#he’s both Shaera’s husband and could be a stand in father figure

[xxpeppermintxx109]

Qoren Martell dilf with his controversially much younger wife enthusiasts really won this chapter is all I’m gonna say

[dialux]

do you know what it is like to be sold?

[a tribute to iron queens; dragons, mothers, broken, and beautiful]

Part 2 of the series gentle mother, strength of women

i. Shaera Targaryen 

When Shaera was six, her mother braided raven feathers into her hair and called her a Blackwood. When she was eleven, her mother handed her a gilded rose and told her to start wearing green gowns for her future husband. When she was fourteen, she ran away with her brother.

When she hadn’t yet seen three decades, Shaera died.

Before that, she lived.

Two primary details are known about Shaera Targaryen: she ran away with her brother Jaehaerys, against her parents' will; and she birthed two children: Aerys and Rhaella. From family history, we know that she had four siblings; three brothers and one sister. All four eldest Targaryens broke off betrothals, from the Baratheons, Tyrells, Tullys, and Tyrells, respectively. (Rhaelle, the youngest of the five, kept hers and married Ormund Baratheon.) This resulted in outright defiance from some houses, and deep dislike from others. And yet, by the time of Robert's Rebellion, the Tyrells- who had two missed betrothals to the royal family- were staunch supporters.

Other notes: - There was, indeed, a rebellion led by a rat, a hawk, and a pig; Daeron, Shaera's brother, died quelling it with his favored knight, Henry Norridge - Aelora Targaryen did kill herself after being attacked at a ball by the leaders of the rebellion; Daenora Targaryen's son was passed over by the Great Council, and we don't know what happened to him after that - Rowena Arryn was Jon Arryn's wife. Nobody knows anything more about her, but it does make sense to relate the Arryns to the Baratheons, if Jon took Robert in due to being a relative; Rowena also means fair-haired - Non-Targaryen queens had their own guards from their families; it is deeply unjust that the Targaryen queens had no personal protection - There are no Norridges in present canon apart from a single female who married into the Tyrells - Jaehaerys did, in fact, die of a shortness of breath

i. Shaera Targaryen

When Shaera was six, her mother braided raven feathers into her hair and called her a Blackwood. When she was eleven, her mother handed her a gilded rose and told her to start wearing green gowns for her future husband. When she was fourteen, she ran away with her brother.

When she hadn’t yet seen three decades, Shaera died.

Before that, she lived.

...

Shaera loved Duncan more than anything in the world.

Her brother was the kind of boy who wondered how many bluebirds had died to make a lady’s feathered cloak, the kind of boy who loved hard and fast, the kind of boy who never learned to bite his tongue or bend his head or accept anyone’s judgment save his own. Everyone raged when he ran away with his common bride and gossiped behind delicately angled palms, but Shaera only sighed, exasperated, when she heard.

The surprising thing was that nobody expected it. How could they spend years murmuring about Duncan’s handsome figure, his kindness, and never once see his selfishness?

But this was what Shaera did: she watched. She didn’t blink, didn’t look away, didn’t falter. Not even when crowds rioted around her when she was bidding goodbye to Rhaelle, and Shaera was boxed against a wall, and Ser Duncan the Tall disemboweled a man such that the blood sprayed all over her pale gown.

Shaera watched, was the point.

…

Shaera had inherited her father’s dark indigo eyes. This irritated both Duncan and Rhaelle, who had their father’s pale hair and sharp jaw but their mother’s night-dark eyes. None of the four of them had the proper Targaryen look; Shaera had hair just a few shades lighter than her mother, and both Daeron’s eyes and hair were pure Blackwood. Poor Jaehaerys was the one who looked a true Targaryen, and thus bore the brunt of Rhaelle’s- irritation.

Still: Shaera was far more her father’s daughter than the rest. Rhaelle came close, but she was far louder than their father at his angriest. Shaera listened, learned, looked away; she wore the crown her mother placed on her hair without hesitation and swallowed all the power that she was given without a second thought.

Aegon the Unlikely had thrown Brynden Rivers, the man who gave him his crown, into the black cells. Shaera had watched, and she’d thought, there is nothing higher in this world than duty. She had looked at Brynden, the pale-faced man she could, vaguely, remember, and she’d thought, it does not matter if this love kills you- you must continue to offer out your bleeding heart.

A king can break you open, and tear you apart, and leave you shredded; and you must rise, you must open your bloodied fingers and present your broken soul. You must be penitent, so long as you don’t sit the Iron Throne.

…

Rhaelle saw the same thing and concluded: it doesn’t matter how grateful you are. When you are given the crown, you rise above personal debts. A king does not owe personal favors.

(Years later, she taught this to her son. Decades later, he taught that to his son.

Precisely a half-century after Aegon V banished Brynden Rivers, Stannis Baratheon, grandson of Rhaelle Targaryen, knighted Davos Seaworth and in the same breath cut off his fingers.)

…

“He’s a fool,” said Ellyn Reyne, tossing her golden hair. “What kind of man gives up a crown for a woman?”

Certainly no man from the Westerlands, Shaera thought, and pulled the thread out of the delicate silk confection she was embroidering. No woman, either.

“One in love,” she said, mildly. “Duncan knows that he has two brothers, and both are worthy of the throne. Had he not had Jaehaerys or Daeron-” she shrugged. “But he does.”

Rhaelle mimicked the toss of Ellyn’s hair, and on her it looked far more graceful than Ellyn’s ever would. “What Shaera means is that it isn’t your place to question a prince,” she said.

Ellyn flushed. Shaera exhaled, loudly, to hide the twitch of her lips, and let Ellyn stew in her humiliation for a minute before reaching forward and resting the tips of her fingers in the crook of Ellyn’s elbow.

“I didn’t mean that,” she said, and tipped a warning look at Rhaelle. “And Duncan isn’t a prince, not any longer.”

Rhaelle frowned; Ellyn settled back, satisfied. Shaera winked at her sister, quick, blink-and-you-miss-it. Rhaelle brightened, and that was that.

…

History said only that Shaera loved her brother-king to delirium. History said only that Shaera birthed two children: one a monster, the other a saint. History said only that Shaera died, quiet, meek, a Targaryen sister-wife, not even a Queen, easily forgotten, easily dismissed.

History, as it so often is, is wrong.

