CHAPTER ONE
SEND HER a HERO

"We felt the imprisonment of being a girl."
— Jeffrey Eugenides, The Virgin Suicides

The Red Keep
268 AC.

A girl is born, and it is perhaps the cruelest thing that can happen to her.

The babe is small, even for a newborn. Pale and delicate, with a head of downy silver curls and light purple eyes the same shade as the petals of a lilac blossom. Her daughter is a fragile little thing—more a bird than a dragon. But still painfully lovely, in the way that her children are always lovely before they...

Rhaella has learned not to love them too soon.

The Maesters were certain that this one would not live, just as the three that came before her had not lived, and there had been a heavy but unwavering sort of conviction in Grand Maester Pycelle's voice when he shared this prognostication. The man had grimly assured Rhaella that there was simply no possible way that the babe could survive the trauma of her birth—and yet, by some miracle, she had. Small and fragile as she was, there seemed to be something in her daughter's spirit that was desperate to live, clinging to life with tiny fists and willing herself to survive.

Rhaella might have celebrated this once, if she had lived another woman's life. Might have celebrated it still, if she had given birth to a son instead of a daughter. But bringing a daughter into the world seemed to be a great unkindness to Rhaella, who had also been born a daughter of House Targaryen, and had suffered because of it. Joining the three babes who had perished before her might be a kinder fate than the one that would await her daughter someday.

But days pass and the Stranger does not come for the child as he had for the others and so her daughter lives. 

Rhaella is not granted the privilege of naming her. Instead, it is her brother-husband who claims this right and decides on a name of his choosing. Naerys, which feels like a cruel mockery on its own. The first Naerys had lived an unhappy life—born sickly and frail, the princess had eventually gone on to marry her brother, Aegon the Unworthy, at the behest of her father King Viserys II. Aegon had been vile to Naerys and his insistence that she provide him with heirs despite her poor health had ultimately led to the untimely death of the pious and gentle queen.

It was a life that so starkly resembled Rhaella's own that it had made her weep, once. She suspected Aerys knew this and that it had served as the inspiration behind his choice of name. A name that would always cause Rhaella to feel a pang of sadness upon hearing or saying it.

Within days of their daughter's birth, Aerys begins boasting of his plans to marry Naerys to their only son, Rhaegar, when both children come of age. Rhaegar, she knows, is not his father. He is no Aegon the Unworthy either. Though often melancholic, Rhaella has never known Rhaegar to be unkind. Her son is a bookish sort of boy, fonder of reading and music than the sword or the lance.

But Aerys had once loved music, too. He had not always been a monster.

In the weeks following her daughter's birth, Rhaella visits Baelor's Sept often. When asked about the subject of her devotion, the queen replies that she prays for her daughter's health, and it is not a lie. What she does not share is how she prays for the gods to keep Naerys small and fragile and delicate for as long as they can; to let her be a bird instead of a dragon so that she will never share the fate of her namesake or her mother.

It is a cruel thing for a mother to wish upon her child. A madness of its own kind. Rhaella does not doubt that she will one day pay for it. But the gods grant her this single wish after ignoring so many of her others and Naerys does not grow strong. She stays frail and fragile for years and Rhaella does not give birth to another child that lives to see past the age of two until nearly six years later, when her son Viserys comes into the world.

The birth of Viserys forces Aerys's hand. Rhaegar reaches an age where he must take a wife and, since there is no suitable daughter of House Targaryen available for him to wed, Aerys turns his search outward from their family line for a dragon-blooded bride for their son.

Rhaella privately relishes in this victory and in the daughter who is living, breathing proof of her mother's quiet rebellion.

♠

The Red Keep
281 AC.

They say that Princess Naerys's recovery is a miraculous thing.

There are many who doubt the claims of her return to good health; Maesters who puzzle over the notion that a girl who had been so sickly and small for years could ever be hale and healthy. But people have always seemed to underestimate her.

