"Childhood? Which childhood?
The one that didn't last?
The one in which you learned both to love and be afraid."

104 AC

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Aemma Arryn sat in the royal stands, the relentless sun bathing the tourney grounds in a golden, oppressive light. She dabbed at her brow with a lace handkerchief, her movements slow and methodical, as if trying to ward off the heat as much as the clamour that surrounded her. The thunderous clash of metal upon metal echoed across the field, each strike sending a dull pulse to her temples. A sigh escaped her lips as her eyes drifted over the crowd, searching for distraction, or perhaps simply a respite from the tumultuous atmosphere.

Her gaze settled on her husband, the king, seated regally behind her. Viserys wore the crown easily, his expression a blend of ease and pride as he observed the tourney held in his honour. At his right sat their daughter, who seemed absorbed by the spectacle, though her role as his cupbearer left her more attentive to her father's needs than the knights on the field. At just seven, Rhaenyra had already become a constant shadow to the king, following him at the table, at court, and now at tourneys. 

On the king's left sat his Hand, Otto Hightower, in quiet observation, his posture impeccably composed as he watched on with a reserved interest. His daughter, Alicent, was seated beside Rhaenyra, the two girls occasionally whispering and giggling amongst themselves, sharing in some private jest that made them oblivious to the fierce competition before them. The bond between the girls had formed swiftly, almost immediately after the arrival of the Hightower children at court last year, but although Alicent seemed to be enjoying herself, Aemma could not help but notice the way she picked at the skin around her nails absentmindedly, a distressing trait in someone so young. 

The girl's brother, Gwayne, seated beside Otto, was far less inclined to disguise his unhappiness, and his face was serious as he watched each knight with careful study. His eyes tracked every movement, every lance that shattered, every horse that stumbled, and for a fleeting moment, the dark cloud of grief that had always hovered over him lifted. 

No child should have to endure such grief, the death of a mother, and no mother should be forced to part with her child. 

Aemma's hand instinctively drifted to her flat belly, the ache of old losses settling into her bones. Two more miscarriages had come and gone in the years since, each one stealing something from her, leaving her emptier than the last. Today, for the first time in a long while, her womb was mercifully still, yet, the emptiness was not a reprieve; it was a hollow reminder of what she had been denied.

Her lap, too, was empty—a sight she was unaccustomed to. Usually, it was occupied by her youngest, who at four years old still clung to her like a second shadow. Rhaenyra might have followed Viserys at court, but Naerys followed her, and at tourneys especially, the little girl delighted in sitting upon her knee, tucking her head into the folds of Aemma's skirts, hiding from the loud world around them, and a tender smile curved the queen's lips at the thought. 

Regret tugged at her heart for having left her behind in their chambers, but the journey to Maidenpool had been long and arduous, especially for an easily unsettled child such as Naerys, who had remained restless for most of the trip. When they finally arrived, she succumbed to exhaustion, falling asleep in Aemma's arms, and waking her now to attend the tourney seemed necessarily cruel. However, leaving her alone seemed even worse, but Aemma's presence here was required, as the king's wife was expected to be on display for all the realm to see.

Her thoughts turned inward as the din of the tournament receded to a distant murmur, her mind returning to her musings. Aemma took solace in caring for Naerys, in the quiet moments where she could soothe her to sleep, silencing her cries with a gentle touch. There was something deeply satisfying in feeding and dressing the girl herself, even as she grew older. It was as if Naerys were her very own little doll, a creature who needed her as much as Aemma needed to be needed, as opposed to the fiercely independent Rhaenyra. 

Sometimes, if Aemma closed her eyes and let herself believe it; she could pretend that Naerys was hers, a child sent by the gods as compensation for the ones that had been taken. It was a comforting illusion, one she grasped to more tightly than she should have. 

Her thoughts were interrupted by the rustle of fabric beside her and glanced up to find Princess Rhaenys watching her with amusement dancing in her lilac irises, her lips curved in the faintest of smirks.

Following her gaze, Aemma's eyes settled on the knight approaching the royal stands on horseback, lance in hand. His gaze was fixed on her, and as their eyes met, he cleared his throat, then dipped his head in a bow—an impressive feat considering he remained seated upon his steed. "If I may be so bold, Your Grace," he called up, his voice steady but carrying a hint of nerves, "might I ask for your favour?"