…

“Were you surprised?” Shaera asked, once, when the four of them were resting in one of the bowers. Duncan was still gone; their parents were still apoplectic. Sometimes it felt as if the whole world had gone mad.

“Yes,” said Jaehaerys. “Weren’t you?”

Rhaelle sighed. “I didn’t think he’d be so- much. But it wasn’t entirely surprising, no.”

It was Daeron who smiled, wide, toothy. “I saw him sneak away.”

“‘Ron!” Jaehaerys sat up, looking outraged.

Shaera let herself laugh. Rhaelle tipped her head backwards, and the world felt right, normal, for a short moment.

…

Her father wanted to banish Duncan. Her mother wanted to take Jenny’s head.

Shaera nagged at Jaehaerys until he said he’d speak to them. He returned, though, shoulders slumped- they weren’t going to budge. The only thing the two of them could do was stand silently, quietly, and be there to catch the pieces of their parents’ rage.

We are Targaryens, Shaera almost snarled in her brother’s face. True-blooded. This is our right!

She didn’t. Once discouraged, Jaehaerys remained so. There was no point.

Instead, Shaera bound her dark hair high on her head with gold chains, silver chains, strings dripping with pearls. She painted her face and let her Targaryen-indigo eyes gleam. Her gown was black, blacker than her hair, blacker than her mother’s eyes.

And then she walked into the throne room and fell to her knees, before a full court, before her parents.

“Duncan is my brother,” she said, voice pitched to carry. “He is your son. We need him, my King; he is the best of us. Let him marry whom he wishes. Jaehaerys will be the crown prince this kingdom deserves, I swear it.”

Her father’s face softened. He’d always had a soft spot for her, the sweet daughter, the kind daughter.

“You shall be responsible for her,” he said, and Shaera smiled.

On her way out, she heard her mother demand, “And how will she get Jaehaerys’ cooperation?”

It was moments too late. Shaera had already left.

…

She walked out of the throne room and almost collapsed inside Jaehaerys’ room. She was so frightened, her heart was pounding almost out of her chest-

Later, Shaera would claim the responsibility for their flight. Later, Shaera would stand in front of her parents and her voice wouldn’t shake, not even a bit. Later, Shaera would laugh.

Right then, though, she was just a fourteen year old girl, and she was tired, and afraid.

And she might have loved Duncan best, but it was Jaehaerys who loved her best in return.

“Come,” he said, and the weight of his hand on her shoulder felt like a benediction.

They wrapped their hair and faces in veils of wispy cloth, then rougher wool. They crowded each other towards the stables, giggling behind closed teeth, something almost hysterical in it; and then they were free, then they were running, then they were out from under the cold weight of a thousand disapproving stares and all the plots that Shaera had gently nudged into place.

In the kingswood, Shaera undid the scarves around her neck, let the wind whip them back, until she felt wild and ferocious as any storm.

…

After, they found a sept- or, at the least, Shaera thought it was a sept. The roof was half-ruined by creepers, and rot had taken the foundations. But it was far warmer than the outside, so they huddled together and tried to sleep.

Shaera tucked her head under Jaehaerys’ jaw, and he wrapped his arms around her shoulders. They curled over one another like kittens basking in the sunlight.

They were found, of course; that part was inevitable.

…

“After your brother,” their father said, low and deadly. “You have seen what happens when you choose love over a realm.”

Shaera blinked. Jaehaerys, behind her, looked just as wrong-footed to see their father, the King of the Seven Kingdoms, with his golden crown on his sharp features and his rich velveteen silks, in this shabby sept.

“What?” She asked.

“We were warned,” he said. “But we thought that your sense of duty would outweigh your selfishness. How dare you!”

Shaera blinked. “What are you accusing me of, Father?”

“You ran away with Jaehaerys!” He snapped, and Shaera felt- rather than saw- her brother’s jaw drop.

But- it was just-

Luthor Tyrell was a fool. And Shaera loved King’s Landing, loved court, with a depth that could be matched by nothing else. She could learn to love Jaehaerys easier than she could learn to love Highgarden, or Luthor.

“Yes,” she said, and felt the bars of destiny slam shut around her. Shaera tasted blood along her tongue, thin, copper-slicked. It was the taste of crowns. “I am sorry, Father, for our selfishness.”

Jaehaerys shifted forwards, abrupt. Shaera caught his hand, laced her fingers through his, and met the rage in her father’s eyes with an unbending smile.

…

Jaehaerys loved Shaera best, and Shaera didn’t hesitate to use that. They were married again, this time in front of the court- for the first time in their lives, but nobody besides the two of them knew that.

Daeron suspected, though. He’d always had such quiet footsteps- Shaera had forgotten that, in the rush to protect Duncan. Everyone always forgot him, the youngest son of a king, the one with Blackwood eyes and Blackwood hair. It was during her wedding, surprisingly enough, that Shaera had the privacy to ask him whether he knew; to warn him to keep his silence.

“You two were never very good at keeping secrets,” Daeron said, in lieu of an answer. “But, Shaera- who d’you think warned Father that you two were in love?”

Shaera blinked. She hadn’t thought of it, but- it was a valid point. Someone had slithered into court, whispering ugly lies into her father’s ears. Someone had told him a lie, and her father had- perhaps not believed them, but he hadn’t exactly disbelieved, either.

“I will find out,” she said, hand clasping around Daeron’s. “And then you will kill them, Daeron. Promise me.”

He smiled, and pressed a kiss to her hair, and as between the two of them, there were no more secrets.

…

Months later, Duncan came to court with his wife. Shaera smiled, thin and true, and let Jenny of Oldstones braid bloodflowers into her dark hair.

“Lady Jenny,” she called her, and the rest of court followed her example. “Lady Jenny, my brother tells me that you have a lovely voice. Can you sing for us?”

It took effort for Shaera to treat Jenny as if she were an adult, not a child; there was something so achingly wide and innocent in her large eyes. But Shaera reminded herself, each time the urge to coo at Jenny’s peculiarities rose in her gullet, that sometimes wide-eyed, steady naivete was a choice, not an accident.

“Yes,” said Jenny, and tipped her head back, singing high and lovely as a bird. When it was over, she straightened, clasped her hands together, and said, voice abruptly sharp: “The only one of your blood to have your eyes is your grandson. The first to live, the brightest of you. Brilliant as a flame, and dead the faster for it.”

