Chapter Text
Art by the amazing Karuselii, commissioned by me.
Was it day or was it already night?
Jaehaera did not know. The light in her chamber was always strange, always wrong. Sometimes the sun spilled through the thick curtains in thin, pale lines like. Sometimes there was only candlelight, and shadows that looked like hands on the walls. The hours did not sit in order anymore. They slid into each other. They melted, like wax running down a candle.
She hoped it was not night. Night meant she had to sleep. And sleep meant dreams.
Not the soft kind of dreams, not the gentle kind that other girls might have, where a mother smiles or a brother laughs or flowers bloom in a garden that never dies. Jaehaera’s dreams were always the same. They had swords. They had blood. They had screaming.
In the night, the dreams came and took her, as if the darkness itself had arms. And every time she woke, she woke screaming.
Her throat would burn. Her eyes would sting. Her cheeks would be wet. And the bed beneath her would be wet too, cold and heavy, because she had done it again. She had wet the bed again, like a baby, like a child, like someone who was not a queen.
Then the ladies-in-waiting would come.
They would rush in, their gowns whispering, their faces tight with worry and something else; something that felt sharp. Pity, maybe. Shame. Disgust. Fear that the wrong person might see. Fear that the court would laugh.
They would pull back the sheets. They would change the linens. They would wash her with cloths that were too rough and hands that were too careful. And someone would always say it, sooner or later, in a soft voice that was meant to be kind but always sounded like a knife.
“A queen should not do this.”
And Jaehaera would cry again.
She would cry until her chest hurt. She would cry until she could not breathe right. She would cry until the night turned into day because she could not fall asleep anymore. She would sit up, shaking, while the candles burned down and the world outside her door continued without her, and her body would feel hollow like a shell.
There was always only this emptiness. Always.
Jaehaera never left her chamber. Not truly. Not willingly. Only when they forced her.
Everything outside frightened her. The corridor. The stairs. The sounds of men’s voices. The sound of mail. The echo of boots. The way the air changed near the great halls, smelling of smoke and old stone. The Red Keep was full of ghosts, even when no one spoke of them.
She did not want to see anyone. She could not. If she saw them, they looked at her. If they looked at her, they remembered. And if they remembered, they would speak, and their words would open wounds inside her that never stopped bleeding.
Once, only once, they had brought her before her grandmother.
It was after the terrible wedding, the one that had felt like a punishment, the one where her hands were placed into hands she did not understand, and everyone watched, and everyone expected something from her that she could not give. They had dressed her like a doll. They had combed her hair. They had put a crown on her head as if a crown could make her whole.
They had led her into the presence of her grandmother as if it was a gift.
But it was not a gift.
The old queen had looked at her with hard eyes, eyes that had seen too much and had decided to become stone. And she had leaned forward and spoken quietly, as if she was giving advice about embroidery or prayer.
“You should slit his throat.”
That was what she said.
As if it was simple. As if it was mercy. As if Jaehaera was a plot of her revenge against Rhaenyra.
Jaehaera had stared at her, not understanding at first, because the words felt like they belonged to another world. Then the meaning hit her like a blow, and her lip began to tremble, and she began to cry. Not softly. Not politely. She sobbed like her chest was breaking, like her ribs were splitting open, like something inside her had been ripped out and thrown on the floor.
They had to carry her away.
Her small body shook so hard that her teeth clicked. Her hands clawed at the air as if she wanted to pull the words back into the old woman’s mouth, as if she wanted to stop time. But time did not stop. It never stopped. It only moved forward, dragging her behind it.
That day, Grand Maester Munkun had given her the good wine.
Not the weak watered wine that ladies drank at supper. Not the thin sour stuff. The good wine. The one that burned a little when she swallowed. The one that made her head float. The one that made the world soften at the edges.
The one that gave her the freedom to forget. Jaehaera asked for that wine often after.
She almost never received it.
And when they refused her, she would cry again. She would cry for hours, her voice hoarse, her face swollen, her eyes red and aching. Sometimes she would pull at her hair. Sometimes she would bite her own wrist to make the pain inside turn into pain she could understand. The ladies would try to calm her, but their voices sounded far away, like they were speaking down a long hallway.
