°. *₊ ° . ☆ ☾ CHAPTER FOUR ☽ °: . *₊ ° .°
GOODBYE

   THE SKIES WERE COVERED IN DEEP BRUISE-COLOURED clouds and rain battered against the stones of the Red Keep. In the past two days, Rhaenerys Targaryen kept between her room and Septa Morelle's room, where she continued her lessons. Her fingers were stained with ink in one moment then with a spot of blood when she accidentally struck herself with a needle while finishing her recent embroidery. 

   Septa Morelle would put down her own embroidery and sigh. "You have to be careful, Princess," she said with a shake of her head. "You want to wield a sword, but how can you do that when you cannot even hold a needle?"

   Rhaenerys closed her hand around the piece of cloth she tried to embroider, staining the white with her blood. "A sword is different than a needle, Septa." 

   "And now you're staining it!" Septa Morelle grabbed the embroidered handkerchief from her hands and held it up in the air to look at the stain. It was a small red dot at the side of a terribly embroidered butterfly. Barely visible in the short distance between them. "Princess Rhaenerys, do you know how difficult it will be to get this stain out?"

   Rhaenerys shrugged her shoulders. "You can throw it away." She looked down at the basket Septa Morelle had at the side of her chair, full of colourful threads and needles she used to create countless embroideries that were stored in a wooden trunk at the side of the room. Several of those threads had created pieces of her dresses she found most beautiful. The septa had a still hand that created countless beautiful things that adorned dresses and handkerchiefs, but Rhaenerys did not have the same steady hand or the patience to create such things.

   She did not want to be stuck inside Septa Morelle's room, embroidering a piece of fabric no one would see or touch. What she wanted was to climb atop the Cannibal and fly above the clouds, where not even the rain could touch her. She wanted the hint of freedom the birds had, but that would be a lie. Not even birds had freedom. 

   Her mother kept songbirds in a golden cage in her room. She admired the birds, hummed to them as she sewed and fed them seeds to stare at them as they ate from her hand. Did they desire the freedom other birds had? Rhaenerys wondered if they too stared out the window of the room and wanted nothing more but to fly high above the clouds, where nothing could touch them. 

   "I will not throw it away!" Septa Morelle sighed and laid the handkerchief on top of the table at the other side of the room. "That is all right. We can get this bit of blood off with a bit of lemon juice and sunlight."

   "Lemon juice and sunlight?" Rhaenerys stared at the septa with her face scrunched up.

   She nodded. "When you become older, princess, you will come to understand that we women know several ways to get rid of bloodstains."

   Rhaenerys's eyes opened wide. "Have you killed someone, Septa Morelle?" she asked, her mouth falling into a wide O. "Is that why you know how to get rid of blood from clothes?"

   "Princess!" The septa's laugh echoed throughout the room, followed by thunder that echoed against the stones and lightning that was as bright as the fire that lit the room. "No, sweet thing, I have not killed anyone. You see, when girls become older, there comes a time where—"

   The doors to the room were pushed open and Lady Aemma Arryn entered with a tear-stricken face. Her silver hair was held up with pearl pins and coral beads, a set Rhaenerys had wanted nothing more but to put on her own hair when she was old enough. The coral beads were prettier than the pearls, she always thought, a contrast against the silver colour of her mother's hair and the paleness of her skin.

   Septa Morelle stood and bowed. "My lady!"

   Aemma shook her head and moved closer to the septa, grabbing her hands. Her mouth moved but no sound came out. 

   Septa Morelle's mouth fell open. "No. . ." She shook her head and gripped Aemma's hands tighter, raising them up and pressing them to her chest. "Oh, my lady, I am sorry!"

   "What happened?" Rhaenerys stood and came closer to the women, looking up at them with raised brows. "Why are you sad, Mother?"

   Aemma wiped her eyes and knelt in front of her, laying her hands on her arms and pushing a smile on her face. "Sweetling," she breathed, as if the word was hard to push out. She sniffed and swallowed hard, pushing down whatever it was that was stuck in her throat. "Your grandfather. . ." Her eyes wandered everywhere in the room, never on her. 

   "My grandfather?" Rhaenerys tilted her head to the side. "Is Grandfather Baelon all better now? He said he would come with me to the dragonpit so he could teach me a trick when we flew!"

   Tears welled up in the corner of Aemma's eyes, falling down her cheeks over and over again. There was no stop to them. "No, sweetling, I'm afraid your grandsire will not be able to fly anymore." She reached for her hair and gently brushed her fingers through it, untangling the few tangles she had mustered in half a day. "Baelon was not able to make it through his sickness, Rhaenerys."