Shaera felt chills run up her spine, but she only clapped politely, smiled coolly. “I did not know my brother had married a seer. Come, my lady. Let us see to tasks more dutiful than vague attempts at the future.”

…

Aerys was a- complicated boy.

Shaera loved him, of course, as dearly as she loved Jaehaerys, or Duncan. But motherhood wasn’t something she was built for; she was too much her mother’s daughter for that. Betha Blackwood had never been overly maternal and Shaera had inherited that from her.

But Aerys wasn’t very easy to love. He had Jaehaerys’ look, down to the way he scrunched his nose when angry, and Duncan’s selfishness, with nothing of either man’s gentleness to temper it. Shaera had tried, in the beginning, to teach it to him; but the boy only ran off to his father, or his grandfather, and burst into tears, and that was all it took both of them to scoop him up and glare at Shaera as if it was all her fault.

It was exhausting.

She could only hope that this next one would be easier.

…

Eight months pregnant, Shaera curved her hands over her belly and waved from her litter on the way to the docks. The people weren’t as profuse in their love as they usually were, but they were loud enough to make her flinch from the noise.

She pressed kisses to Rhaelle’s cheeks, watching her sister board the ship that would take her to the Stormlands.

“Be safe,” she whispered, clutching her tight. “Be alive. If you have any need of me, any at all, tell me. I will come. Always, Rhae. I swear it.”

“I will do my duty,” replied Rhaelle, and smiled, black eyes glittering, pale hair shining. “You do what you do for love, Shaera, and I do it because it is my duty. I suppose one of us must be our father’s daughter.”

“And one of us must carry on our mother’s legacy,” said Shaera, and embraced Rhaelle, deep and strong and as tight as she could make it.

On the way back, Shaera felt something catch on the litter, tip it over. She thought she might have screamed. The next thing she knew, she was pressed flat against a rough stone wall and Ser Duncan was in front of her, his sword flashing red and bloody in the harsh sunlight. Shaera inhaled, exhaled, set her shoulders to the same tilt that Visenya Targaryen had in the old tapestries.

I am a princess of old Valyria. Blood spattered over her pale gown. Shaera didn’t flinch, only straightened further, painfully stiff. You do not get to kill me.

Across the street, she caught a glimpse of something pale, pale as starlight, and she thought: Jaehaerys. Her hands trembled, and she smoothed them against the cream linen across her hips.

“Jaehaerys is there,” she told Duncan, over-loud, just barely over the din of a mob. “He’s- you have to save him.”

But Duncan didn’t hear her. Shaera watched, horrified, as one of the mob reached for Jaehaerys’ long hair, yanked hard enough to drag her brother to the ground. She twisted, but her belly was so unwieldy-

The world disappeared in a wash of red, a steady gush of something between her legs.

It’s too soon, she thought, and then everything went black.

…

In her dreams, the world was dark.

Shaera felt no pain, no fear. She rested, and it was peaceful, and even as it became colder it was easy enough to tip deeper into the silence. Then, a light flicked into existence, a small candle illuminating the aged planes of a woman’s face.

She reached out and rested her wrinkled palm on the side of Shaera’s neck.

You have time yet, she said, and suddenly her fingers weren’t fingers but claws, but flaming, aching, and the woman yanked, and everything was blazing and-

You have time yet, said the wizened little woman, but not near enough, my dear.

…

When she awoke, her head ached. She had the faint dreams of screaming, and something too red to name anything other than a nightmare. Slowly, she opened her eyes.

“You’re awake?”

Shaera winced, and turned to see Daeron.

“I- yes,” she said, wincing again at the roughness of her voice. “I don’t- what happened?”

“You have a daughter,” said Daeron, arching a brow. The sharp tone didn’t quite hide the worry seething underneath it. “There was a mob, on the way back from Rhaelle’s ship. It must have gotten you quite worked up.”

Memory returned in flashes, and Shaera jerked upright. “Where’s Jaehaerys?”

“He’s fine.” Daeron placed a heavy hand on her shoulder, forced her to lie back down. “He’s fine, Shaera.”

“I saw him-”

“Yes, but I had him. I put him behind me; protected him.” Daeron’s dark eyes measured her carefully. “He’s fine. He’s with your daughter. We were all much more worried about you- you’ve been asleep for almost a week.”

Shaera blinked. “A week?”

“Yes.” He shifted, a movement that Shaera would’ve named uneasy on anyone else. “The maesters all said you’d die, but then- well. You got better.”

“How?” Shaera asked suspiciously.

“Well,” said Daeron, slowly, hesitantly, “Jenny brought one of her friends. And suddenly you got better.”

Flaming claws. Shaera tried not to remember her vision. But prophecy was in her blood- Daenys the Dreamer had seen the Doom of Valyria, hadn’t she? Perhaps this wasn’t entirely false.

“Yes,” she said faintly. Then, quietly, “I’m awake now, Daeron. Perhaps you ought to send for a maester.”

…

Jaehaerys had a scar running down his cheek, a faint pink. Shaera ran the tips of her fingers across it, gentle as she could, and then turned to the babe he held in his arms.

White hair, she thought, smiling. The girl had Shaera’s nose, though, and when she opened her eyes, she could see sleepy lilac stare up at her. Jaehaerys’ daughter, then, through and through.

“You named her?” She asked, letting the heavy warmth settle into her arms.

“Yes,” said Jaehaerys, seating himself in the chair beside her bed. He looked weary, when Shaera looked closer; there were dark half-moons under his eyes, and there was a shadow of a beard about his sharp cheeks. “Saera.”

Saera.

Shaera felt her arms tighten about the little girl. “Jaehaerys,” she said, softly.

He looked at her, and though there were no tears in his eyes, there was a wild sort of fear. He bent forwards, pressed his thin-boned wrist to Shaera’s arm.

“I was so afraid,” he whispered. “The maesters all said you’d die. And I was so sure that Father would make me take another wife. They brought her to me, and Mother said I’d be better served taking care of her instead of beside you.”

“Mother’s always been better at tending to the living,” Shaera commented, dryly, to hide her surprise.

She hadn’t ever thought that Jaehaerys loved her so deeply. Theirs wasn’t a love that made the stars shake, though the bards still sang songs; it was borne of duty, and then something deeper: defiance, perhaps.