Naerys is finally well, and it is something she does not take for granted. She cherishes all the little things—how she can climb the stairs of the Red Keep and not run out of breath, and she can dance when there is music without feeling faint, and she can stand in the wind without fearing that she might be blown away. For thirteen long years she has battled to live, to live, to live and for the first time in her life she feels truly alive.

Her sudden return to health comes just after the wedding of her brother Rhaegar to the princess Elia of Dorne. There are some who say it is a sign from the gods; a blessing upon the union of her brother and his new wife. Others say it is a sign of darkness to come; a false spring on the eve of a terrible winter.

Privately, Naerys thinks that they are all wrong. That there is a far greater purpose for her strength than what anyone else believes.

She does not think it coincidence that she grows stronger once Rhaegar is wed and gone. No longer does she have at her side the older brother who had been protector, companion, and friend. No longer is he there to carry her around the Red Keep on his back when her legs grow tired or to sing songs that drown out the sound of their mother's stifled cries echoing through the castle corridors from her bedchambers.

Rhaegar had been like a hero of song to Naerys throughout her childhood. She had idolized him above all others; so much so that she had once thought of herself as her namesake, the first Naerys, and Rhaegar as her Aemon the Dragonknight. But songs and stories are always sweeter than real life and Naerys learns the bitter taste of disappointment at a young age. Rhaegar was never destined to be her Aemon and he certainly was never destined to be her Dragonknight.

Her older brother is fated for other things. He weds a different princess and leaves the Red Keep behind, trading one castle for another and settling himself at their ancestral family seat of Dragonstone; far away from King's Landing and their father's madness. As King Aerys descends further into the depths of paranoia and instability, it is Naerys's turn to be strong for her mother and her new little brother as Rhaegar had once been strong for her. She cannot rely on his protection any longer.

This, she is certain, is the reason the gods have given her strength.

When the wildfire executions begin, Naerys begs her septa to take her to Baelor's Sept and she kneels on the biting stone floor the way she had seen her mother do when she was younger, bowing her head in silent supplication to the gods. Rhaella does not come with her to pray. She does not go anywhere with anyone anymore—not since Naerys's father forbade her from leaving Maegor's Holdfast, confining the queen to the Red Keep as punishment for all her babes that had died and her failure to deliver the healthy daughter he had so desired as a bride for his eldest son.

Her father has always been a cruel man, but with every passing day he grows crueler. Naerys cannot forget the tortured sound of the burning men's screams or the acrid scent of their roasting flesh or her father's hungry smile as he watched them go up in smoke and flames. She cannot forget how he called upon her mother, summoning her to his bedchambers afterwards, either.

Naerys returns to the sept with every subsequent execution and prays to the many faces of the Seven. She entreats the Smith for strength, the Warrior for protection, the Mother for mercy. She prays and prays, until her knees are numb and her body is cold; until she has poured her heart out to the gods and the sun is sinking towards the horizon. Each time, it is harder for her to leave. The desire to stay in the Sept, where nothing bad has ever happened to her, is tempting in comparison to the prospect of returning to the Red Keep and all its horrors. But Naerys knows it cannot be. It is not the fate of a princess to be free.

The sound of footsteps and the clink of metal armor signal that it is time for her to leave before any words are spoken.

"Princess," a low, gravelly voice breaks the sept's still silence.

Naerys lifts her head, not needing to look over shoulder to know who it is that waits for her. Ser Harlan Grandison is the eldest member of her father's Kingsguard knights and he has been Naerys's sworn protector since she was a little girl. He is her constant shadow, alongside Naerys's septa, Calla. Wherever Naerys goes, the two of them follow.

"It's nearly dark out. Your father would not like for you to be outside the castle walls," Ser Harlan murmurs, voice heavy with a weariness that had not always been there. "Perhaps we should return to the Red Keep."

In spite of the fondness she feels for the elderly knight, resentment coils within Naerys at his words. Though it is Ser Harlan's sworn duty to protect her, and she knows that he would lay down his life in defense of hers without hesitation, his loyalty will always belong to her father before it belongs to her.

