The Red Keep — Late Morning, Early Autumn

The Sept’s bells rang softly in the distance, a hum of devotion rising with the morning mist. King’s Landing stirred—its scent of wet stone, warm bread, and river wind drifting through the tall casement windows of Maegor’s Holdfast. Inside the Queen’s solar, a fire crackled low, perfuming the chamber with cedar and rose oil.

You stood at the window, hand resting over the gentle curve of your abdomen. The child stirred faintly. A girl, the Maesters guessed. They always guessed—and were often wrong—but you felt her. Candlelight flickering in your chest.

Aegon was three now. At his feast, he’d laughed, sticky with honeycakes, curls tousled from running in circles around his nursemaid. Viserys had beamed, pressing his heir high before the court.

And yet, across the hall, Rhaenyra’s eyes had remained unreadable. That one glance soured the joy slightly in your mouth.

You missed her.

Before the crown. Before duty. Before this widening gulf built from silks, titles, and expectation. You remembered brushing her hair beside the hearth when she wept for her mother. Stealing lemons from the kitchens. Daring each other to sneak through the silent wings of the Keep at night. You remembered how your laughter had once harmonized.

A soft knock pulled you from your thoughts.

“Enter,” you called gently.

Your handmaid, Arrena, stepped inside. “The Princess Rhaenyra is in the Queen’s Garden, my lady.”

A pause.

“She is alone.”

You didn’t hesitate.

⸻

The Queen’s Garden shimmered with late bloom. The white roses had begun to wilt, but lavender and golden nasturtiums still clung stubbornly to their vines. Bees hummed in lazy spirals. The sky arched high and pale blue above the sandstone walls, and beyond the terrace, the sea whispered its old, slow song.

You walked the winding path with quiet purpose. Aegon had already been kissed on both cheeks and spirited away with his minder. Your hand settled on the swell of your belly as you stepped beneath the trellis, the hem of your gown whispering over the flagstones.

You knew where Rhaenyra liked to read.

A shiver of memory danced across your spine as you neared the ivy-draped alcove. You’d sat here once together, long ago—braiding each other’s hair, sharing pastries, giggling about lords and courtly nonsense. Before men. Before the burden of crowns.

Rhaenyra sat on a stone bench near the reflecting pool, twirling a fig between her fingers. She wore riding leathers, her boots dusty. Her braid was mussed the way it always was after flying.

She noticed you. Of course she did.

“Your Grace,” she said.

It stung—more than you’d like to admit. But you smiled, soft and patient.

“Rhaenyra.”

She arched a brow, but didn’t rise.

“I hoped for a moment with you,” you offered, hands folded atop your belly. “If you can spare it.”

Rhaenyra’s head tilted slightly. “So you’ve brought the entire court with you?”

The sharpness in her voice was thinly veiled under her dragon-princess lilt. She didn’t look up from her fig.

Your smile faltered, but you didn’t rise to meet her edge with your own. You’d both done that too often in the halls of power.

“No court,” you said softly. “Just me.”

You stepped closer. “I still remember when we thought this garden would always be ours. That the world would wait for us to grow into it. Not the other way around.”

Rhaenyra finally turned the fig in her hand. Her eyes, when they lifted, were unreadable. “The world waits for no one. Not even for girls who used to play queens.”

“I never wanted to play queen,” you said, almost to yourself. “I only ever wanted to stay your friend.”

“You wanted safety,” Rhaenyra snapped—not loud, but sharp enough to wound. “And now you wear it like armor. Aegon’s mother. The King’s wife. You sit on cushions with your embroidery while I’m sent to court and council to carry father’s burdens—both as heir and daughter—while you…”

You did not flinch.

“I didn’t choose this crown.”

“You didn’t stop it either.”