But this had snuck up on her, as few things ever did. Shaera prided herself on her sight. This startled her; if she’d missed this one thing, how many more had she not seen?

“You cannot die,” said Jaehaerys, commanded Jaehaerys, and Shaera reached forwards; captured his wrist between hers and the babe’s swaddled legs.

“I will not,” she promised, because she was nineteen and young and viciously alive. “But we will not name our daughter for a woman who ran off to Essos, darling. And not for me, either.”

He blinked at her. “Then-”

“For our sister,” said Shaera, gently tracing the tips of the girl’s delicate nose, her lovely cheeks. “We shall name her Rhaella.”

“So long as you live,” he said, looking relieved, “we can name her whatever you wish. Indeed, there is something of deeper import I wished to tell you.” He hesitated, slightly, and Shaera could feel his pulse quicken in the beat of his wrist. “The woodswitch- the one who saved you- she told me something else, before she left.”

“What was that?”

“That Azor Ahai would come from Aerys’ line,” said Jaehaerys. “From- Rhaella’s line. If the price of your life is their marriage, then I shall pay it gladly.”

It took Shaera a long minute to understand, and when she did, her blood ran cold.

“They are children,” she said, lowly. “They are children.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?”

“Your daughter has not yet seen a fortnight!” Shaera struggled upright, voice growing louder. “And you are talking about marriage? It does not matter what any witch said to you, or me, or anyone in this godsforsaken court. One does not offer marriage for life, Jaehaerys, and you are a fool to believe it.”

“I love you!” He snapped back, and Shaera’s hands tightened on Rhaella until the girl began to scream. “I will not-”

“-she’s nothing more than a charlatan-”

“-risk losing you-”

“What’s going on here?” Their mother was in the doorway, eyes wide as she looked between them.

Shaera flushed and averted her face. A moment later, Jaehaerys swept Rhaella into his arms and left, leaving her mother in the room.

“Did you know,” said Betha, lips twitching, “I’ve never seen you two act so like a married couple before.”

…

Shaera loved Duncan best, and Jaehaerys loved her best in return, but their parents loved Daeron best of all of them. Even when he broke off his betrothal- not once did Betha or Aegon sneer at their youngest son. This was because Daeron was the kindest of them, even if he wasn’t the softest. He was the easiest forgotten, the easiest passed over.

Weeks later, Shaera went to him and waited.

“Jaehaerys hasn’t stopped talking of a prophecy,” she said, as an explanation. “He claims it comes from the woodswitch Jenny brought from her her home.”

“...yes.”

“I want to find this woman,” she said, and folded her arms over her chest.

Daeron looked confused. “Do you intend me to go with you?”

If there were ever a Targaryen that could walk through Westeros without overmuch trouble, it was Daeron, invisible as he was. He was the only one that could escort her properly.

“Yes, Daeron,” Shaera said, impatiently, and scarcely waited for him to process that before turning and walking towards the stables.

...

“You protected Jaehaerys.”

Daeron inclined his head. “I did.”

“If you’re not careful,” said Shaera, “Mother’ll marry you off to the Reach.”

If you’re not careful, she thought, you’ll die.

Duncan was Shaera’s heart, and Jaehaerys was Shaera’s soul, but Daeron was Shaera’s shield and sword. He’d promised, years before on her wedding day, and he’d hold to it. Shaera trusted him more than anyone else in the world.

“Shipping me off wasn’t enough?” He asked, bitterly.

“You’re a prince,” Shaera pointed out, gentle. “Your affair with Henry Norridge couldn’t last forever, Daeron, you knew that.”

He winced. “Shaera-”

“But this need not end so quickly.”

“How so?” He asked slowly.

She grinned, teeth bared. “You protected Jaehaerys. Continue to do so, and I’ll make sure Mother never sends you anywhere.”

Daeron’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded, after a long pause.

…

The witch’s home was small, little more than a hovel. Shaera left Daeron to wrestle with the horses and headed inside. The home was no better on the inside than the out; it was cramped and hot, with things strewn across the open spaces and the roof slanting so that Shaera, not very tall herself, had to duck her head.

“Princess Shaera,” a voice croaked, and Shaera whirled, hands clenching tightly.

Fear bloomed in the back of her throat, and Shaera tasted smoke as she saw a woman she’d seen once before, in her dreams. Then she straightened and flicked her hair behind her.

“You told my husband a prophecy,” she said quietly. “I want one for myself.”

“Your husband bargained,” said the witch. “What do you offer?”

“What are common- offerings?”

The witch’s eyes glittered, hard and cold. Shaera could see a thousand fires in them; she resisted the urge to rub a hand over the side of her neck, where the witch’s claws had felt so painful.

“Oh,” she said, airily, “blood.”

Fury, honed and hot, rose in Shaera’s gullet.

“You told my husband that Azor Ahai would come of our children’s line,” she said. “You know- you must- that they are too young for this. Jaehaerys will break them as like as not if left up to him. I will have to spend countless hours to undo this. You owe me, that is the long and short of it. I swear to you: I will not give you any of my blood.”

The witch looked at her through filmy grey eyes and didn’t say anything. Shaera was nineteen years old, a steady, kind sort of age. She met the witch’s eyes boldly and didn’t shrink away.

“Very well then,” said the witch. “Then I shall tell you three things, Princess: three things I dreamt.”

Shaera nodded.

“First,” said the witch, “I dreamt of a rain of flaming arrows, falling on a field of blue grass until there was nothing left but ash. Second: I dreamt of a rat and a hawk and a pig, setting out to feast on golden blood, twisting a knife in the heart of a prince who wore no princely guise. And last, I dreamt of a princess, hair pale as bone, throwing herself into a raging ocean, mad with grief.”

“The only princess in this land with pale hair is Rhaelle,” said Shaera, then to herself, horrified: “Rhaelle.”

…

“I have to go to the Stormlands,” said Shaera, mounting her horse, motions made choppy with something approaching panic.

Daeron faltered, thrown. “What, now? Shaera, we only just got here!”

“She says Rhaelle is going to kill herself,” Shaera snapped. “You need to go to King’s Landing. And I’m going to my sister.”

…

But Rhaelle was fine.

Ormund Baratheon was a kind man, as far as Shaera could see; more than that, he was a good man, and not one prone to the fits of temper that his father was so famous for. Rhaelle looked content in Storm’s End in a way she never had in King’s Landing.

