daughter of the North, if Lyanna weds Rhaegar. There are a few options in the Westerlands, but all from lesser houses, and we’d certainly face criticisms of putting House Lannister before the crown.”
“Someone from across the Narrow Sea, then.”
“Who, precisely? Do you have a name in mind? Or a particular family, whom it would benefit the throne to forge a connection with?” Tywin waits with his arched brown, until his daughter sits back with a small sigh at being caught without a good answer. “You are right, Lysa would not be the best match. She’s far more prone to hysterics than her sister. But Lord Hoster and Lord Rickard have already betrothed Catelyn to Brandon Stark, and if the Prince of Casterly Rock were to take a wife from anywhere other than a Great House, she would need to be something truly worthy to justify the choice.” That said, he turns to look at Jaemerys, hunched with a sullen little pout in his seat. “If you find such a worthwhile girl, I expect to be informed.”
Jaime blinks. And then straightens, with an eager light coming into his eye. “Really?”
“Nothing is set in stone,” Tywin says, his tone softening just a touch. “You are only fifteen yet, and there’s time to find someone you can form a true partnership with.”
Rhaella smiles. When she glances at the room’s darkest corner, grey eyes glint with approval.
Cersei receives the little sister she’d demanded, directly during the middle of the fiercest storm to descend upon King’s Landing in a century. It feels as if each time Rhaella groans, thunder shakes the entire castle; with every pained scream, a bolt of lightning splits the heavens. In the end, a shrieking wind rips open the shutters of her bedchamber windows, just as Rhaella gives her final push, and the infant arrives with a sharp wail.
Her handmaids assist with the afterbirth, before sorting out fresh sheets and a clean shift. Grand Maester Pycelle cleans the babe, announcing her to be a girl. And then the Grim Wolf steps forward from the shadows, to take the child and hold her before the windows, even as frantic servants attempt to seal them shut against the lashing rain once more.
“Stormborn,” Rhaella’s wolf announces, when she brings the babe back. “Daenerys Stormborn.”
With a grateful heave of breath, Rhaella takes her child, and falls into sleep.
By the age of six, Princess Daenerys is the darling of the realm, to say nothing of her elder siblings. She is indeed cosseted by Cersei, and tickled by Jaime, and when Rhaegar wins a grand tourney held at Harrenhal before thousands of on-lookers, he crowns the girl his Queen of Love and Beauty. Tyrion practically takes over teaching her to read and write, and even from the Vale where he’s fostering with Jon Arryn, Viserys sends pressed flowers and sketches of increasing skill.
Dany delights in the vast amounts of attention, though Tywin takes great care not to let her grow spoiled from it all. With the King taking on more of the work of ruling, the Hand allows himself more time to spend with the little princess, as well as her firstborn nephew and niece: Crown Prince Aemon, who looks more a Stark than a Targaryen, and Princess Myrcella, born with a head of thick golden hair in contrast to her dark Dornish skin. Already there is talk that Daenerys might grow up to marry Tor Stark, the heir of Winterfell, or perhaps one of Mace Tyrell’s sons in Highgarden, if not her cousin Ordan Baratheon at Storm’s End.
But that will be years off. For the meantime, Dowager Queen Rhaella reclines in her seat, watching her family with a contented smile, the Grim Wolf keeping watch at her side.