Eventually they would leave her alone.Because she did not hear them anyway.
She did not know their names. She did not remember their faces. Or perhaps she did remember, but her mind would not let her hold onto them. The faces slid away. The names fell through her fingers.
Who were they, really? Who were they to her?
They were not Jaehaerys.
They were not Maelor.
They were not her mother.
They were not her father.
It was only her now.
Only her. Forever alone.
In her room she did not do much.
Most days she simply stared at the wall, at the pale stone and the cracks and the little bumps where the mason’s hand had faltered long ago. She stared so long that the wall stopped being a wall. It became nothing. It became the same emptiness that lived inside her.
She rocked back and forth while she stared.
Back and forth. Like a child, like a baby. A girl trying to rock herself into safety.
Sometimes one of the ladies would kneel beside her and coax her to eat. “Just a little, Your Grace,” they would say, holding out a spoon. Sometimes they had to open her mouth like she was a bird. Sometimes she would swallow without tasting. Sometimes she would spit it out again and begin to cry.
They had to remind her to drink as well. A cup pressed into her hands. “Please,” a voice said. “Please.”
She did not do it on her own. Her body did not ask for it. Her mind did not care. It was as if she was already half gone, and only habit kept her skin warm.
They had filled her chamber with toys, hoping something might reach her. Dolls with painted faces. Little carved animals. A harp too small for real music. A spinning top. Ribbons. The Seven-Pointed Star.
She barely touched any of it. The only things she sometimes reached for were two things.
A wooden knight. And her mother’s scarf.
The wooden knight was small, worn smooth where little fingers had held it. Once, she and Jaehaerys had played with it on the floor, pushing it along like it was a true knight riding to battle. Jaehaerys had made voices. He had laughed. Jaehaera had laughed too. She could almost feel that laugh still, somewhere deep down, like a spark trapped under ash.
The scarf was different. The scarf was real.
It was cloth, soft but frayed at the edges, and it still held a faint scent that made her chest ache. A scent of a woman’s hair and a woman’s skin. A scent of mother.
Jaehaera wrapped herself in it often. She pressed it to her face and breathed and breathed like she was drowning and the scarf was air. No one was allowed to touch it. Not even to fold it. Not even to wash it.
It was her greatest treasure. The last thing she had from her family that felt like it was still alive. Everything else was gone. So far away. And she was so empty.
Today was a day like any other.
She stood close to the wall, staring. She counted the uneven places in the stone.
One. Two. Three. Four.
No, three.
She started over.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
No, five was wrong.
She started over again.
Her lips moved, but no sound came out. It was a way to keep her mind from falling into the dark too quickly. Counting was a rope. A thin rope. She held it anyway. A wind slid through the room. It touched the back of her neck. It lifted a strand of her pale hair. It made the candles flicker, though they were not supposed to flicker.
Jaehaera paused, her breath catching. The wind was strange. The windows were always shut. Always. Not that she would remember. She did not remember small things. Small things did not stay.
But her ladies remembered. They always made sure the shutters were locked and barred. The ladies were careful, because the court was not kind, and the court was not safe. And they did not want the fate of Queen Helaena upon her child.
Almost always one of them stayed in the room with her, even when it broke their hearts to watch her rock and stare like a broken doll. They would sit in the corner with needlework, pretending they were not watching, pretending they were not afraid that she might do something to herself.
But today, today the window was open. And today Jaehaera was alone.
The cold air moved through her chamber, smelling faintly of rain and stone and the city below. Somewhere outside, a raven called. Somewhere below, voices rose and fell, too far away to matter. Jaehaera did not notice.
For her, every day was the same. A smear of time. A wash of color, all mixed until it became gray. She did not know where one day began and another ended.
There had been a Jaehaera before the night when her twin Jaehaerys was killed before her eyes. And there was a Jaehaera after. The girl she had been was gone. Not dead, perhaps, but taken. Locked away. Her mind had stolen her from herself because it could not bear what it had seen.