Aemma blinked in genuine surprise. It had been years since anyone had asked for her favour—more likely no one ever had—and the request stirred something deep within her, something that had long lay dormant, like a relic of a girlhood she had never truly experienced. Married off as a child to a prince, she had never been courted, never known the thrill of being wooed with flowers or tender words. Viserys, though amiable, had not won her with romance or grand gestures, and their marriage, like so many others, had been a matter of duty and politics.

And now, here was this knight—handsome, sharp-featured, with an earnest gaze that sought her out across the field—asking for her favour as if she were still a young maiden, as if the years of motherhood and loss had not etched their toll upon her, making her haggard and hideous. She was not delusional enough to believe she still retained the charms of her youth, because then why else would have Viserys strayed? The notion embedded its barbed thorns into her heart, deeper every day, especially as Naerys grew, for such a beautiful child could only have been birthed by an even lovelier mother, and how could Viserys have resisted such a woman, when all his own wife did was weep and give him more dead children. 

She hesitated, glancing sideways at her husband, unsure of what his reaction might be, but the king, ever jovial, only grinned broadly, his expression one of amusement rather than disapproval. 

With a smile that felt oddly foreign on her lips, she reached for the wreath of flowers she wore, plucking it from her head. Her fingers trembled slightly as she tossed it forward, watching as it sailed through the air, spinning slowly before it hung neatly onto the knight's lance. The crowd around them erupted into polite applause, and the knight bowed his head once more. She recognized him now—Ser Loran Darklyn, and if memory served her correctly, she thought she might have seen him somewhere in the Vale as a child. His face was pleasant, his bearing noble, and though she knew little of him, the sincerity in his eyes struck her deeply.

"Ser Darklyn, is it?" Rhaenys snickered beside her. "I dare say you've caught his eye, my queen."

Aemma flushed, her cheeks warming as she settled back into her seat. "He is a gallant knight asking favour from his queen, nothing more."

"Of course, nothing more. And I am certain my eyes must be failing me if I spied him looking at you as if you were the Maiden herself."

"I'm hardly the Maiden, princess." Aemma twisted her garnet ring around her finger, the carmine jewels digging into her skin as she did so. "I've birthed more dead babes than I care to count, and bid farewell to more than I wish to remember." Her expression dropped, but Rhaenys reached out and squeezed her hand gently.

"That doesn't mean you can't still be admired," the older woman reassured. "Let him crown you Queen of Love and Beauty; it's not as if my cousin, the king, is capable of such a feat anyway. You deserve a little joy."

The thought of being bestowed such a title seemed laughable, and Aemma already had two sources of immeasurable joy in her life, but as the matches continued, and Ser Loran unseated knight after knight, she found herself watching with renewed interest.

"You're quite taken with him now, aren't you?" Rhaenys remarked with a chuckle, raising a dark eyebrow as Aemma leaned forward slightly in her seat to get a better view of the next joust.

"It's been so long since I've seen such skill on the field," the queen returned, trying to sound nonchalant. "He is quite remarkable."

"Remarkable indeed. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were rooting for him."

"I simply appreciate his talents."

Her cousin laughed, the sound rich and full. "Oh, my darling Aemma."

As the final match approached, the young queen scarcely noticed when Rhaenyra and Alicent slipped away from the stands, so engrossed was she in the unfolding spectacle, and when, at last, Ser Loran Darklyn emerged victorious, the entire crowd rose in applause.

The king called him forth into the royal stands to receive his victory laurels, and the dark-haired knight surprised everyone by raising the wreath toward Aemma right after. 

"To Queen Aemma Arryn," he declared. "The fairest in all the realm, and to whom I dedicate my victory."

The crowd cheered, and Aemma found it all incredibly bizarre. She had not expected this—not the flowers, not the title, not the weight of all those eyes upon her, but for a moment, she was more than just a grieving mother, the dutiful wife unable to keep her husband's interest—she was simply a woman admired.

As the tourney grounds began to clear, and the guests retreated to their pavilions or the castle, she finally allowed herself to relax, her thoughts immediately turned to her daughters. Her girls would have fun with the wreath that adorned her brow now, and she would enjoy watching them make it a part of their games, but as she scanned the stands, her brow furrowed in concern. Rhaenyra was nowhere to be seen, and panic tugged at her heartstrings, the familiar anxiety that all mothers felt when their children were suddenly out of sight.