For a moment, Naerys envisions herself refusing, telling the knight that she will never step foot in that dreadful place again before commanding him to take her somewhere, anywhere else, so long as it isn't home. But she is, unfortunately, too sensible for that. Duty bids her to return, as do the mother and little brother that are waiting for her. Naerys cannot bear the thought of leaving either of them behind. And besides, even if she did try to spread her wings and escape, she knows that she would be caught and dragged back to her cage of a castle. Only she would be returned to it as a prisoner rather than a princess and she knows all too well what that would entail.

Instead of outright refusal, Naerys elects to stall. "Just one minute more, Ser Harlan," she demurs, bowing her head to finish her prayers. "I need a little more time."

"As you wish, Princess," the knight says, his armor creaking as he grants Naerys her privacy once more.

It is silent again and Naerys almost hates to disturb the stillness of the air, but she cannot leave until she makes her last request known. "Please," she whispers, voice breaking on the single word. "I know I pray to you often but keep my family safe. Make me strong so that I can protect them."

No answer comes and, in the silence, Naerys wonders if the gods are even listening or if they have abandoned her to face her fate alone. "Please," she asks once more. "And if I can't be strong enough on my own... send me a friend. Someone who won't leave me. Make them a hero. The best that you have."

The candles in the Sept flicker, as if a strong breeze had blown through the room to put them out, but there is no wind and the air remains as still as it was before. A shiver runs down Naerys's spine and she rises from the ground quickly, joining Ser Harlan and Septa Calla and making her way outside. 

Dusk has settled over King's Landing, tinging the streets with dying daylight as Naerys steps into the waiting wheelhouse. Septa Calla follows behind her and Ser Harlan joins the coachman up front before the carriage begins rolling down the street. The weather has grown unseasonably warm, leaving the smallfolk restless from the heat. As she rests her head against the windowpane, Naerys sees their gaunt faces and hungry gazes from afar. She wonders if they've heard the tales of her father's madness; if they know the true nature of the man who sits atop the throne as their king. She wonders how long their loyalty will last if her father continues to decline.

Something of her troubled train of thought must show on her face because she feels a hand on her shoulder. Naerys turns and meets her septa's gaze. "You did well today, Princess," Septa Calla tells her, voice kind and gentle. "The queen would be proud."

At the mention of her mother, Naerys feels a pang of longing in her chest. "Will you tell her for me?" She asks, anxious and hopeful all at once.

She knows she will not be permitted to see her mother today. Rhaella does not like for Naerys to see her after she has been visited by her husband. But Calla is one of two septas who share her mother's bed each night on the king's orders—his paranoia and suspicion leading him to doubt his wife's faithfulness to him—so Calla will see her mother, even if Naerys does not.

"Yes, Princess," her septa agrees.

"But don't worry her," Naerys continues, brow furrowing. "Tell her I miss her—but that I am well. Could you do that?"

Calla gives her hand a squeeze. "It will be done, sweetling."

Naerys smiles tremulously in return. "Thank you, Septa."

As the towering spires of the Red Keep loom overhead, the wheelhouse rolls to a slow stop and Naerys feels a tightness swelling in her chest. The journey is over far too soon for her liking, and she takes the steps from the courtyard to the Keep slowly. As she makes her way towards the throne room, she spots two of the Kingsguard flanking the large doors on each side, alerting Naerys to her father's presence inside. Her stomach twists with dread at the prospect of seeing him, but she knows better than to pass by without paying him her respects.

Reluctantly, Naerys bids Calla a good evening as the septa continues onwards to the holdfast where her queen mother is confined. Once she is gone, Naerys releases a shuddering exhale before straightening her shoulders and steeling herself. The throne room is as ghastly as ever when she steps inside. As she enters, Naerys recalls the sound of screams and the scent of burning flesh that had filled the room that morning and it makes her stomach churn.

