Rewriting Targaryen History

Chapter 78: Chapter 78: A New Delight of the Realm

Rhaenyra returned to court before the court was ready to stop treating her as an invalid.

That annoyed her more than the weakness itself.

The midwife had allowed her to leave the bed in careful stages, which Rhaenyra accepted with the patience of a woman enduring occupation by a foreign army. First she sat beside the window.

Then she walked the length of the chamber. Then she crossed into the adjoining solar with one hand on my arm and the other pressed lightly against her middle, as if daring her own body to object too loudly.

By the third week after Aemma’s birth, she agreed to appear in the Queen’s Ballroom for a modest gathering arranged by Viserys. It was not a feast, he insisted, only a small courtly celebration of mother and child, which meant musicians, embroidered cushions, silver cups, too many ladies, and enough honeyed fruit to suggest the kitchens had misunderstood the word modest.

"You may still turn back," I told her as we approached the doors.

Rhaenyra looked up at me with narrowed eyes. She wore red and black, her hair braided loosely enough not to pull at her temples, and though she was paler than before the birth, she had refused every gown that made her look gentle by accident.

"If you are trying to protect me, I appreciate the sentiment. If you are implying that I look unfit to stand before a room of gossiping courtiers, I will remember it when deciding how long you may hold your daughter this evening."

"I am only saying that you owe this room nothing if you tire."

"I know what I owe them," she said. "I also know what it costs to let them wonder whether childbirth has made me disappear."

That was the truth of it.

Court presence was not vanity. It was proof of health, strength, and continuity. Rhaenyra had survived a hard labour and given birth to a daughter adored by the King. If she remained hidden too long, sympathy would curdle into speculation. If she appeared too soon, fools would call it pride. She had chosen the middle path, which meant everyone would still talk but no one could say she had surrendered the room.

Aemma slept in her nurse’s arms beside us, wrapped in white and crimson, her small face turned toward Rhaenyra as though already suspicious of separation.

The doors opened.

Conversation softened first, then reshaped itself around us. Lords bowed. Ladies curtsied. Smiles bloomed quickly, some sincere and some carefully watered. The musicians adjusted their tune into something lighter. Viserys stood near the centre of the room and looked so openly pleased that even men who disliked us seemed compelled to look pleased beside him.

"My daughter," he said, taking Rhaenyra’s hands when she reached him. "You look well, and I will not say anything about rest because I have been warned by three women that I am tiresome when frightened."

Rhaenyra smiled. "Then I thank those women for their courage, Father."

He leaned past her to look at Aemma. "And there she is, the little delight of the realm."

The phrase travelled faster than it deserved. By the end of the hour, three ladies had repeated it, two knights had smiled over it, and one singer looked as though he were already trying to turn it into verse.

Aemma, who understood none of this and would have objected if she had, slept through her first public triumph.

The ladies came in waves after that.

Some brought gifts: soft caps, tiny slippers, silk ribbons, carved charms, and prayers written by septas with beautiful hands. Others brought compliments so polished they had probably been rehearsed since dawn. A few seemed genuinely moved by the child, especially those who had borne children themselves and knew enough to look first at Rhaenyra’s face before praising the babe.

Lady Beesbury spoke warmly. Lady Fell offered quiet congratulations and a small blanket embroidered with silver thread. Several younger ladies looked at Aemma as though they had never seen anything so delicate in a place so hard.

Rhaenyra received them all with grace, though I could feel her tiring. Her smile did not falter, but her hand rested more often on the arm of her chair, and once she looked at me with a warning that meant she would not be carried from the room like some fainting maiden no matter how much I deserved to worry.

So I did not suggest it. I merely placed myself close enough that she could lean without asking.

Daemon arrived late because Daemon considered punctuality a surrender.

Baela and Rhaena came with him, dressed properly enough to satisfy the room and alive enough to make their discomfort with stillness obvious. Baela reached Aemma first, peering down into the nurse’s arms with fearless curiosity.

"She is smaller than I expected," Baela said. "I thought all babies looked like angry little old men, but she mostly looks angry."

Rhaenyra laughed despite herself. "That is because she has already decided the world requires correction."

"She will need practice before she can correct anyone properly," Baela said. "I can help when she is older."

Jacaerys, standing nearby, looked alarmed. "Perhaps she should learn to walk before you begin planning her instruction."

Baela turned to him. "Walking is useful, but confidence matters earlier."

Daemon watched this with open amusement. "There, you see? The child has been in the world less than a month and already has more advisers than the King."