The witch spoke falsely, Shaera thought, and let relief slide down her spine. Now all she had to do was convince Jaehaerys of that and stop him from insisting they marry their children at the youngest age he could.

…

Two years later, Shaera was back in King’s Landing.

Daeron was back in the Reach with his knight, and Jaehaerys was in the Riverlands, speaking to the Tullys with Duncan.

Aerys played on the rich carpets, and her mother was bouncing Rhaella on her knee, cooing over the girl’s fine hair. Shaera wound her fingers through old yarn, cutting thread, and smiled. It was peaceful, more peaceful than Shaera had known for much of her life; even when a maid brought cabbage soup for their lunch and Aerys threw a fit, it was calm.

“Try it,” Betha tried to convince Aerys, holding the spoon to his lips. “It’s good soup, sweetling, just see?” She took a long sip of it herself and smiled at him.

And then, slowly, she began to choke.

Shaera panicked, and ran to get someone’s help.

…

“What use are the Kingsguard?” Shaera demanded, as soon as her father left the sickroom.

He sighed. “Shaera, not now-”

“What use are the Kingsguard?” She asked, flatly, furiously. “They are as political as any courtier. They watched, as Mother choked. They only watched.”

“Shaera,” he said quietly.

“You do not trust the Reach, but you will give them a position in your Kingsguard anyways.”

“Yes, and who’s fault is that?”

Shaera didn’t flinch, but it was a close thing. “Mine,” she said, level. “Mine and Jaehaerys. And Daeron, but you’ll never see that as the same thing, will you?” She shook her head. “It isn’t- that’s not how I meant it. Father, if you give a Hightower the position-”

“Enough,” said Aegon, turning, eyes flashing a deep, eerie purple. Shaera wondered if that was how she looked when she was furious, and realized why people tended to quail before her. “Your mother almost died yesterday, and you’re talking about the Kingsguard. Leave me, Shaera, before I truly lose my temper.”

“If you won’t change your Kingsguard,” said Shaera, “at least give Mother a Queensguard. Father.”

Aegon had always been proudest of Duncan, and he’d always loved Shaera more than he’d loved Rhaelle, and he’d always loved Daeron better than Shaera- but he’d always been contemptuous, at least slightly, of Jaehaerys. Shaera had never before understood why Jaehaerys always shrank away from confrontation with his father; now, faced with the full weight of his disapproval, she felt something inside of her shrivel up.

But Shaera wasn’t Jaehaerys. Even as her stomach dropped away, she kept her back as stiff as a plank.

“Go to Storm’s End,” he bit out, and turned, and walked away.

…

Two years later, Shaera was still in the Stormlands with Rhaelle.

Aegon had never been particularly good at holding grudges, but he’s also never faced anyone so similar to him in personality before. Shaera could have likely returned to King’s Landing within a few weeks had she acted even the slightest bit penitent. Or, if she couldn’t manage to be so humble, had she at least ignored the conversation, it all would have been forgotten.

Instead, Shaera had sent ravens, regularly, to her father- each of them carrying one thing:

Start a Queensguard, and I shall return.

It wasn’t banishment, she insisted; it was separation. Had not Alysanne lived in Dragonstone for two years during the Second Quarrel? Shaera would be no less, not if she had to wait for decades. She could be patient.

…

It wasn’t peace: Shaera hadn’t ever known peace. But it was quiet, those mornings that the stormclouds lessened, and there was a sort of a wild beauty in the Stormlands that was utterly different from the richness that made up the Red Keep.

Rhaelle had two children, same as Shaera- a boy and a girl, both of similar ages to Aerys and Rhaella. The boy, Steffon, was quick-witted and had an easy laugh. The girl had the Baratheon look as well, but her lack of fussiness was clearly from Rhaelle.

But still, her sister had insisted on naming her children as she wished. Steffon was a good Baratheon name, but Rowena- that was of the Vale. Rhaelle could just have easily given her a Targaryen name; and yet Rhaelle was insistent.

“I’d decided that I wanted one child with my hair,” she’d said, laughing, when Shaera demanded an explanation. “Hair pale as starlight, because I deserved that much at least. You know that it is what Rowena means, don’t you? Fair-haired. I prayed and prayed, to all the gods. I told Ormund as much. But then the birth was so difficult- I fell ill, and by the time I awoke, Ormund had already named her for it.”

The soft smile on her face when she spoke of her husband said more than words ever could. Shaera had sighed, exhaled, and let it go.

Now, she made her way across the rough heather fields, a shawl pulled over her shoulders and wind tangling in her lovely hair. Steffon, beside her, pitched forwards at a particularly large gust; Shaera caught him by the shoulders and braced him behind her.

“You don’t like the cliffs,” she said.

Rhaelle exhaled slowly. “I don’t,” she said, laughing slightly. Then she sobered. “But- I had to tell you. Do you remember Aelora?”

“Our- aunt?”

“Dad’s cousin,” said Rhaelle, grimacing. “She was in Dragonstone, for the past few years. A few days ago, she threw herself into the ocean. There was a storm; they’ll not find her body. Ormund just got the raven.”

A princess, hair pale as bone, throwing herself into a raging ocean, mad with grief.

“Duncan always had a soft spot for her,” Shaera said slowly, heart dropping. “Why?”

“She killed her brother- her husband- in an accident, decades ago. She was never the same after.” Rhaelle shrugged. “Anyhow- I meant to tell you that Dunk wants us to go to Dragonstone and bid our goodbyes, even if there won’t be a body to burn.”

Mad, thought Shaera, and nodded numbly.

“We’ll go together,” she said, and turned away, looking out towards the ocean; the choppy waves cutting across the cut-glass sand, a thousand feet below.

…

At the funeral, there were many tears and remembrances. Aelora had gone mad with grief years before, but she’d also gotten over the worst of it- and she’d been a kind-hearted woman, at the end of it. People missed her.

“She was doing better,” Duncan told her. “I don’t- but there was a masquerade.”

His eyes were dark with exhaustion, and the edges looked scrubbed raw, as if he’d dashed away tears roughly. Shaera laid a gentle hand on his arm and nodded.