Atop the hideous throne of swords forged by dragon fire, King Aerys II Targaryen looks down at his daughter with a steely gaze. He is alone, save for the stoic man standing at the foot of his throne—Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King. She thinks they must have been quarreling again from the stony expression on Lord Tywin's face; an increasingly common occurrence between the king and his Hand, whose relationship had grown strained.

Naerys's gaze flits from one man to the other before settling on her father. Between the lion and the dragon, she knows which predator is the more immediate threat and she drops into a low curtsy at the foot of his throne.

"Good evening, Your Grace," she greets him, bowing her head in deference to him. She dips her chin to Lord Tywin and the older man bows stiffly in response. "Lord Hand."

"Princess," the older man replies coolly before turning to address her father. "If His Grace permits it, I will excuse myself."

Her father hardly bats an eye, dismissing Lord Tywin with a careless wave of his hand; as if swatting away a particularly bothersome fly. Lord Tywin bristles at this—his pride, Naerys has noticed, is such a fragile thing—but Aerys takes no note of it as his Hand leaves the room. His focus remains fully trained on her.

"Girl," her father barks, his voice high and sharp and cutting. "Where have you been?"

"The Sept of Baelor, Father," Naerys replies.

His eyes narrow. "Why?"

"To pray," Naerys says, and while that is true, the words that follow are not. "I thank the gods for the blessings that they have given our family."

Her father's lip curls into a frown, somehow displeased by this answer. He scrutinizes Naerys, studying her from behind the strands of stringy silver hair that hang limply in his face. Naerys hardly dares to breathe as she holds his stare, wondering if perhaps he knows that she is lying, and doesn't move a muscle until his face abruptly splits into a horrid grin and he begins to laugh. His laughter rings in her ears, cold and mocking.

"Thanking the gods for their blessings?" Her father sneers, leaning back on his throne. Naerys cannot stop herself from wincing as the blades decorating the iron chair dig into his flesh and thin rivulets of crimson blood bead on his skin, though her father does not even seem to notice. "I've raised a septa princess. Perhaps I shall ask the Silent Sisters to take you into their ranks."

She fights back a shiver at his words. The thought of being sent to join the order of women sworn to the Stranger scares Naerys more than she would like to admit. Out of the Seven, his is the face that frightens her most. A face she has never prayed to. But to voice this fear to her father would be as good as issuing him a challenge, so she simply says, "If it please you, Your Grace."

The smile on his lips vanishes in an instant and he ceases his cackling. "No," Aerys says flatly. "No daughter of mine will become a septa." He spits the words out as if they are poison. "We are the blood of the dragon, girl. The gods serve us; not the other way around. Do you understand?"

She nods obediently, ever the dutiful daughter. "Yes, Father."

"Good," he hisses. "I don't want to hear of you leaving the walls of this keep again. If the Seven wish to hear your prayers, they will have to hear them from here."

Icy dread creeps into her veins at his words and Naerys cannot stop herself from protesting. Baelor's Sept had been her refuge; a safe place for her to pretend that she was free from the prison walls of her father's castle. She does not wish to be trapped inside the Red Keep for all of eternity; not like her mother, confined to Maegor's Holdfast and wasting away. The prospect of living a life like that feels unbearable to her. "But Your Grace—"

"What," he asks, icily, "did I just say, girl?"

Realizing her mistake, Naerys's mouth snaps shut and she casts her gaze to the floor. "Forgive me," she apologizes, the words escaping her in a breathy whisper. "I forget myself, Father. If—if you wish that I no longer go to the sept, then I will not go."

Seemingly appeased, her father lounges back against his throne. "As I thought," he replies, the words a lazy, malevolent drawl. "You don't want to wake the dragon, do you?"

Naerys closes her eyes and sees the flicker of green flames behind her lids. "No, never, Your Grace," she says softly. "I only wish to be a good daughter to you."

When she meets his gaze again, her father is smiling and the expression seems strange on his face. Unsettling. The ghastly grin of a madman. "Then come give your father a kiss goodnight," he leers. "And get out of my sight."