"They must be around here somewhere," Rhaenys comforted, noticing her concern. She looped her arm through Aemma's, giving her a reassuring squeeze. "Do not fret, Your Grace. Children will be children. If my Laena were here, she'd be right in the thick of it, causing trouble alongside them."

"You should have brought Laena and Laenor along, princess. It would have made the day far more enjoyable."

The older woman chuckled, patting her hand as they began to make their way back toward the castle. "The journey would've been too much for them. Far easier to bring Meleys alone, but perhaps next time." 

"Yes, next time. Rhaenyra is very fond of her."

"As Laena is of her," Rhaenys agreed with a wink. "Perhaps they take after their mothers."

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The stone corridors of the Maidenpool fortress were a labyrinth that Rhaenyra Targaryen did not know too well, but she sped through them with her usual tenacity. The late afternoon sun slanted in through narrow windows, casting long shadows across the walls, but she paid no mind to the fading light. She knew her mother would disapprove of her scheme, but she had slipped away from the royal stands unnoticed, taking care not to draw her gaze. The queen had been far too preoccupied with the pageantry of the tourney, and Rhaenyra had used the distraction to her advantage.

Alicent Hightower followed behind, her breath coming in soft pants as she struggled to match her brisk pace. "Rhaenyra...you're not going where I think you're going, are you?"

The princess grinned, glancing over her shoulder. "You know me far too well to ask that."

"But Her Grace, your mother... she won't be pleased."

"We mean no harm, I promise."

"But your sister has had such a difficult journey. We shouldn't disturb her rest."

"She has been asleep all morning, Alicent. She can't sleep her life away. Besides, there's supposed to be a feast tonight, and I won't let her miss it. She'll want to see the spectacle."

"She'll spend most of it buried in your mother's skirts, which is as good as sleeping through it."

"Yes, but she will be able to hear the revelry at least."

Rhaenyra had always yearned for a sister, a companion to share the wild flights of her imagination and the boundless games she conjured. From the earliest days of memory, she would plead and coax Naerys, hoping to draw her into the whirlwind of her fantasies—knights and dragons, chasing shadows across the stone courtyards—but her little sister was always unwilling to leave the safe harbour of their mother's arms. The queen assured her eldest that she would one day grow out of her shyness, that with time, she might blossom into a more daring spirit, but Rhaenyra, with the sharp instincts of youth, doubted it.

At least she had Laena, who matched her blazing determination, and Alicent who was far more cautious, but still a dedicated companion. Naerys herself was far too flimsy, like the pale flowers that withered in the autumn chill, and Rhaenyra's heart still ached for a sibling who could match her restless hunger for adventure. 

In her dreams, she would have another sister who was not this fragile creature, but a fierce warrior, a mirror to the indomitable Targaryen women of legend. She would be called Visenya, named for the conqueror herself, and together, Rhaenyra and her imagined sister would carve their names into the very stone of history, riding dragons and wielding swords forged in the heat of their ancestors' fires. Together they would be sworn knights for their sweet Naerys. 

And so, with this dream fueling her heart, the princess waited, but every time her mother's belly swelled with the promise of new life, it was followed by the bitter taste of loss. Each time, the hope for a Visenya flickered out like a candle in a storm, and by now she was old enough to understand the unspoken disappointment in her father's eyes. It was not another daughter he sought but a son—an heir to carry his name and legacy.

As they approached the queen's chambers, the heavy oak doors loomed ahead, and for a moment, Rhaenyra hesitated before gently nudging them open. Inside, the air was thick and still, the room dim despite the afternoon light that trickled in through the drawn curtains.

Her sister was dwarfed by the massive bed she lay curled in, legs pulled to her chest in the fetal position she always slept in. She was buried beneath a heap of blankets despite the heat of summer air, and her face was troubled—brows furrowed and lips pressed into a thin line—a look far too serious for someone so young. Rhaenyra had seen that expression many times before, had witnessed enough of her midnight fits to know how difficult she was to soothe, and all of a sudden she did not wish to wake her. 

"She's always so cold," Alicent whispered, as she knelt beside the bed, reaching out to press the back of her hand against the child's forehead. "No matter the weather... no matter how many blankets she has, she's always so cold."

"Do you think we should wake her?"

"The queen would be angry if she started crying again."