Sometimes, when she blinked, there were flashes. A child’s face. A small hand reaching for her. A scream. Then nothing.
Her body still remembered fear, even when her mind refused to remember why. That was the cruelest part. The fear remained, like a sickness. Jaehaera did not hear the door open. She did not hear the soft click of the latch. She did not hear the rustle of cloak and mail.
A kingsguard was on duty outside her chamber, sworn to protect her, sworn by vow and honor and white cloak. But on this day, that kingsguard opened the door for someone else.
For someone who had no pity for a broken child. For someone who had already decided what must be done. Jaehaera did not hear the heavier footsteps crossing the floor.
They were not the quiet steps of her ladies. Not the careful steps of servants. These were heavy steps, confident steps. The steps of a man who did not think he would be stopped. The chamber felt smaller suddenly. The air felt thick.
Still Jaehaera stared at the wall.
Still she counted.
One. Two. Three…
Hands clamped onto her shoulders. Jaehaera jerked like she had been burned.
A sound ripped out of her. A sharp cry. She spun halfway around, eyes wide, heart hammering so hard it felt like it might climb out of her chest.
He was close.
Too close.
A man with a tattoo on his face.
Dark lines cut across his skin like inked scars. A heavy beard shadowed his jaw. His eyes were cold and flat, not like a man looking at a girl, but like a man looking at an object.
Jaehaera’s breath turned into sobs instantly. She began to cry wild and loud, her body shaking, her hands lifting as if she could push him away.
“Don’t, don’t…please!” she choked.
His grip tightened.
He smelled of sweat and leather and something sharp. Jaehaera tried to pull away, but she was small. She was thin. She had not eaten enough in weeks. She had not lived like a normal girl. She had lived like a ghost.
The man shoved her. Not gentle, not careful.
He shoved her toward the open window. Jaehaera’s feet stumbled on the stone floor.
She did not understand at first. Her mind moved slowly, like it was under water. But then she saw the black mouth of the window, the air moving, the curtains lifting like pale hands, and something in her snapped awake.
Fear. Pure fear. She screamed.
“Let me go! I’m scared! I’m scared!”
Her voice cracked.
“Jaehaerys!” she cried. “I’m scared! Mama!”
She did not mean to call them. It just happened. Like a prayer. Like a child calling into darkness.
The man did not care. He pushed harder.
Jaehaera’s fingers grabbed at the wall, scraping stone. She grabbed at a table edge. She knocked over a cup. It shattered. The sound was sharp and small and useless.
Outside, someone could have heard. Someone could have come. But the one who might have heard was guarding a door. Not guarding her but guarding the man and his cruel act.
The man spoke to her then. Words fell from his mouth like stones.
She did not understand.
Was it another language? Was it the roaring in her ears? Was it the panic swallowing meaning?
Jaehaera only heard the hatred in his voice, the impatience, the certainty.
He grabbed her again, rough. His fingers bit into her skin. He shook her once like she was nothing. Jaehaera cried harder. She shook her head, hair sticking to her wet cheeks.
“No,” she sobbed. “No, please, please!”
The window was so close now. The air was cold on her face. She could see the drop.
It was a long way down.
She could not think of what would happen if she fell. Her mind would not go there. But her body knew. Her body knew the ground would crush her, would enclose her, would end her.
The man shoved her again.
And then…
Without anyone hearing her, without anyone answering her, without the gods turning their faces, he pushed her one last time.
And Jaehaera saw the window from the outside.
She felt the air rushing past her, the terrible weightlessness of the fall. Somewhere deep within, she knew the ground was waiting. Her mind was shattered, splintered beyond reason, yet instinct remained. And as she fell, she clutched the last thing she had from her mother. In that grasp, there was hope.
The scarf. Her mother’s scarf.
She had been holding it even now, because she always held it. Even when she stared at walls. Even when she rocked. Even when she cried. It was always in her hands like a lifeline.
Now her fingers tightened around it with desperate strength. The scarf caught on the window frame.
