𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀𝐒𝐇
❝I would like to burn them to the ground and stand on their ashes.❞
in which the eldest child of viserys targaryen and aemma arryn is a little too violent, a little too wild, and a little too lost.
HOUSE OF THE DRAGON...
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KING JAEHAERYS TARGARYEN WAS AN OTHERWORLDLY MAN sitting on the largest seat at the end of the table. The sunshine blazed behind him from the tall windows to make him appear as if he shone, the whites of his hair almost gold, and the simple golden crown around his head was a lot like a halo. His pale violet eyes were focused on those who sat around him, on the words that left their mouths and the papers they pushed toward him.
Their conversation was hard for Rhaenerys to follow, words and books that made no sense to her. They spoke about new edicts that would be pushed out in the oncoming days, about money owed to a bank in Braavos, about petty lords squabbling about lands. It was all nonsense.
She pressed her back against the wall and sneaked through the edge of the room. Her eyes were focused on the balcony on the other side of the room, right behind the sheer curtains that danced with the breeze. It was the highest place in the tower, where she could marvel at the entirety of King's Landing and perhaps a bit more of the kingdom her great-grandfather ruled for over fifty years. She enjoyed watching the birds that flew across the buildings, the few people she could see that moved between the streets like ants, the ships that dotted the sea and made rest at the harbour until it was their time to leave again.
A lively place.
Rhaenerys had explored nothing of King's Landing. The streets and their people were a mystery to her, and she wanted nothing more but to explore each corner. Her grandfather had told her he would take her through the streets the next time they went to the dragonpit—through the Street of Flours to taste the sweets at the bakeries and through the Street of Steel where smiths had their forges. He told her about Aemon Targaryen and how the people of the capital adored him whenever he walked through the streets.
Whenever Baelon spoke of his late brother, his eyes became distant and memories fogged his mind.
Rhaenerys did not understand the solemnness that became her grandfather whenever Aemon was mentioned. A mirror of the man she knew, as if he shrunk into himself and wanted to become as small as she. His words would falter and disappear, his arms would fall at his side, and all he did was frown at nothing. At something that no one else could see.
It would disappear in a moment. Baelon would smile at her as he picked her up, creating some tale to make her laugh so they could make their merry way to wherever they were headed. The godswood of the castle where they hid between the elms and the black cottonwood trees, imagined themselves as heroes of stories—she Rhaenys Targaryen and he Aegon the Conqueror—were her favourites. Wooden swords and shields loitered on the ground, a pale wooden stick she imagined as Meraxes and a shorter stick she pulled from one of the elms became a Valyrian steel sword.
