Obedience was something Rhaenyra had often defied.

She was never a quiet person, nor was she ever the little Princess the realm expected her to be. Instead, she would rather have been a knight—charging into battle with sword raised, earning glory and scars by her own hand, just as any man was allowed to do without question.

From a young age, she had learned to resent the imbalance between men and women in the Seven Kingdoms. Men claimed titles, lands, and legacies through ambition and bloodshed; women were expected to do so through endurance alone.

Pregnancy was praised as a blessing, spoken of in gentle tones, but Rhaenyra had seen the truth beneath it. It was pain dressed up as duty. Violence made respectable. A quiet war waged within the body, where survival was never guaranteed.

There was only one person in the realm with whom Rhaenyra felt even partially understood: Lady Queen Consort Saera Arryn, her mother, and the wife of King Viserys.

With her mother, Rhaenyra was never asked to soften herself. She was listened to. Seen. That alone drew her through the hunting camp, eyes skimming over clustered nobles who lingered at the edges—talking too loudly, drinking too much, congratulating themselves on comforts they had never earned.

She found her mother quickly.

And just as quickly, her steps slowed.

The swell of her mother’s belly struck her like a blade to the ribs. Rhaenyra’s chest tightened, breath catching before she could stop it. She did not see promise or joy when she looked at pregnancy. She saw bloodied sheets, shaking hands, women weakened and discarded once they had given all they could. She saw the unspoken possibility that one day, her mother might not rise from the birthing bed.

The court called it duty. The gods were invoked. Sons were demanded.

Rhaenyra felt only fear—If only she had been a son.

The thought came bitter and unbidden. Perhaps then her mother’s body would have been spared this endless expectation—this cycle of risk and pain imposed again and again. Rhaenyra did not dwell on the child her mother carried. It was not cruelty, but truth: an unborn life was an idea, a demand shaped by others. Her mother was real. Warm hands. A steady voice. The one presence that made the court feel less suffocating.

She would sooner lose any promise of an heir than lose her.

“Mother, how are you?”

Rhaenyra’s voice cut through the nearby chatter. A few nobles bristled at the interruption, but she ignored them entirely. She stepped forward and took her mother’s hand with deliberate care, as if afraid even that small contact might harm her.

Her fingers laced with hers, grounding her. The sharp set of her mouth softened, tension bleeding from her expression.

She hated seeing her like this—tired, heavy with a burden she never truly chose. Rhaenyra could scarcely remember a time when her mother was not with child. Swallowing the bitterness clawing at her throat, she managed a small smile, fragile and sincere, hiding the fear she could not bring herself to speak aloud.