It snagged hard, and Jaehaera’s falling body jerked so sharply her arms screamed with pain. For a heartbeat it felt like her shoulders would tear out of their sockets. The scarf strained. The cloth pulled tight.
Jaehaera gasped, a broken sound. Above her, the man leaned out. He cursed, loud.
His hands grabbed at the scarf, at the cloth. His fingers tore at it as if tearing it was tearing her mother’s last gift from the world.
Jaehaera sobbed.
“No, no!” she cried, voice thin, helpless. The scarf began to rip. The sound of ripping cloth was small, but to Jaehaera it sounded like a scream.
It was her treasure, her last treasure. And he was tearing it.
She clung tighter.
Her hands shook. Her knuckles went white. Her arms burned. Tears streamed down her face and fell into the air below like rain.
The scarf ripped again.
But it held long enough. It stole the momentum. It slowed the fall, just enough, just enough…
Jaehaera swung, half-hanging, half-falling, her body twisting in the air. Her bare feet kicked at stone. Her toes scraped something hard.
Then her body slammed onto a gargoyle beneath the window.
A dragon carved from black stone, crouched there like it had been waiting. Its mouth was open in an eternal snarl, teeth sharp, eyes cruel. The Red Keep was full of such monsters, watching, silent. Maegors idea to make the Red Keep fitting for the Targaryen’s.
Jaehaera landed on its back like a doll thrown from a child’s hand. Pain shot through her side. Her breath left her in a harsh sob. She clung to the gargoyle with shaking hands, wrapping her arms around its cold neck as if it could hold her.
She screamed again. She screamed and screamed until her throat tore raw. Above her, the shadow at the window shifted. For a moment she saw him, just a shape against the light.
Then he withdrew.
Gone.
Jaehaera did not stop screaming. She could not stop.
Her body shook so hard she thought she might fall again. Her fingers slipped on stone, then found purchase again. She pressed her cheek to the gargoyle’s back. It was cold. Wet. Unforgiving.
She was so afraid, so afraid. And then the fear became exhaustion. It poured through her like poison.
She had cried so much. She had screamed so much. Her body had lived in terror for so long. Now it could not hold it anymore. Her sobs turned into weak gasps. Her eyelids fluttered. The world blurred.
The wind tugged at her hair. It tugged at the torn remains of the scarf still caught up above, flapping like a dying bird. Jaehaera’s fingers twitched, then loosened. Her arms went limp and she slumped against the stone dragon.
And she fell into darkness, not dreams, not memories. Just blackness, just nothing. Something she had wanted more than anything, though she did not know how to say it. For a moment, she was granted it.
She did not feel the first hands that reached her. Did not feel the careful climb. The scrape of boots on stone. The whispered curse of a man who had not expected to find the queen like this; small, limp, sprawled across a gargoyle, hair stuck to her face with tears.
She did not feel herself lifted. She did not feel the strong arms that hauled her up, that carried her like she weighed nothing, like she was only cloth and bone. She did not feel herself pushed back through the window.
Inside the chamber, someone shouted. A door slammed. Footsteps ran.
Voices rose, sharp and panicked, echoing down the corridor like a storm.
“The queen!”
“By the Seven, she fell!”
“Fetch the maester!”
“Now!”
But Jaehaera did not hear. She did not feel the frantic hands checking her limbs, her ribs, her head. She did not feel the blood, if there was blood. She did not feel the bruises blooming under her skin like dark flowers. She did not hear the name of Grand Maester Munkun shouted down the hall.
She did not hear the Red Keep waking like a beast, stirring from sleep, shaking with alarm. She did not know that guards were running to the stairwells, that men were searching corridors, that someone was already trying to decide what story would be told.
She did not know that somewhere, far away in another chamber, a boy-king with haunted eyes would be told that his wife had fallen.
She did not know any of it, Jaehaera stayed in darkness.
It was the deep black she had wished for every night when the dreams came and the bed was wet and the shame burned her skin. And for a moment, for a small, cruel mercy, her wish was fulfilled.
The queen had survived.