Chapter 4 – Rhaenys
The roar of the dragon split the skies above King's Landing.
Every servant, stable hand, and soldier in the Red Keep froze, their gazes lifting in awe and fear. The crimson shadow of Meleys, the Red Queen, passed over the courtyards and towers like a living flame.
When the people below realized who rode upon her — Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was — cheers erupted. Rhaenys had been raised in the Red Keep, and among its servants and guards she was still remembered fondly, not as a distant royal, but as a spirited princess who had once laughed and raced her cousins through these very halls.
Meleys landed gracefully in the training yard, her wings stirring a gale that sent banners whipping and horses neighing. Upon her back sat Princess Rhaenys, proud and unflinching, holding her daughter Laena and son Laenor close in her arms. The Red Queen's scales shimmered like living rubies, her bronze claws glinting in the sun as she folded her vast wings.
Rhaenys slid down with practiced ease, black hair cascading like a shadow against her pale skin — the Baratheon blood of her mother, Queen Consort Jocelyn, made her stand apart from her silver-haired kin. Yet her eyes, those deep amethysts, burned with the unmistakable fire of Old Valyria.
She bowed low before King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne, but there was iron in her voice when she spoke. "Grandfather. Grandmother. It warms my heart to see you both in health."
Alysanne, her face soft with love, leaned on her cane and kissed Rhaenys's cheeks, then gathered little Laena and Laenor into her frail arms, tears glistening in her eyes. "My dear grandchildren, how you've grown."
Jaehaerys, however, remained grave. His piercing gaze flicked toward the dragon's looming shape. "Rhaenys, your mount grows larger each year. I recall instructing you — land at the Dragonpit, not the Red Keep."
Rhaenys straightened, her chin high. "I hate the Dragonpit, Grandfather. It reeks of chains and dust. Every time I enter, I must look upon Caraxes… and remember my father."
Jaehaerys's face hardened. "Do not lecture me on remembrance. I have not forgotten your father, nor his sacrifice."
"Then you must know why I cannot bear it," Rhaenys said sharply. "My father died fighting for the realm. Caraxes waits still, without his rider. Each time I see him locked away, I feel the loss anew."
Alysanne, sensing the storm rising, touched her husband's arm gently. "Come, Jaehaerys. The gods know this is no day for quarrels. Aemma's labor pains have already begun."
Jaehaerys exhaled, his temper cooling. "Yes. Perhaps your arrival is a good omen, Rhaenys. You came to pray for Aemma's safe delivery, I trust?"
"Of course," Rhaenys said softly, her eyes flicking toward the tower where smoke rose from incense. "And to ensure my children are not forgotten."
She turned, beckoning to Laenor and Laena. Both were as striking as only Targaryen children could be — silver hair, violet eyes, their beauty almost unearthly. Yet even at four, Laena carried herself with quiet confidence, while Laenor's gaze was distant and dreamy.
"Grandfather," Rhaenys said calmly, "you speak of heirs. Yet you forget — your first great-grandchild is Laena, and your second, Laenor. By blood and birthright, they stand before you."
The words hung heavy in the air. Even the guards shifted uneasily.
King Jaehaerys's eyes flashed with restrained fury. Before he could speak, Queen Alysanne interceded with practiced grace.
"Rhaenys, your children have claims indeed, as does the babe Aemma will soon bring into the world. Let us not bicker over the gods' order of things."
But the air had changed. The ghost of Prince Aemon, once heir to the Iron Throne, lingered between them. His death in Tarth had left a void that the realm — and the royal marriage — had never fully healed.
When Aemon fell, half the realm had whispered that his daughter, Rhaenys, should have succeeded him as Princess of Dragonstone. Alysanne herself had pleaded that cause, believing her granddaughter's claim just and rightful. But Jaehaerys, ever pragmatic, had chosen his second son, Baelon, instead. It had driven a wedge between king and queen that no apology could fully mend.
Now, with Rhaenys standing before them, those old wounds bled anew.
"I seek no crown," Rhaenys said, her tone even but her eyes glimmering with defiance. "Only justice. My father's dying wish was that his blood — his line — would rule. Before he left for Tarth, he told me that the child in my womb would one day sit the Iron Throne. I cannot forget that."
Jaehaerys's patience finally cracked. "You came here on dragonback, crossing sea and sky, not for prayer or family, but to resurrect old grievances! Must you wield your father's memory like a blade against your kin?"
Rhaenys met his gaze unflinching. "You mistake remembrance for ambition, Grandfather. I only protect what is mine — and what is my children's by right."
Before the tension could ignite further, a calm voice broke through the storm.
"Enough," said Queen Consort Jocelyn, approaching from the cloisters.
Age had not dulled her beauty — the storm-born fire of House Baratheon still flickered in her eyes. "His Grace is old but strong. Let him live in peace, Rhaenys. The Iron Throne will outlast us all."
Archmaester Elysar arrived breathless, clutching his chain of office. "Your Graces — the princess is crowning! The babe comes!"
At once, Jaehaerys and Alysanne turned, hurrying toward the birthing chamber. Alysanne paused only to say, "Daemon, Gael — attend our guest. Show her the hospitality of House Targaryen."
Rhaenys watched them go, a faint smirk playing on her lips. "Such ceremony," she murmured. "I remember when they prepared the same way for me. They told me I carried the future of the realm too."
Daemon, who had lingered nearby, glanced toward the Red Queen resting beyond the courtyard. Her golden eyes glowed like embers in the dusk. "She's beautiful," he said softly. "My mother rode her once."
Rhaenys turned, surprised. "Alyssa's son indeed. Your mother was fearless — she took to the skies days after you were born."
"I remember her warmth," Daemon said, touching the dragon's scaled flank. "I was barely ten days old, yet she took me flying."
"Meleys remembers you," Rhaenys said, almost wistfully. "Alyssa was a marvel. You've her spirit — wild and untamed."
"And Viserys?" Daemon smirked. "You think he inherited her fire?"
Rhaenys laughed, a sharp, musical sound. "Viserys? That plump fool? He rode Balerion in his last days — the poor beast was older than Valyria's ashes. He chose the one dragon too weary to test his courage."
Daemon's eyes gleamed. "Then perhaps I'll claim Caraxes. Your father's dragon deserves a true rider."
Rhaenys's smile vanished. "Caraxes is meant for my son. Laenor will take him when he comes of age."
Daemon chuckled. "Perhaps. But fate may disagree."
As they stood beneath the fading sun, the Red Queen exhaled a plume of scarlet smoke that wreathed them both — fire and shadow entwined.
And then, from the tower, came a cheer:
"It's a girl!"
Viserys's joyous voice carried down the halls. "My precious daughter — I will name her Rhaenyra!"
The bells of the Great Sept began to toll. Across King's Landing, dragons roared from their hills, and the streets of Flea Bottom echoed with cheers.
The gods had granted a new princess to House Targaryen — and in the shadow of Meleys's wings, Daemon Targaryen smiled faintly, unaware that the name Rhaenyra would one day bind his fate in fire and blood.
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