   Her heart began to hammer against her chest. Her breath felt just as it did when she was high in the sky, thin and barely able to push inside her. "What do you mean?"

   Septa Morelle knelt by Aemma's side and grabbed Rhaenerys' hand. "Princess, Baelon has died."

   Lightning flashed from the windows, illuminating the room in a blinding-white light that overtook everything. For a small moment, nothing else could be seen. Everything was too bright. Thunder followed, booming against the stones like the roar of a dragon. It was the only sound she could hear. 

   It wasn't thunder. 

   Rhaenerys's mouth had let out a wail as she pushed her mother and Septa Morelle to the side and ran out of the room. She hurried toward the Tower of the Hand, pushing through the tiredness that overtook her and through the panic that rattled her insides.

   She wanted to stop for a moment and take a breath, wait for her mother to arrive and grab her hand so she could lead her. But, she couldn't. Her feet did not stop until she reached the guarded doors of the prince's room. One guard at each side, their faces stoic and bland with no memorable name at that moment, but they stopped her. They stepped into the centre, not allowing the princess to enter. 

   "I apologise, Princess Rhaenerys, but no one is allowed to enter the room," the one on the right said. "Grand Maester Runciter—"

   Rhaenerys used all of her strength to push the guard to the side, but he didn't budge. "Move!" she demanded. "Move to the side!"

   "I apologise, Princess Rhaenerys," he repeated. "I cannot allow you to enter the room—"

   "Get out of my way!" she screamed. Her voice was a lot like the thunder ricocheting against the stones of the keep. It sounded louder than it actually was. She stomped her foot on the floor and tried to push through the guards. When they didn't let her through, she began to hit them with whatever strength she had left inside of her, repeating "Let me through!" over and over again.

   "Princess!" One of the guards groaned as she hit them in whatever body part her hands reached. "Princess, we cannot—oof!" 

   She hit one of them between the legs. When he doubled over in pain and the other looked down at him in confusion, she opened the doors to the room and entered. 

   It was just as she remembered. The stone sconces on the wall and the fireplace were lit, all illuminating and warming the room; the tall drapes were open and the windows were ajar to let in fresh, humid air. The grand bed against the wall was unmade with the blankets thrown at every corner, and on top of the bed, something covered in a white blanket. Grand Maester Runciter stood at the other side of the bed. 

   "What—" He looked up from the mound that was covered and sighed to take a stand at the other side of the bed, blocking the mound and whatever else was on the bed. "Princess Rhaenerys, you cannot be in this room."

   "Where is my grandfather?" she demanded. Her eyes scanned the room, from the bit of rain that entered through the ajar window to the empty sofa in front of the fireplace. The only people in the room were her and the Grand Maester. "Where is Grandfather Baelon?"

   Grand Maester Runciter pressed his hands together in front of him and looked down at the floor. He was an old bald man with a big nose, with silver and copper links on the chain around his neck. "Princess Rhaenerys, you should leave this room and return to your parents."

   "Where. Is. My. Grandfather." Each word left her mouth like poison, slithering on the ground until it reached his ears. 

   The Grand Maester wondered how in the world a child held such a voice, how she held such hate in those mismatched eyes. He had only seen that type of fury in the deep violet eyes of Maegor Targaryen when he burned the Sept of Remembrance and his warriors cut down anyone who tried to run away. It was unmatched, as if anything in his path would burn with the breath of the dragon. 

   For a moment, he thought Rhaenerys' eyes would light him on fire and destroy him just as he was supposed to be killed when the Sept burned all those years ago. 

   Grand Maester Runciter cleared his throat. "Princess Rhaenerys," he said in the same tone he used in the novices he taught at the Citadel, "you cannot be in these chambers as I examine the body and find the cause of death for Prince Baelon. You need to leave."

   ───────✧★✧───────

   Her dress was devoid of colour, a black thing that was just as dark as the scales of the Cannibal. It felt rough against her skin, as if pins and needles were pushing against her with every movement that she made. Her head began to pound as they walked to a field near the Red Keep, where everything was wet from the rain that hadn't stopped falling for days. In the distance, there was a pyre with a mound tightly wrapped in white. Behind the pyre, King Jaehaerys with Vermithor. 

   The bronze dragon with great tan wings was a shapely thing with sharp teeth protruding from its mouth, and its eyes were two large circles the colour of the golden earrings her mother put on her. Beneath it, King Jaehaerys in black robes. His white hair was a contrast to everything, from the green fields and the purple skies to the dark wood beneath the mound. 

   A pyre, she had to remember. 

   Her dear grandfather died. He had been in pain for five days, and he died whilst in pain. She had overheard the guards saying how they heard the groans and moans from Prince Baelon as they stood watch, the constant pleading for help, and then silence. Grand Maester Runciter would give him milk of the poppy mixed with wine, and it was only then that silence would follow. 