Naerys doesn't want to kiss him. She wants to flee from the room as fast as she can. If Rhaegar or her mother were here, she thinks that they would help her. But her brother has gone far away and her mother cannot even help herself. Naerys will have to be strong on her own.

She climbs the steps to her father's throne and stops a few paces from him. Steeling herself, Naerys leans in and presses her lips against his sunken, sallow cheek. Her stomach churns at the sight of the blood that stains his skin and the sour scent of sweat in the air before she steps away swiftly. "Goodnight, Father."

His eyes, dark and violet and so different from her own, watch her as she retreats from his throne. It takes everything within her to not run; to charge through the doors of the throne room and the Keep and to continue running until her legs refuse to carry her any further. She wants so badly to leave, to be free but Naerys knows it will never be. Her throat aches and her eyes prickle with bitter tears that she swipes at quickly before forcing a smile and joining Ser Harlan, who'd been waiting with Ser Jonothor Darry and Lord Commander Gerold Hightower just outside the doors.

The knights bow their heads and utter their courtesies to her and Naerys accepts them with a polite smile while privately wishing they were the knights Rhaegar favored instead. As her brother's closest companion, Ser Arthur Dayne was always friendly and kind to her and Ser Oswell Whent always had a clever quip to say that would make her laugh. Naerys misses them and she misses Rhaegar and she misses her mother and Viserys and—she is just so very exhausted of being alone.

"I've grown tired, Ser Harlan," Naerys tells the knight. "I think I should like to retire now."

"Of course, Princess," he replies before bidding his brothers goodnight and escorting Naerys to her rooms in the Maidenvault.

As they take the stairs to her chambers, the elderly knight seems weary in a way that Naerys has never seen him look before. His breathing is labored and heavy by the time they reach her doors and his shoulders droop under the weight of an invisible burden. Naerys's heart aches fiercely to see it. The many years have taken their toll on her faithful Kingsguard.

"Are you well, Ser Harlan?" She voices her concern, stopping just outside of her room.

He gives her a wry smile that makes the wrinkles around his eyes more pronounced. "I fear that I've grown old, Princess. I am not as young as I used to be. Soon I won't be of much use to you as a knight."

Naerys shakes her head in protest. "You will always be of use to me as a knight."

Ser Harlan chuckles at that; a loud, booming sound that fills the corridors with warmth. "Even when I cannot climb the stairs because my bones ache or when my ears start to grow silver hairs out of them?"

Naerys laughs too as she looks up at him. "Even then," she promises sincerely.

Ser Harlan's gaze goes misty at her words and Naerys pretends not to notice. Her hands find his and she clasps them gently. The knight squeezes in return, casting his eyes downwards to hide the emotion on his face. "Goodnight, Princess," he says gruffly, voice thick with feeling before letting go.

"Goodnight, Ser," Naerys replies, waving as he leaves.

He stops at the end of the corridor. "I'll see you in the morning," he adds, giving her one last smile, and Naerys nods.

"In the morning," she echoes, before he disappears down the corridor and a new knight comes to take his post at her door.

But when morning comes, Naerys awakens to the news that the Stranger had visited in the night and that Ser Harlan is dead. Her knight had passed in his sleep, embracing death peacefully at the end of his many years.

It feels like a punishment to Naerys, who watches the Silent Sisters prepare his body and lay painted funeral stones atop his eyes. Naerys wonders if she somehow has displeased the gods and if that displeasure has led them to take Ser Harlan from her. She wonders what else they will take from her next.

With her brother gone, her knight dead, and her mother a prisoner in her own keep, Naerys Targaryen has never been quite so alone in the world.

It's a terrible thing.

AUTHOR'S NOTES.

i don't really know what to say here but howdy 🤠 and i hope you enjoyed chapter one! please feel free to share your feedback and thoughts 💭 as i would love to hear them. i am hoping to have chapter two up 🔜 but please let me know if you guys prefer updates on a schedule or would rather they be sporadic/posted as soon as possible with no schedule. as always, thank you for reading! see you all in chapter two ❕

chapter layout credits to noa 🫶