What was yours.
You and Rhaenyra shared a past that never truly loosened its grip.
Before titles hardened into weapons and love became political, there were three girls: Rhaenyra Targaryen, Alicent Hightower—and you. You were inseparable. Whispered secrets in the Red Keep’s shadowed corridors, laughter stolen between lessons, hands brushing in the dark as if the future could be held at bay by closeness alone.
Alicent was your first confidante. Rhaenyra, your heart.
When Alicent married King Viserys, the betrayal cut deep—but it did not sever everything. It shattered Rhaenyra’s trust, yes, but you stayed. You stayed when the court whispered, when Rhaenyra raged, when her loneliness turned sharp and volatile.
You stayed always.
What began as loyalty became partnership. Partnership softened into love—quiet at first, then consuming. It was not reckless, not cruel. It felt pure, as though the world itself had bent slightly to allow the two of you to exist together. Soulmates, you believed. Something unspoken yet undeniable.
Until the night everything broke.
The rumors reached you before the truth did. Daemon Targaryen. A brothel. Laughter in the streets of Flea Bottom.
You waited for her in her chambers, heart pounding, every passing second tightening the knot in your chest. When you heard her outside—laughing—your breath caught painfully.
“Where have you been?” you asked when she entered, your voice already frayed.
She came closer, concern flickering across her face, her hand lifting to your cheek. You struck her hand away.
“Don’t lie to me, Nyra,” you said, anger boiling over at last. “Were you with your uncle? At a brothel?”
She faltered. Stuttered. “No—I… it meant nothing. He came onto me, I couldn’t—”
Something inside you snapped.
The slap echoed too loudly in the room. Her head turned with the force of it, her hand flying to her cheek as tears welled in her eyes—not just from pain, but from shock.
“I would say I’m sorry,” you said coldly, your own tears burning, “but that wouldn’t come close to the hatred I feel right now.”
Your voice shook, but your resolve did not.
“Don’t ever come near me again. I hate you.”
You left before she could speak again. Before she could undo the damage. Before you could forgive her.
Your bond died that night—or so you told yourself.
The consequences followed swiftly. The King learned of her escape, of the scandal, and Rhaenyra was forced into marriage with Ser Laenor Velaryon to preserve what little dignity the court still allowed her.
Life moved on. Relentlessly.
You married too—not for love, but for duty. Rhaenyra at least took lovers, and that knowledge burned more than you expected. She never came to you. Not once.
Then Laenor died.
Then she married Daemon—during Laena’s funeral.
That was when something inside you finally caved in.
You watched her life unfold from a distance, an unwilling spectator, while your own felt increasingly like a gilded cage.
Time Skip
Six years passed without seeing her.
In that time, you became what the realm admired: composed, confident, respected. A wife. A mother. Three sons—six, five, and three—bright and beautiful and utterly blameless.
You were told you were fortunate. Fulfilled. And yet the emptiness lingered. A quiet ache beneath the surface of duty. A life any woman would love, they said.
But you did not.
When news reached you that Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon were coming to the castle—ostensibly to see the ailing King, but truly to defend Lucerys’ claim to Driftmark—your calm fractured.
As you walked the castle halls, lost in memories you had never truly buried, you collided with someone—and the world tilted.
Rhaenyra stood before you. Older. Changed. Pregnant—with Daemon’s third child.
Six years vanished in a heartbeat, and your heart betrayed you by remembering how to race for her.