   She saw Grand Maester Runciter stand by King Jaehaerys, his maester robes darkened by the rain that had fallen all morning. He stood straight and tall but still felt a head shorter than the king. 

   Aemma gave her hand a squeeze. "It will be all right," she said as she looked down at each of her daughters and gave them a small smile. "King Jaehaerys will say a singular word and then there will be heat for a moment."

   "Is King Jaehearys going to burn grandfather?" Rhaenerys asked, her eyes glancing up at the great dragon that stood before them. 

   "King Jaehearys is going to give Father a Targaryen funeral," Daemon said as he took a stand by his goodsister. "When we die, little bird, we are not entombed into the ground like the rest of the common folk. We burn."

   Death was something she had never thought about, though it surrounded the Red Keep like ghosts. It haunted the halls and called out for more. None listened. 

   Rhaenerys looked up at him and scrunched her nose. "Why?"

   Daemon looked down at her. "We are fire, Rhaenerys," he said, soft enough for only their small group to listen. "We are meant to burn."

   "I don't want to burn," Rhaenyra said, pushing herself closer to her mother's skirts.

   Aemma leaned down and gave her a kiss on the top of her head. "You won't. Your uncle just wants to give you a fright. Don't listen to him, Rhaenyra."

   A silence settled within the small party as King Jaehaerys stepped closer to the pyre. He laid a hand on the mound, closed his eyes, and looked down. A gentle breeze came through, bringing alongside it a drizzle that reminded her of fog. None stirred. Only Vermithor shook itself to get rid of the rain, but it appeared bored as it looked at each individual that stood in front of him and his rider. 

   Did Vermithor know what happened? Rhaenerys wondered if the dragon had an inkling that it stood before the man who would have been king—before her grandfather. 

   King Jaehaerys pulled his hand away from the body and took a step back.

   A septon she did not know stepped forward and raised a single hand in the air while the other was laid on the mound. "Father Above," he called out, "judge Prince Baelon Targaryen justly."

   The septon droned on about the prince. He spoke about the countless things he had done: how he was knighted at six-and-ten by Ser Rickard Redwyen at the tourney at Old Oak after he entered as a mysterious knight and then claimed the dragon Vhagar when he returned; how he married Alyssa Targaryen two years later and had three sons. How at only two-and-six Prince Baelon, along with his older brother Prince Aemon and King Jaehearys, ended the attempted invasion of the stormlands by Prince Marion Martell of Dorne, and how he avenged his brother by fighting Myrish exiles with the sword Dark Sister. 

   How he was named heir of the Iron Throne and Prince of Dragonstone mere months after losing his brother. 

   How he became Hand of the King at the beginning of the year and had helped King Jaehaerys. 

   Rhaenerys glanced at the king. He stood tall, the golden crown on his head the only colour on his person. Just as the time she saw him at the small council chamber, he was somber and frail and his clothes looked too big on him. She wondered if he would fall if the wind blew harder. 

   King Jaehaerys and Grand Maester Runctier moved away from the pyre, the latter to stand at the side of Prince Viserys. The king took a stand by the bronze dragon and he stood taller than he did before, his head held high and the breeze blowing his white hair behind him. His eyes were focused on the mound in front of him. 

   "Dracarys!"

   Vermithor's opened his mouth wide. The inside of his throat was as bright as the sun, a deadly and shimmering thing that spewed forth onto pyre.

   Rhaenerys felt the heat push onto her with a breeze. It was a lot like a summer's day, where even the air was hot and she wanted nothing more but to stay in the cool bath until her entire being was pruned. A shiver ran up her spine and she stepped closer to her mother's skirts. 

   Vermithor closed its mouth. 

   The pyre was aflame, the wood and the ground beneath it charred like the surroundings of the Dragonmont. A breeze blew, pushing forth everything from where her grandfather was. The air smelt like the cooked meat that was served for supper with something metallic underneath, like the very scent she had inhaled before she claimed the Cannibal. It pushed into her nostrils and made its way down her throat. 

   She covered her nose and mouth with her sleeve, hoping to smell the oils that had been pressed on her skin, but it was futile. The burned body of her grandfather was the only thing she could smell, the only thing she could taste. She wanted to turn around and vomit. 

   "It'll be over soon," her mother said. 

   From her other side, Daemon inhaled deeply. "This is the scent of House Targaryen," he said, a ghost of a smile around his lips.

   Rhaenerys did not like the scent of her House. She hated the way it clogged her throat, the way it made her feel like vomiting and crying at the same time. It was the first death she had witnessed, the first burning.

   The first of many.