“A woman went up to her, and took her away.” He exhaled gustily. “She was quite resplendent- all blue feathers and Myrish lace, with a mask that looked like a dragon’s. Just to talk to her, she said; Aelora looked content enough with that. But that night, Aelora threw herself off the highest tower.”

Someone wanted to kill Aerys, thought Shaera. They’d succeeded in almost killing their mother; she hadn’t been the same since that terrible day. Before that, the crowds had rioted in King’s Landing, on the day Rhaelle had left; when they hadn’t done so before or after. Now, someone- might have- killed a Targaryen.

If the woodswitch was correct, then there was a prince to die yet.

This is what a festering rebellion looks like, she thought. This is what a smart rebellion looks like.

And if they were facing a rebellion, then Shaera knew what to do.

She turned to her brother. “Tell me,” she said, “where do you keep your ravens?”

…

There were no dry eyes in the wake, save for one.

Shaera’s eyes narrowed on the thin, beady-eyed form of Daenora Targaryen, only sister of Aelora and mother of Maegor. By all rights, Daenora should have been weeping. And yet, she only looked very strained, and, when she thought herself unobserved, somewhat triumphant.

After Shaera’s father had taken the throne, Daenora had taken her son and left for Essos. She’d only returned a few years ago; Maegor hadn’t come back with her. Aelora was the only family Daenora had left, after the deaths of their parents and brother, and Daenora’s husband.

And yet she didn’t look the slightest bit grieving for her sister.

Shaera wove old rags around her hair as if she were a servant and snuck into Daenora’s quarters that night, after she’d spoken to Daeron, while the rest of the people mourned. It was simple enough for her to enter; she wasn’t sure, entirely, what she was looking for, but she knew she’d know it when she found it.

There, underneath layers of Essosian silks and gowns, Shaera found a silver-blue mask, fluttering blue feathers and edged with Myrish silk. Her heart pounded as she stared at it.

“So,” said Daenora, “you’ve found me out.”

She hadn’t heard the door open, but that didn’t matter. What did was the cold expression on Daenora’s face, the way she didn’t look panicked.

“When Jaehaerys and I were young,” Shaera said, carefully, “we gave names to all of you. Before Father took the throne, I mean. Do you know what yours was?”

“Yes,” Daenora said, closing the door behind her. “The hawk. You were never very quiet children. Half the court knew your little pet names.”

A rat and a hawk and a pig, setting out to feast on golden blood, twisting a knife in the heart of a prince who wore no princely guise. Shaera breathed in, breathed out. If you are the hawk, then I must find the other two.

“You killed your sister,” Shaera accused.

Daenora smiled, thin. “My sister killed herself.”

“Aelora was a good woman. A kind woman.”

“She was a fool,” she disagreed. “Aelora killed our brother decades ago and spent years going mad, and everyone just- pitied her. Your brother even allowed her to stay here, on Dragonstone, as if she were the heir! But me, oh, no, after all the tragedy, after seeing Aerion die- I was told to leave. Banished, ignominiously, to Essos!”

“Your son,” said Shaera.

“Maegor is a good boy,” Daenora said lowly. “A fine boy. He deserves the throne, more than Aegon ever did. Certainly more than your fool of a brother.”

“So you wanted the Iron Throne.” Shaera crumpled the mask in her hand, nails tearing into the lace. “But why do all this? What’s the reason?”

“I would have done it before,” said Daenora, waving a hand dismissively. “I tried, multiple times- do you know how easy it is to start a mob? And then I had a few maidservants tell your father that they’d seen you and Jaehaerys sneaking around; Betha certainly raged at him after that. Even trying to kill your precious little son- but that worked better than I hoped.” Her smile widened. “With Betha so out of sorts, with you gone, it was rather simple to get some sellswords to the Reach.”

“And Aelora,” said Shaera, numbly.

Daenora stepped closer, and Shaera stepped back.

“All of you are here now, aren’t you?” Daenora asked, teeth glinting. “The Targaryens, here in Dragonstone, here in King’s Landing. An army of sellswords arrived at the Arbor two days ago, while you lot were so busy mourning my poor, dead sister.”

This is what a rebellion looks like, Shaera reminded herself.

“You forgot one of us,” she said. Daenora blinked, surprised, and Shaera bared her teeth mirthlessly. “Jaehaerys is in King’s Landing with my father and mother and our children. Duncan, Rhaelle, and I are here in Dragonstone. But my father has five children.”

Triumph shifted into confusion, then horror, on Daenora’s shadowed face.

“Where do you think Daeron is?” Shaera asked coldly.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Daenora, hands twitching around her voluminous skirts. “I’ll kill you, and it’ll end here.”

“I already sent a raven to him,” Shaera said, bloodless, and then, louder, sharp: “Now.”

Rhaelle stepped out of the shadows behind Daenora and, without hesitation, broke a bottle of wine over her head. She looked up at Shaera, face pale.

“This is-”

“You go to Father,” said Shaera, handing her the crumpled mask. “Take Daenora with you, and get him to raise his banners. He’ll listen to you.”

“And you?”

“I’ll head south.” Shaera smiled and stamped a kiss to her sister’s forehead; hard. “Daeron needs an army, and I know just where to get one.”

…

A week later, Shaera got a raven from Daeron:

Runceford Redwyne’s confessed- there’s an army of sellswords heading to King’s Landing, led by Maegor, son of Aerion.  Redwyne let them land on the Arbor due to the insult borne by his wife when you and Jaehaerys ran off together. Garth Tyrell leads the army beside Maegor.

I need an army, Shaera, and I need one fast, if we’re to stop these sellswords.

- Daeron

Runceford Redwyne’s wife was Celia Tully, and Garth Tyrell’s brother was Luthor Tyrell- the two people whose betrothals were broken by Shaera and Jaehaerys.

This news was just confirmation of Daenora’s words. And it might have been terrifying; but Shaera had already insisted that Ormund raise his banners, and the Stormlords were likely to go to war within the week. Everything was moving as fast as it could.

I’ve found the hawk, she thought, tracing the loops of Daeron’s writing. And Garth Tyrell- Daeron called him Garth the Gross before. I have found the pig, then.

But who’s the rat?

Runceford Redwyne? His wife? It could be anyone.

…

Be safe, Shaera wrote back, never doubting that he would. Be valiant.

…

Ormund headed out with his army, and they met both Daeron and the sellswords at the juncture of the Mander and Blueburn rivers. That night, he sent another raven to Shaera.