Rhaenyra nodded. "Okay, we won't wake her yet." She settled onto the floor beside the bed, tucking her legs beneath her, and after a moment's hesitation, Alicent followed suit, sitting cross-legged beside her. 

"She's so quiet now," the Targaryen princess mused. "But you know... everyone says she's a witch."

"Rhaenyra! You shouldn't say that!" Alicent gasped, her eyes widening in alarm. 

Rhaenyra giggled, her violet eyes gleaming with mischief. "Oh, I don't mean it as an insult. I hope she's a witch. Wouldn't it be wonderful if she could teach us magic? Like in Father's stories of the old Targaryens, with their dragons and spells."

"Do you really think she has magic?"

"Maybe. I've heard the servants gossiping about her." 

Alicent shrugged, unwilling to burst the princess's bubble of enthusiasm. She too, had heard the rumours that followed the younger girl, but none of them were pleasant or worth repeating. Most spoke of bastardy, pitying the barren queen for raising the fruit of her husband's dalliances with such devotion. 

Nonetheless, her fingers brushed against Rhaenyra's sleeve in an attempt to offer reassurance. "Do you think she'll teach me too?"

"Of course, she will."

"But I'm no Targaryen."

"I don't think it matters. We'll be her favourite friends, and she'll teach us everything."

"Maybe she could teach my brother too. He'd be upset if we forgot about him. I do not like leaving him out of our games, but Father says a boy must gain strength, not spend their days with the ladies learning how to embroider."

"We do far more than just embroider." Rhaenyra rolled her eyes. "And besides, does Gwayne not have his own games with the knights? If anything, I wish we could join him. I want to learn how to wield a sword and shield."

Alicent wrinkled her nose in disagreement. "I do not. Boys are noisy and they stink. I much prefer your company alone, and Naerys, when she decides to grace us with her presence."

"Noisy and stinky, hmm? You say the same thing about me."

"That's only when you come back from riding Syrax, smelling like a dragon."

"I'll take you with me, then we'll both smell like dragon and you can't make fun of me for it."

"No thank you," Alicent yelped, "I prefer the safety of the ground!"

"Nyra?" The gentle murmur of a drowsy voice cut through the idle chatter, halting the banter that had filled the room.

Naerys stirred from beneath the heavy blankets, pushing them aside with a sullen gesture, her face streaked with tears as she sat up. Rhaenyra froze, and Alicent rose in an instant, hurrying to the princess's side, her brow creased with worry.

"Oh no, did we wake you? I'm sorry." 

Naerys rubbed at her eyes with trembling fists, only worsening the red that already lined them, but her sister was quick to stop her. "Don't do that, you'll only make it worse." She gently pried her hands away from her tear-streaked face, wiping the fresh droplets from her cheeks with the sleeve of her gown.

"Where's Mama?" The girl's voice was timid, and the beginnings of a sob trembled in the back of her throat, threatening to spill over as more tears welled in her mismatched eyes. 

"Bad dream again?" her sister inquired, though she already knew the answer. 

"I want Mama."

Alicent cast a quick glance toward the door, as if the queen might appear just through the sheer force of the child's will. "Your mother is fine," she consoled, brushing a stray strand away from Naerys's forehead. "She's enjoying the tourney, watching the knights show off for the crowds."

"And you wouldn't want to spoil her fun, would you?" Rhaenyra added. "If you cry, she'll have to come tend to you."

Naerys paused, her tears stalling for the briefest moment, but then she blinked rapidly, trembling on the cusp of a fear too deep for a child. "I don't... I don't want her to be eaten."

Rhaenyra stifled a laugh, though its absurdity never ceased to amuse her. "No one is getting eaten at a tourney, Naerys. Don't be silly." She tried to keep her tone light, teasing even, but there was a shadow beneath the words, something darker lurking in the depths of her sister's nightmares that she could never fully understand.

For as long as she could remember, Naerys had been plagued by these terrors, waking in the night screaming for their mother, and when she finally learned to speak, she put it into words—that some thing would devour the queen. Rhaenyra had long since dismissed it as childish nonsense, but the intensity of her belief still unsettled her sometimes.

Alicent, new to this particular affliction, tilted her head curiously. "Who would eat the queen?" 

Naerys, who had quieted, sniffled, lowering her voice as though speaking too loudly might summon the very creature she feared. "He does not like to be talked about."

