The Queen Who Was

The people of Driftmark had not seen the sky in weeks – it was always blocked out by the wings of one dragon or another. Even in the days preceding Lord Corlys' wedding to the heiress of King Jaehaerys' heir, they had never seen this many dragons. Green, red like fire, black like a starless night and all between, from huge Vhagar to the tiny hatchlings, they commanded horror and awe, as well as joy, except for the moments they rose and landed, and their mass, hear, and teeth were so very close.

Rhaenys Targaryen, the Lady of Driftmark, had not taken Meleys out for a flight in many weeks, a month perhaps, and when she left the central building of the castle, holding her children's hands, the dragon gave a mournful roar, as if feeling her closeness – and her neglect.

"Are you going to take her out for a ride?" the King asked that night, after Lord Corlys had been laid to rest.

"Yes," Rhaenys said without looking at him. "Perhaps tomorrow."

"That's what you said yesterday," Viserys reminded her but she merely shrugged. She was too heartbroken to care for her dragon. Right now, she couldn't even summon much interest in her children's wellbeing. Fortunately, they had other people to take care of them. Meleys, though…

"You should think of another husband," the Queen told her the next day as the two of them sat together sewing – well, Rhaenys was sewing and Aemma was going the more elevated task of embroidering. Rhaenys had always been more fond of seeing the actual use of her work and there wasn't much of that in an additional flower gracing the edge of the cloak meant for the statue of the Mother. "Not now, of course," she added quickly, feeling a little guilty because Rhaenys had just – just – been released from the torture called marital bed. She certainly did not need any reminder that she's have to lie in one again soon enougn. "But over time. You can't rule Driftmark on your own."

It was a mark of Rhaenys' exhaustion that she didn't snap that she had once been deemed suitable to rule the Seven Kingdoms on her own. Only her lord father's death had changed this, as if it had suddenly turned her – well, and Corlys also – into an incompetent. Did it really, in Grandfather's eyes, she wondered and felt anger at herself for still caring.

"Never," she said because this was the truth. "When Corlys died, all men died for me."

"Do not talk about death," Aemma said softly, pressing her hand to her belly just for a moment. But Rhaenys noticed the gesture and sympathy and concern filled her, pushing a little of her grief away. Was Aemma with child again? Was this the reason she didn't want to hear about death? Rhaenys thought about Viserys' whore, the supposedly saintly daughter of his Hand, and wondered if this had been Ser Otto's end game at the Great Council a few years ago. Had he been influencing her grandfather against her and in Viserys' favour because he had been waiting for Aemma to die in childbirth? Would she?

"I won't," Rhaenys said softly, looking away, and Aemma smiled gratefully, thankful for the small gesture that let her have the moment she needed to collect herself and present a brave face to the world once again.