Some Reach houses have joined the sellswords under Garth Tyrell. I don’t know them, but there are many. The banners are shown prominently: a red apple on a yellow background; three oak leaves on gold; grapes on blue; flaming arrows on blue; stripes of black and yellow. This is a full-throated rebellion. Ask Father for his army as soon as possible.

Shaera had asked; but getting the armies from the Riverlands, Vale, and Westerlands wasn’t an easy job.

That, however, wasn’t what bothered her. There was something else in the letter that niggled at her mind, and she wasn’t sure what it was; just that it was something. And in war- such urges were of paramount importance.

She had been staring at Daeron’s letter for almost a full afternoon however, and she hadn’t figured it out. Shaera left it and went to sleep, for however many short, nightmarish hours she could manage.

…

In her dreams, hawks pecked at her brothers’ eyes until blood ran free on the ground like a river, choking Shaera, and then the red flood turned into flame and she screamed, fire licking along her bones, hot, unstoppable-

It all faded, at her scream, and she flattened her hand against the ground, wondering at it. It was a deep blue, like the ocean, but not wet. Before she could think overmuch on it, however, something whistled through the air and Shaera looked up, saw a single fiery arrow land, piercing the perfect blue and setting it on fire like dry tinder, like dried grass.

Blue grass, thought Shaera, and awoke with a sob, horror clawing along her throat. Twisting a knife in the heart of a prince who wears no princely guise.

Daeron had the Blackwood looks, their mother’s looks, not a Targaryen’s.

And Shaera knew whose sigil flaming arrows on a blue background was, now- House Norridge. The house of Daeron’s lover, of Daeron’s favored knight. He’d keep the man close to him through the battle and never expect a knife in the back. If Henry Norridge hadn’t yet told Daeron that his family stood against Daeron, then he wouldn’t do so.

She grabbed her cloak and tore down the stairs, towards the stables.

“Get me a horse,” she commanded, and watched the men falter in surprise.

“My lady,” one began.

“Your Grace,” snarled Shaera. “Get me a horse, or I will have you burned alive in the feast hall before dawn. Now.”

…

She rode into the camp bent low over the back of her horse.

It was just past dawn; the guards bristled when Shaera landed in front of them with a crunch of wet grass. Bristled, not startled awake. The only time guards were this watchful in the hours surrounding dawn was right after battle.

“Who goes?” One of them asked.

Shaera threw the hood of her cloak back and glared at them, heart pounding.

“Shaera Targaryen,” she said. “Sister-wife to the Crown Prince, Jaehaerys, eldest daughter of your king. I am here to see my brother.”

They paused, silence filling the gap between them, sick and cloying.

Shaera felt dread pool in her chest.

“Where is he?” She demanded. “Where is Daeron?” When they still only looked away, awkwardly, she tossed her hair fiercely and straightened. “Take me to him.”

“Your Grace,” one of them murmured. “Perhaps it would be best if we took you to the leader? Lord Baratheon is inside.”

“Yes,” said Shaera. “That is- acceptable.”

…

That morning, the camp woke to a lone, long, aching scream.

The smallfolk knew of Princess Shaera’s kindness, her beauty; she loved her family, they said, as deep as Good Alysanne. Here was proof: when she saw her brother’s corpse, she screamed, and didn’t move from beside his body for a full day.

…

Daeron- Shaera had never been as close with him as she’d been to Duncan or Jaehaerys or Rhaelle. Close, yes, but theirs had been a relation built on mutual acknowledgement of the others’ abilities. Both of them saw the world, bit into it, chewed and swallowed the mangled pieces.

He was her sword and shield, the vengeful arm Shaera had only recently begun to use with devastating effect.

And if nothing else, he didn’t deserve the death he’d gotten.

Ormund had gotten separated from him, and nobody was quite sure how he’d died; but Shaera saw the blood staining her brother’s chest, and she knew. She spent a day mourning him, and then pulled herself together and went after Ormund.

“Henry Norridge?” She said, as a question.

He blinked. “He died,” said Ormund. “We found him, beside your brother. There was a knife in his heart. I-” he hesitated, and then placed his hand on her shoulder. “The serrated edge, the curve- it’s rather unique, even in Essos. The same knife that killed your brother killed Ser Henry.”

If he’d meant that as reassurance, then Ormund was sadly mistaken. Shaera laughed, low and bitter.

“The Norridges turned traitor,” she said, eyes filling with tears, hands trembling. “Henry Norridge killed my brother, and then killed himself of a broken heart.” Her hands fisted, and Shaera remembered the terrible weight of Daenora’s mask, the hate in her dark eyes. “I will have their heads,” she whispered, and though Shaera had never spoken a prophecy once in her life, this tasted of one.

…

“This is what you will do,” Shaera told Luthor Tyrell as she strode into Highgarden. He hadn’t offered her any resistance, and it was only that which had saved him. Her brother’s bones were not a few feet from this waste of air, or food, of life.

She would take her vengeance if it killed her.

“I will not kill you or your wife or your sons,” she said icily. “I will forgive the Reach for its sins. But there are three things that will happen before that, do you understand me?”

“I don’t-”

“Or,” she continued, ruthless, merciless, “I will rain hellfire on Highgarden and drink Arbor Gold while the Reach burns. Do you remember, Lord Tyrell, what happened to the Gardeners who stood against Aegon the Conqueror? They died, all of them, to the last. And you hadn’t killed Aegon’s brother.” She flicked her hair back, let them see the lightning flashing in her brilliant eyes. “You killed mine.”

Luthor swallowed. “What are your conditions?” He asked slowly.

“First,” said Shaera, “your brother shall not leave Highgarden. If Garth Tyrell steps out of this home at anytime for the rest of his life, I shall take his head. Second, you shall hang every male Norridge in the Reach within the next fortnight.”

“All of them?” He choked.

Shaera’s eyes narrowed. “Their treachery killed my brother. I could have killed your brother, Lord Luthor, and I haven’t. But we Targaryens do not answer such rebellion lightly. Blood shall pay for blood.”

“And the last?”

“You stand behind the Targaryens,” said Shaera. “I want you to renew your oaths of fealty tonight, in front of all your bannermen. I want you to publicly renounce your brother’s actions, and place an embargo on Arbor Gold in the Reach for the next five years, and hand over Maegor’s crown to me. And if, at any time in the future, we require your aid, you shall stand behind us.”