"She may choose better ones," I said.

Daemon’s smile sharpened. "Let us not burden her with expectations no monarch has managed."

Rhaena approached more softly. She looked at Aemma for a long time before offering a small smile. "She has a strong grip. Luke told me she held his finger and would not let go."

Lucerys, who had been trying not to look pleased, failed at once. "She did hold very tightly. I think she already knows when people are trying to leave."

Rhaena glanced at him. "That sounds sensible. People should not leave before they are wanted elsewhere."

The two of them shared a small look that belonged less to court and more to the quiet gardens where they had begun speaking without everyone listening. Daemon noticed. So did I. Neither of us commented, which showed unusual restraint from at least one of us.

Helaena came later in the afternoon.

She arrived without ceremony, slipping into the room with a pale blue gown, loose silver hair, and a small wooden box held carefully in both hands. Her presence drew fewer eyes than it should have; the court had grown used to looking past Helaena when it did not understand her. That was their mistake. I had learned to listen when she seemed furthest from the room.

She stopped before Rhaenyra and curtsied. "Princess," Helaena said, her voice gentle. "I brought something for the baby, though it is not grand enough for everyone to stare at."

Rhaenyra accepted the box with more kindness than surprise. Inside lay a tiny embroidered cloth, no larger than a handkerchief, stitched with a small silver moth.

"It is beautiful," Rhaenyra said. "Did you make it yourself?"

"I tried to make a dragon, but the wings wanted to become softer, so I let them." Helaena looked toward Aemma. "May I see her?"

The nurse brought the child closer. Helaena leaned over the bundle, her expression calm and distant in the same breath. Aemma opened her eyes briefly, unfocused and dark.

Helaena smiled. "She is listening to things before she understands them."

Rhaenyra glanced at me, then back to Helaena. "Most babes do, I suppose."

"Some sounds stay even after the words are gone," Helaena replied. She touched the edge of the blanket with one careful finger. "Little wings fold tightly before they know the sky exists."

No one answered too quickly. Aegon would have mocked her. Aemond would have listened and pretended not to. Alicent, who had entered near the end of Helaena’s words, went very still.

Rhaenyra broke the silence gently. "Then we will keep her warm until she finds it."

Helaena seemed satisfied by that. "Warmth matters. Eggs know it first."

She stepped aside, leaving the moth cloth in Rhaenyra’s lap like a blessing no septon would know how to give.

Alicent visited more often after that day.

Not warmly. Not falsely. Something more difficult.

At first, she came with Viserys, standing beside him while he admired Aemma and spoke too often of the name. Then she came once without him, bringing a small length of green silk so fine that Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow before accepting it.

"For the child," Alicent said. "Not for a dress yet, unless your seamstresses are more ambitious than patient. Perhaps a lining for a cradle blanket."

Rhaenyra looked down at the silk. "That is thoughtful of you."

"I remember how often people bring beautiful things that are useless to babies and exhausting to mothers."

"Then you remember more honestly than most."

Alicent’s mouth tightened, not in anger. "Childbirth makes honesty difficult to avoid for a time."

They were not friends. The wound of Driftmark had not vanished because one woman had survived a bed and another recognised the danger of it. Alicent still stood with Otto. Rhaenyra still knew it. Yet there was a narrow bridge between them now, made of motherhood, pain, and the knowledge that the gods had spared one woman where they had taken others.

It did not bear much weight. But it existed.

One evening, Alicent found Rhaenyra seated in the smaller solar with Aemma asleep nearby. I was writing at the desk, present enough to protect and absent enough to pretend privacy.

"You are recovering faster than I expected," Alicent said.

Rhaenyra looked up from the embroidery she had not touched for several minutes. "That may be because everyone keeps telling me I must not do anything useful, and spite is a powerful medicine."

Alicent almost smiled. "It is not one the maesters prescribe, though perhaps they fear women would recover too quickly if they did."

Rhaenyra studied her for a moment. "That was nearly a joke, Your Grace."

"It was nearly unwise, Princess."

The room held the faintest warmth, fragile as frost under morning light.

Then Aemma stirred. Alicent looked toward the cradle, and whatever guarded expression she wore softened for less than a breath.

"She is peaceful tonight," she said.

"Only because she spent the afternoon screaming as though the realm had offended her personally."

"That seems to run in your family."

Rhaenyra’s eyes sharpened, but not unpleasantly. "Careful. That sounded less like insult than admiration."