"He? Who is he?"

Rhaenyra sighed, her impatience breaking through the tenderness she had tried to maintain. "This is what she always says," she muttered impatiently, casting a look at Alicent. "You're never going to get a better answer out of her." She reached out and patted her sister's head, as though the simple gesture might reassure her. "Mother is perfectly alright, and you'll see her soon enough. But," she added mischievously, "I have a surprise for you."

From the folds of her dress, the Targaryen produced a pair of worn shears, brandishing them with a grin and pointing them in Naerys's direction like she had seen the knight point their swords before the joust.

Alicent's eyes widened in alarm, and she instinctively pulled Naerys closer, scrambling back on the bed with a hiss. "Seven Hells, where did you get those, Rhaenyra?"

"I borrowed them from a maid," she replied nonchalantly, snipping the shears in the air as if to demonstrate their readiness. "Thought my sister could benefit from a trim."

"A trim?" Alicent whisper-yelled, aghast at the thought. "You mean to cut her hair?"

The princess nodded confidently. "Her hair's getting too long. One of my cousins from the Vale visited a few weeks ago and said she gives all her younger siblings a trim. Apparently, it's tremendous fun."

"Tremendous fun for whom?" 

"For everyone."

"Do you...do you even know how?"

"Of course," Rhaenyra replied with the certainty of someone who had never even considered the possibility of failure. She leaned closer to Naerys in a cajoling manner. "What do you say, sister? Will you let me fix your hair? I promise it will make you look very pretty, and Mother will adore it."

Alicent shook her head firmly. "She would not."

But Naerys had never been one to deny her sister, especially not when she asked so sweetly. "Mama will like it?"

"Yes, she will."

"Yes, alright then, let's get on with it," Alicent conceded, leaning forward to whisper in Rhaenyra's ear. "But only if I get a turn too."

"Deal!"

Naerys hesitated only a moment longer before nodding. "Okay."

Alicent took her hand and hoisted her off the bed, leading her to the vanity across the room, where she set to work gently unpinning the long, dark strands of the girl's hair from the intricate braids their mother had woven earlier that morning. The inky black locks spilled over the child's shoulders like a river of night, smooth and cool to the touch.

Piece by piece, the two girls began to take turns trimming away at Naerys's hair, though their inexperience showed in the uneven edges and hesitant strokes. They worked in quiet harmony, the sound of their voices mingling with the occasional giggle as the girl sat watching her reflection in the mirror, unsure of her odd transformation.

When the door creaked open, it drew the girls' attention. Naerys, seated with her back to the entrance, turned and froze, her wide eyes locking onto the familiar figure who had just stepped into the room, and a heartbeat later, she leapt from the vanity stool.

In her rush, Rhaenyra's hands slipped, and the sharp blade of the shears grazed the curve of Naerys' ear. A bead of crimson blossomed against her alabaster skin, but the young girl didn't even flinch. All that filled her mind was the sight of her mother standing in the doorway with a mixture of confusion and horror etched into her face. Naerys scrambled across the room and threw herself into Aemma's skirts, clinging desperately to the queen's hips.

But Aemma did not kneel to embrace her as she had so often done. Instead, she stood still, gaze drifting over the scene in front of her—the scattered strands of dark hair strewn across the floor, the offending shears still clutched in her oldest's guilty hands, and Alicent kneeling awkwardly beside the mess.

Behind her, Rhaenys Targaryen stepped into the room with an amused expression already curling the corners of her lips, and her sharp, raucous laugh broke the tension like a thunderclap. "By the gods, what have you girls done?"

Rhaenyra tucked the shears back into the folds of her dress with haste, her cheeks reddening. She glanced at Alicent for support but found none there, and the evidence of their folly lay too damningly at their feet. Nevertheless, she straightened, affecting a haughty posture despite the shame creeping up her spine.

"Naerys said it was alright," she declared in a rush, as though that single statement might absolve her of all wrongdoing. "She let us."

Aemma's gaze softened slightly as she looked down at her younger daughter, her hand gently brushing over her shorn hair. The uneven tufts slipped through her fingers like downy feathers, some cut so close to the scalp they barely remained, while others dangled in long, straggly strands. 

"Naerys, is this true?"

The little girl's lower lip trembled as she glanced up at her mother, her fingers gripping tighter to the fabric of her azure gown. "Nyra said...she said Mama will like it. Don't you like it?"