After a long, aching silence, Luthor nodded.

…

Ever after, the Tyrells were loyal.

…

Shaera returned to King’s Landing with Daeron’s bones.

She’d spent hours telling herself to keep calm when she saw her father, hours telling herself to swallow her tears; but when she actually physically saw him, she burst into loud, body-racking sobs and didn’t stop, not even when Aegon wrapped her in his arms and she buried her face in his chest.

“Sweetling,” he said, tipping her chin up gently. His eyes, so similar to Shaera’s own, shone over-brightly. “I- must tell you. When we received your raven a fortnight previous…” he breathed in slowly. “Betha had been sick for a long time. But it was such a shock-”

“Father,” Shaera said, tremulous, horrified.

He looked at her, and then pulled her into a tighter embrace. “She died that night,” he whispered, and Shaera couldn’t speak; couldn’t do anything more than stare, numb and cold and grieving as she’d never before been in her life.

…

Rhaelle embraced her when Shaera entered the keep, and Jaehaerys’ arms were warm around her shoulders as they burned their mother and brother on the same pyre. It wasn’t love between them, she reminded herself; but in the end- it was.

Quiet, steady, rooted. They were dragons, and they’d bound themselves together. Shaera couldn’t imagine seeing the world any other way.

…

“If you wish to marry them,” Shaera said, head held high, “you’ll give Rhaella a guard. Promise me, Jaehaerys. On your deathbed, if nothing else. Guards loyal to Rhaella and her only. Name them blackcloaks if you so wish it, but give our daughter that safety.”

“And if I do,” said Jaehaerys, slowly, “you’ll support me?”

“Daeron and I went to the woodswitch. I know what I heard, and the witch’s prophecy spoke true.” She swallowed, hard. “If the Prince that was Promised comes from Aerys and Rhaella’s line, then they shall marry. But you shall protect her when she becomes queen, do you understand me?”

“You will speak to Father?”

“Yes,” said Shaera.

Jaehaerys’ face broke into an honest, true smile. Shaera stepped forwards and embraced him, tightly.

…

(Jaehaerys tried, on his deathbed, to tell Aerys to start the Queensguard. But his breath ran so short, and he could hardly breathe. This last promise he made to Shaera died with him.)

…

Rhaella wept, the poor girl, at her wedding. Shaera brushed her light hair until it shone and then braided it off, tying it with a gold band.

“You will be a queen,” Shaera told her, lifting her chin so she could see into Rhaella’s lilac eyes. “You will sit beside Aerys on his throne. This- affair- with Bonifer Hasty cannot go anywhere, Rhaella, you know this.”

“Aerys hates me,” she whispered.

And there, in her lovely eyes, Shaera could see her fear.

“Perhaps,” said Shaera. “But he shall not hurt you, that much I promise. You will have guards, sweetling, soon enough; guards that answer to you and you alone. A Queensguard.”

“You swear it?” She asked, and Shaera leaned forwards, pressed her forehead to her daughter’s.

“Yes,” she said. “On my life.”

…

Years later, Rhaelle’s daughter- Rowena- went to the Vale.

“Jon Arryn already married,” Shaera told her sister. “You can do better.”

“With no children,” Rhaella replied easily. “And- he is young. What other Lord Paramount is there? I’d thought- for a few years- perhaps Aerys. But then you insisted on him marrying Rhaella, so.” She shrugged. “Rowena will enjoy the Vale, anyhow. She’s always loved mountains.”

“Tell her I shall miss her,” said Shaera, and that was the last they spoke of it.

…

Her father set fire to Summerhall.

Just a little more time, she wanted to say when the flames came for her. She’d seen her father scream, swallowed by the terrible fire, and she didn’t want to die like this, in a castle that served as her pyre. Rhaella was away, was giving birth; Shaera had to see this grandson. Had to see this first boy-

She dropped to her knees, inhaled smoke, choked.

Just a little more time. Someone needed to tell Rhaella to start a Queensguard. She had the support for them. Someone needed to temper Jaehaerys’ worst tendencies. Someone needed to-

It was too hot to weep, but she thought she might have otherwise. Rhaella had spent her life meeting truths unflinchingly, and she wouldn’t shrink from this one: she was going to die. But there was still so much to do. So much that Shaera had wanted, had attempted; the plots that would die with her.

Just a little more time, thought Shaera, and felt the blaze of flame across the back of her neck, the sting of smoke in her eyes. Just a little more time.

And then Duncan was there, and he had her hoisted over his shoulders, was carrying her through the window. They were on the second floor, though, no way to survive, not without broken legs.

But Duncan was a knight. He was large, and Shaera was small, and he tucked himself around her as they fell. When they landed in the grass, she heard the snap; she turned, and screamed in horror at the sight: her brother, her elder brother, neck twisted unnaturally, eyes hollow.

No, she thought, no, no, no-

…

Dawn broke on Summerhall, and the screams of a baby boy were heard across its smoking ruins.

When Rhaegar opened his eyes, they were the exact shade, the exact shape, of Shaera’s.

…

Shaera didn’t die in the flames at Summerhall, but she died soon after.

Jaehaerys had a crown placed on her hair the same day he placed one on his own, and the bards all sang sad songs of the new king’s grief, their new queen’s silent deathbed. Shaera slept, and the maesters said she’d never waken.

But Shaera was stubborn, stubborn and steady and strong for it. A week after the tragedy, her eyes fluttered open.

Rhaella was there, nursing a young Rhaegar, and she looked up at Shaera when she saw the movement.

“Mother,” she said, running a gentle hand down Shaera’s neck, the part not scarred by flame. “Oh, Mother, I’m so sorry-”

Shaera’s voice was cracked, her throat bleeding on the inside. She could feel the chill stealing across her palms already, the way it’d been at Rhaella’s birth. Slowly, palm trembling, she laid it on Rhaella’s head and stroked down her daughter’s cheek.

“Be,” she breathed, “strong.”

Her other hand rubbed over the fine down of Rhaegar’s head, and then, aching, dropped.

“Live,” she said, and blood bubbled out of her lips, stained Shaera’s teeth Targaryen scarlet.

…

The last words Shaera ever spoke were a command.

It was, in the end, a good way to go.