BLACK SHADOWS [HOTD]

5. the muse of chaos

year 112 ac

She had never felt so alone. Surrounded by people, none of whom mattered to her anymore. Rhaelena took her stand right by her sister's side, Daemon standing behind them. The golden-haired girl tried her best to distance herself from her father, whose grimaced face was turning to look at her from time to time. Whenever it happened, Rhaelena would simply turn away, fixating her empty gaze on two bodies resting on the foundation of the funeral pyre, swaddled in white linen. It was solely her mother's remains that the girl was mostly looking at. Her heart ached for the babe, whom the King managed to name Baelon right on time before his passing, yet it was hard to grieve for someone she never knew. Rhaelena believed her infant brother's death to be the wrath of the gods. It would only make sense, wouldn't it? How could a man willing to sacrifice his beloved wife's life, holding his daughter's arms to prevent her from saving her own mother, be blessed with the heir? Yet, with the twisted satisfaction of the karma that had lamented onto Viserys's head came the most bitter of realizations - Mother had died for nothing.

Aemma's fragile life was sacrificed to the ruthless ambition of the throne, that was what Viserys believed. Rhaelena saw it differently. Her mother was slaughtered not by the will of the realm, but by the will of her own father. They would never be enough for him. Rhaenyra and Rhaelena, even both of them combined, would never be a son. The eldest children, the sisters would always be hidden in the shadows due to their naturally inferior sex, never valued the way they would've been, had they been men.

"I am wondering whether for these few hours that our brother lived Father finally found peace," Rhaenyra uttered.

It seemed like she had read her twin sister's thoughts. Their bond was extraordinary, indeed.

"Even if he did, he never deserved it," Rhaelena whispered, trying not to make their quiet conversation obvious to dozens of people around them.

That very moment the golden-haired princess felt someone's hand landing on her shoulder in the softest of manners. The girl turned her gaze slightly to the side, without turning her head, only to see her uncle Daemon bestowing her with a sorrowful yet encouraging stare. Was it his attempt to comfort her?

Rhaelena hated being touched without her permission. Being a woman already implied surrendering most of her boundaries to whoever she would be sold to someday, so she preferred staying distant from physical touch most of the time. On a different occasion the princess would've brushed Daemon's hand off, accompanying it with an ugly remark in High Valyrian, yet this time her tense muscles relaxed under the warmth of his hand.

"Dra-" Rhaenyra's voice snapped, a little weep replacing the word she was about to say.

Syrax was glancing at her rider, some distance away from the future pyre, showing uncanny patience. The suffering of the princess was reflected in the dragon's mind as if their minds were tied together with fine invisible strings. That was both the blessing and the curse of the bond between Targaryens and their loyal beasts: sometimes they wouldn't obey the words leaving their rider's mouths merely because they could sense the opposite longings of their hearts.

Midnight was meant to be taking Syrax's place in the funeral ceremony. The order of the King it was, and no one could disobey. Yet the dragon knew no kings above them, no man to truly control their doings. Rhaelena would scream, tears streaming down her cheeks, as she tried to force Midnight to take at least a single step out of Dragonpit, yet her black dragon would stay completely still. Was that all completely for the show? Indeed, it was, for Midnight knew her bound rider didn't truly want her to fly off Dragonpit, and Rhaelena knew that her beast wouldn't obey her unless her desire was genuine.