The older woman's hand brushed over the girl's scalp once more, but this time her thumb grazed the wound on her ear. Naerys flinched, and when Aemma withdrew her hand, her thumb was stained with blood. Her eyes widened with renewed concern, and she looked at Rhaenyra with a mother's deep reproach. "Oh, Rhaenyra..."

Before she could say more, the Targaryen princess, too proud to fully accept blame, stood taller, her chin jutting out defiantly. "Father wanted a boy. Now he has one," she defended, though it was clear even she didn't fully believe her own justification.

Beside her, Alicent nudged her sharply with her elbow. "We're so sorry, Your Grace," she blanched, bowing deeply in a gesture of contrition.

"Truly it is Viserys's fault then," Rhaenys interrupted with a chuckle. "And surely the girls cannot be blamed."

The queen exhaled another long sigh, weariness settling into her bones. She knelt then, though with a grunt of effort, and gently hoisted Naerys into her arms, allowing the child to cling to throw her arms around her neck. 

"Come, sweetling." She pressed a kiss to the girl's temple. "Let us see the maester for your ear, and then we'll decide what to do about your hair."

Naerys, her face buried in the crook of her mother's neck, mumbled, "Do you not like it, Mama?"

Aemma hesitated, stroking the scraggly remnants of her daughter's dark, silken locks. "I...you are lovely, as always...but next time, do not let your sister do as she pleases."

With that, she turned to face Rhaenyra once more, her expression firm. "And no dragon-riding for you while we are in Maidenpool, Rhaenyra."

"But, Mother," the girl protested, her voice rising with indignation. "Syrax flew all the way here for me!"

"All the more reason to let her rest while you reflect on your actions."

Rhaenyra crossed her arms, her lip jutting out in a pout. "I wasn't going to bald her."

"Well, we might as well have to, with what you've done."

"But, it isn't fair!"

"It is only a few days, Rhaenyra, do not be petulant with me."

When Aemma and Rhaenys finally departed, they left the door ajar, and the room descended into an awkward silence, only to be broken moments later by the sound of hurried footsteps when Alicent's brother appeared in the doorway, his face flushed from exertion as he panted for breath.

"I've been looking for you everywhere, Alicent!" Gwayne fumed, his eyes darting around the room, taking in the mess of hair scattered on the floor.

Alicent stood stiffly. "I was busy," she snapped, her tone sharper than usual. "You need not follow me everywhere."

Gwayne's brow furrowed in concern, but before he could say more, his gaze landed on Rhaenyra and he remembered passing the stern-faced queen on his way here. He had found it strange, given the fact that he had never seen the gentle Aemma Arryn look anything less than the picture of utmost compassion. 

"Did you...did you shave your sister's head, princess?" he asked incredulously. 

Rhaenyra scoffed, folding her arms across her chest. "Why does everyone think that? It was just supposed to be a little trim."

Still kneeling on the floor, Alicent gestured at the piles of hair surrounding them. "It certainly was more than a trim."

Gwayne snorted. "Perhaps you should be more sure of your skills, sister, before you attempt such daring feats."

The Hightower girl shot him a withering look, her ears flushing. "It was Rhaenyra's idea!"

"Yes," the princess chimed in, her tone unapologetic. "But you agreed to it."

Alicent threw up her hands in exasperation. "Only because Naerys said yes."

Gwayne shook his head. "Blaming the youngest now, are we? You both know she'd do anything for the two of you."

"You sound like an adult," Alicent complained. "Stop it with the chastising."

"I am older than you, am I not?"

"That doesn't mean you can tell me what to do!"

"Actually sister, it means exactly that."

Rhanyra glanced between the bickering siblings and laughed. "I have never been more grateful not to have older siblings."

"You are the older sibling," Alicent pointed out. "That means you have to be the responsible one."

"I am responsible."

"I highly doubt that."

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A/N: Aemma Arryn deserved better than crusty Viserys and I stand by it. Obviously, no cheating here lol, but I had to give her a moment with a hot knight ok, my girl deserves it, and it's not like Viserys is inspiring any crushes. Also, we are biblically accurate dark-haired Rhaenys truthers here. 

As usual, don't be a ghost reader. I live for yalls comments/questions/concerns/reactions, even a keyboard smash is highly appreciated and encouraged!