Chapter Text
Her children were dead; she already knew. Her precious boys, sweet boys... they were no longer breathing. Rhaenyra knew; she felt it. Inside her, nothing remained but pain and anguish. Jacaerys, Lucerys, and the baby—stillborn in her womb. And Harwin Strong beside them; she knew it was them. All of them—the serpents living in the castle: Otto, Alicent, and her own father. Laenor, Corlys, and Rhaenys. It was them—every single one of them. The false tears streaming down their faces when they announced the boys' disappearance... SHE KNEW; THEY WERE DEAD.
She had endured so much, and yet they had taken her only happiness. Her greatest love and pride. Her boys, her children, her little dragons. Betrayed time and again, without mercy or pity. They would pay—all of them—until not a single person was left alive. Rhaenyra had a list; she would make them pay. They might have taken her name, her birthright—her clothes, gold, and titles. But they should not have taken her children; they should not have touched them. Jace, Luke, and the baby were innocent; why hadn't they come for *her*? WHY DIDN'T THEY KILL HER AND LEAVE HER CHILDREN ALIVE?
They would all pay; they would all die. She would burn it all down; they would feel exactly what she felt.
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Rhaenyra Targaryen sat as she always did, facing the window with her sons' coats in her lap. She did not speak, move, or eat. She simply sat and waited, trapped within her own mind. She was lifeless, for what she loved most had been torn from her. Servants passed by, glancing, whispering, and pointing; the court did nothing but murmur about her. Sometimes her brothers watched her from the doorway, yet they never entered the room. But Rhaenyra Targaryen did not stir, did not raise her eyes... she merely wept and waited. Not even Daemon could rouse the poor woman—the shattered mother—from her melancholy. Syrax’s cries could be heard in the distance, yet she remained motionless. Tears continued to stream down her sorrowful face. Laenor tried to comfort her, but it was like speaking to a doll. She was no longer the woman, the princess, or the heir to a kingdom; she was simply a grieving mother—broken and hollow—left with no children to hold or love. A month passed without news—no ransom demands, no blackmail, and no bodies to bury. There was only the agonizing silence surrounding two missing children.
They whispered words of support and comfort, promising they would find the boys. But Rhaenyra knew the truth: they were dead. Her beautiful, precious boys—the true loves of her life. With the emptiness in her heart and womb, nothing remained for her but pain. Rhaenyra knew who was responsible; it was those she had once called family who had taken her children from her. The disappearance of Jacaerys and Lucerys, her miscarriage, and the death of Harwin Strong—the Targaryen knew it was them... all of them. They came in droves to speak to her, but she never stirred.
Laenor wept beside her, blaming himself, but she saw through it all: they were false tears. A liar—he knew, and he was part of it all. Viserys, her father—the traitor and murderer. She had thought he loved her, but the king... he had taken everything from her. Viserys Targaryen was the one who orchestrated it all; the puppet king. They each came in and tried to elicit a reaction from her, but she simply sat there. She could still recall the shouting and the arguments between them.
Viserys was the one who ordered it; it had to be him. In the depths of her despair and melancholy, it was he who had killed her children. Rhaenyra spoke only a single sentence—the very same phrase: “Bring them back.” It was the only thing that escaped her pale, white lips.
Rhaenys—the Queen Who Never Was—was a viper. Rhaenyra saw the truth in her gaze; she, too, was complicit in it all. The condolences for her loss, the words of comfort the woman had spoken... they were lies, poison poured into her ears. Rhaenys felt no remorse; she had said Rhaenyra was still young... that she could have other children. Rhaenyra did not regret having stabbed her with those scissors. Daemon—her good Daemon—was the only one who still cared. Rhaenyra remained grateful to him; he was still searching. Daemon was the one who, perhaps, harbored the hope of finding her boys. But they were already dead; Rhaenyra would never hold them in her arms again, never embrace or kiss them. She would never again tell them that everything would be all right or protect them. The boys who used to cling to her, hiding their little faces in her skirts... were dead.
They had taken everything from her, leaving her hollow and in pain. With nothing left to love or to bury. Only tears.
Deep down, a small part of Rhaenyra still clung to hope. She begged the gods for mercy, but went unheard. She simply waited, biding her time until the day she would be reunited with her true loves. Hearing *their* voices filled her with revulsion, hatred, and sorrow. Pure betrayal—it was *them*; they were the ones who had taken them. Gazing at the sky, the princess imagined what it would have been like had her sons lived to ride their dragons. They had only ever flown with her and Laenor—a false love she had once believed to be real and loyal. Jace and Luke—Arrax and Vermax—would never know the bond of a true soulmate connection with a dragon. The images in her mind were too painful; In that vision, she had been happy. Her children—all three of them—soaring, laughing, and shouting with excitement atop their dragons. She had screamed, wept, and pleaded, yet no one did a thing. All that remained was the ability to weep, alone in a cold room filled with happy memories of her beautiful, kind children.
Rhaenyra wept, clutching to her chest the small garments that were already losing the scent of her children. Only she suffered the pain of losing them; only she still wept and screamed for them. ONLY SHE—NO ONE ELSE.
They would all pay; her pain would become theirs. They would all DIE; she would show mercy to no one. Rhaenyra Targaryen would be remembered as Maegor reborn—the kinslayer, the monster of House Targaryen.
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Rhaenyra sang her children’s favorite song; they loved it when she sang—whenever they had nightmares or were afraid. Jace and Luke would run to her, hugging her and kissing her face, asking to sleep together, all snug and warm under the covers. When she closed her eyes and sang, she could still see her beautiful, sweet boys looking up at her with wonder.
Hae elēni ā iepagon (I remember a land)
Tcheret gere vēja pelothos (Glorious people lived there)
Tchaïmè leda kivio yn tegon (Formidable dragons flew there)
Tchere iā mili bano (Strong hearts beat there)
Dori mēha eee tchaïmè na (One day we will rise from the ashes)
Tchoile ka eee tchaïvei ja (And we will bring back our majesty)
Tchaïmè elēni ja elakot
Tchémé geleves ja pelogho
Tchaïmè tchiani ja
Tchémé geleves ja
"My Princess," said Elinda, leaning close to her ear and whispering:
"She found them."
"Finally!"