The Passion of a Thousand Suns | Aemond Targaryen

Forty five: the prisoner

KING'S LANDING

The news of Helaena and her children spread across the Keep like wildfire. All too soon Rhaenyra caught wind and took action.

It wasn't the Black Cells, thank the Old Ones, but rather a secluded section of the dungeons. At least four guards were monitoring her every move, stationed outside the cell and further down the corridor.

Four days had passed since Hira was imprisoned. No visitors as of yet, and not for the lack of trying. Since the days following her confinement, both Baela and Jace attempted to visit, and had argued themselves hoarse. But not even the heir or his betrothed held any weight, not against the Queen's words and laws.

Her cell was shrouded in perpetual darkness. The rough stone walls were slick with moisture and adorned with patches of mildew. A prison befitting a criminal, and not the royal blood of Han. If Sunniva were to see her now, she'd be enraged at the vile treatment. Any blossoming friendship with the Queen would all be destroyed at the sight of Hira trapped in a damp, mould-infested cell.

From a single flickering flame, stale bread and a cup of water slid through the metal bars. Her stomach rumbled. She had no choice but to eat, lest she starve to death. Snatching the roll, she began to eat, gulping the water after.

Plans raced across her mind. Jace would be of no help, not with the guards and their beady, hawkish eyes. Pleading with Rhaenyra might work, but Hira would never stoop that low. A bargain, but with who? Where in the world was Mysaria when you needed her?

The heavy door groaned on its hinges as it was pulled open, the echo of metal against stone shattering the silence. Hira didn't bother to look up. She knew who it was, could feel the familiar presence, laced with anger, grief, and something else—a darkness that seeped through the cracks of the once-proud Queen's fascade.

"Leave us," a cold voice broke through.

Rhaenyra Targaryen staggered into the room, the stench of wine on her breath, her crown slightly askew as she glared at Hira through bloodshot eyes. Her once regal appearance now faded, her black and red gown creased, the silver embroidery smeared with dirt from her hands. She looked less like a queen and more like a woman on the brink of madness.

"Do you know what you've done?" Rhaenyra's voice was low, venomous. Her eyes narrowed as she approached the iron bars. "Helaena... her children. You had a hand in their escape, didn't you?"

Hira remained silent, her hands resting on her knees, her gaze fixed on the rough stone wall opposite her. The cold air from the damp cell settled over her like a second skin, but she didn't shiver. She wouldn't give Rhaenyra the satisfaction.

Rhaenyra stepped closer, her fists gripping the iron bars, knuckles white. "Why?"

Four days imprisoned, and the only question Rhaenyra had for her was why. Hira stifled a laugh.

"Why did Alicent turn against me? Would choose her son over me?" she demanded, her voice cracking. "After all we've endured... after everything I've done for her."

Oh.

This wasn't about Hira at all, she realised. It was about the Queen and her childhood friend. 

Gods, she hated hearing Alicent Hightower's name. Hated this damn cell. Hated every bit of the Targaryens who brought her this peril. Yet here Rhaenyra was, lamenting about her lost friend, as if Hira had the answers.

Still, Hira said nothing, her indifference like a blade that cut deeper than any words.

Rhaenyra swayed, a soft laugh escaping her lips—bitter, hollow. "Is it because of Aegon? Is it because I wouldn't bow to him, to them? Because I claimed what was rightfully mine?" She leaned against the bars, her face close to Hira's, searching for something in her gaze—anything that might reveal answers Hira wasn't privy to. "Your father has taken a lover in Nettles."