"Perhaps I have learned that stubbornness is less irritating when one is not currently arguing against it."

I kept my eyes on the letter and did not smile. Some victories required silence from witnesses.

The court adjusted around Aemma because the King adored her, because Rhaenyra had returned visibly enough to command attention, and because people always followed warmth when power stood close beside it.

Ladies who had once visited rarely now found reasons to appear. Some wished to see the child. Some wished to be seen seeing her. Others came because Rhaenyra, weakened though she had been, had become the centre of a softer kind of gravity.

Otto did not fight it openly. That made me distrust it more.

He praised the child when required, congratulated Rhaenyra with careful language, and allowed Viserys his happiness. But he watched which ladies came often, which lords lingered when Aemma was mentioned, and which servants carried stories too eagerly. He understood that affection could become influence if left to gather unchecked.

Aemond did not visit. I noticed that as well.

He was present at court when expected, thinner and sharper than before, his eye patch making every silence seem deliberate. He looked once at Aemma from across the room, not with hatred, but with a kind of measuring distance. Then Ser Curtis spoke quietly beside him, and Aemond turned away.

That was enough for me to remember that joy did not empty the castle of danger. It only made the danger wait more politely.

Two weeks after Rhaenyra’s first return to court, a message came from the harbour.

A ship from Dragonstone had arrived with purple pennants beneath the black-and-red dragon. I expected Celeste. She had written that she would come once Rhaenyra was strong enough for visitors and Aemma old enough to be fussed over by cousins. I went down to the outer yard with Jacaerys and Lucerys at my side, more because they begged to come than because I needed escort.

The carriage entered under guard shortly after noon.

Celeste Dondarrion stepped down first, travel-cloaked, dark-haired, and smiling with the tired relief of a woman who had managed two children across water without losing either to sea, boredom, or each other.

Aegor came next, six years old and serious in the way of children who believed their importance had been underestimated. Vaerya followed, smaller, bright-eyed, and already looking past everyone as if searching for the baby she had been promised existed.

"Othorion," Celeste said, embracing me with the warmth of family earned over time rather than born in blood. "You look as if sleep has become a rumour in your household."

"Rhaenyra says the same, though with less mercy."

"That sounds like Rhaenyra."

Jace bowed to her with careful courtesy. Luke did the same, though Vaerya immediately ruined the formality by asking whether the baby was awake and whether she had hair.

"She is awake when she chooses, and yes, she has hair," I said.

Vaerya considered this answer. "Does she bite?"

"Not yet, though several people in this family are willing to teach her bad habits."

Aegor looked toward the gate behind the carriage, his face suddenly too controlled for a child. That was when I noticed the second group entering the yard. Men in travel-stained cloaks. Hard-faced. Familiar in posture if not in every scar.

Behind them, a purple banner stirred in the wind, marked by a white sword within a crescent wreath.

For a moment, the yard narrowed.

Celeste watched my face and smiled in a way that gave away the secret she had kept for at least half the journey. "I was told not to mention the surprise in my letter, though I warned him that surprises are wasted on men who make a habit of suspicion."

A man stepped through the gate behind the first rank of Dread Legion veterans.

Silver-white hair. Purple eyes. A leaner face than when he had left, browned slightly by harsher suns, sharpened by command and road dust. At his hip hung Valyrian steel, its familiar shape remade by another man’s claim.

Duty’s Thorn.

Vaeron stopped several paces away, looked me over, and raised one eyebrow. "You have acquired another child while I was gone," he said. "I hope this one came with clearer accounts than the last five."

For a heartbeat, I could not answer. The court, the letters, the careful visitors, Aemond’s silence, Otto’s watching, all of it fell back behind the simple fact of my brother standing alive in the yard.

Then I crossed the distance and embraced him hard enough that he exhaled in protest.

Vaeron endured it for half a breath before returning the hold with equal force. "Welcome home," I said against his shoulder.

"It seemed wise to return before you named the child something financially irresponsible," he replied, voice dry but not quite steady.

I released him and looked at his face properly. "Her name is Aemma."

Vaeron’s expression shifted. The humour remained, but something gentler entered beneath it.

"A good name," he said. "Heavy, but good."

Celeste gathered the children closer while the Dread Legion veterans stood behind their captain beneath the crescent wreath. Jace and Luke stared at Vaeron with open delight, and Aegor looked proud enough to burst.

I looked from my brother to the men he had brought, to the sword at his side, to the road still clinging to his cloak.

Vaeron had come home.

And he had not come alone.