°. *₊ ° . ☆ ☾ CHAPTER THREE ☽ °: . *₊ ° .°
MEMORIES

   KING JAEHAERYS TARGARYEN WAS AN OTHERWORLDLY MAN sitting on the largest seat at the end of the table. The sunshine blazed behind him from the tall windows to make him appear as if he shone, the whites of his hair almost gold, and the simple golden crown around his head was a lot like a halo. His pale violet eyes were focused on those who sat around him, on the words that left their mouths and the papers they pushed toward him.

   Their conversation was hard for Rhaenerys to follow, words and books that made no sense to her. They spoke about new edicts that would be pushed out in the oncoming days, about money owed to a bank in Braavos, about petty lords squabbling about lands. It was all nonsense. 

   She pressed her back against the wall and sneaked through the edge of the room. Her eyes were focused on the balcony on the other side of the room, right behind the sheer curtains that danced with the breeze. It was the highest place in the tower, where she could marvel at the entirety of King's Landing and perhaps a bit more of the kingdom her great-grandfather ruled for over fifty years. She enjoyed watching the birds that flew across the buildings, the few people she could see that moved between the streets like ants, the ships that dotted the sea and made rest at the harbour until it was their time to leave again. 

   A lively place.

   Rhaenerys had explored nothing of King's Landing. The streets and their people were a mystery to her, and she wanted nothing more but to explore each corner. Her grandfather had told her he would take her through the streets the next time they went to the dragonpit—through the Street of Flours to taste the sweets at the bakeries and through the Street of Steel where smiths had their forges. He told her about Aemon Targaryen and how the people of the capital adored him whenever he walked through the streets. 

   Whenever Baelon spoke of his late brother, his eyes became distant and memories fogged his mind.

  Rhaenerys did not understand the solemnness that became her grandfather whenever Aemon was mentioned. A mirror of the man she knew, as if he shrunk into himself and wanted to become as small as she. His words would falter and disappear, his arms would fall at his side, and all he did was frown at nothing. At something that no one else could see. 

   It would disappear in a moment. Baelon would smile at her as he picked her up, creating some tale to make her laugh so they could make their merry way to wherever they were headed. The godswood of the castle where they hid between the elms and the black cottonwood trees, imagined themselves as heroes of stories—she Rhaenys Targaryen and he Aegon the Conqueror—were her favourites. Wooden swords and shields loitered on the ground, a pale wooden stick she imagined as Meraxes and a shorter stick she pulled from one of the elms became a Valyrian steel sword. 

   The clear of a throat made Rhaenerys stop her movements. She was close to the entrance to the balcony, a reach away from opening the curtains and entering something new. 

   "Rhaenerys." Her name was called in an exhausted sigh.

   She turned her head to see King Jaehaerys staring at her. He had stood from the chair and faced her, age-spotted hands pressed together in front of him as his pale violet eyes focused on her. There were dark circles beneath his eyes. He was tall, taller than any of the men she knew, but his dark-coloured robes did not fit him as well as the others. It was as if he wore clothes that were too big for him.

   He raised his head to look down at her and raised a brow. "Rhaenerys," he repeated, "what are you doing here?"

   She swallowed hard and pressed herself harder against the wall, waiting for it to open and swallow her. Her mother and Septa Morelle had taught her what to do when addressed by the king, had told her multiple times how to curtsy and greet him. The moment he said her name, her lessons disappeared. She could not remember what she was supposed to do, how she was supposed to act, or the words that were supposed to leave her mouth.

   "Rhaenerys."

   She bowed as quickly as she could, her lessons a distant memory of her short life. "You. . ." What came next? "Your Grace!"

   King Jaehaerys inhaled deeply through his nose. "Rhaenerys," he said her name slow and careful, as if she had not understood it the first two times he said it, "what are you doing in the council chambers?"

   She pressed her lips together and glanced around the room. The council chamber for the king's small council was not part of the grand rooms decorated by countless treasures House Targaryen had accumulated throughout the years. It was a simple room flanked by a pair of Valyrian sphinxes and illuminated by stone sconces on the walls. Those walls were decorated with simple paintings of flowering trees, tapestries of dragons breathing fire into fields of green. Simple for a king that stood taller than the men she knew.

   "I have finished my lessons," she said with a nod. "I wanted to stand on the balcony like I have done with Grandfather Baelon."

   King Jaehaerys slowly moved toward the balcony with a wooden cane holding him upright. Sunshine fell on him like a blazing fire, making him appear more otherworldly than he was when she first entered the room. A man who did not belong on that balcony, looking down at the countless people under his rule with his head held high and the golden crown on his head shimmering like the gemstones around her uncle's fingers. 

   He reminded her of the heroes her mother read to her about, the Father Above the Faith held at their highest. 

   "You remind me of Alyssa." His voice was carried by the wind, a soft and gentle whisper that was almost inaudible. 

   It was a name she had heard before. Her grandfather had muttered the name whenever he looked at her, laying his hand on the top of her head and giving her a saddened smile. The name, Alyssa, would leave his mouth in a whisper.

   "Who is that?"

   "Alyssa is. . ." King Jaehaerys breathed in through his mouth. "Alyssa was my daughter. Baelon's wife. Your grandmother, Rhaenerys."

   "Father's mother?"

   "Yes, Viserys and Daemon's mother." He shrugged his shoulders back, his bones making a sound. "She had the same eyes as you. Mismatched eyes. One violet and the other green." He took a step closer to her, peering down at her with something she could not understand. "When she was your age, she broke her nose. It healed crooked."

   She reached up to touch her nose. Her nose had never been broken, from what she was aware of. When Rhaenyra threw a book toward her and it hit her face, she did bleed from her nose and a purple bruise began to form. The maester told her that it was merely a bruise, and recommended they stop throwing books in case either returned to his rooms with a worse condition. 

   The door to the council chambers flew open. 

   "Rhaenerys!" Viserys Targaryen stomped into the room with his Aemma Arryn trailing behind him. Daemon Targaryen walked in behind the pair with a splotch of red on the sleeve hem. The sword was nowhere on his body. 

   Viserys marched forward and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her behind him and bowing toward his grandfather. "Forgive us, Your Grace. We were not aware Rhaenerys decided to leave her lessons and play while you were with your council." His eyes focused on his the ground, unblinking.

   King Jaehaerys wove a free hand in the air. "There was no harm done, Viserys," he said. 

   The grip her Viserys had on her arm made her begin to pull away. "Father!" She gripped his hand and tried to pull herself away from his hold. The sleeve of her dress was pulled down until the buttons that held it together at the back of her neck snapped.

   "Rhaenerys!" Aemma hurried toward her daughter and knelt before her, covering her with her body. "Ser Myrcel, your cloak!" 

   The guard standing at the room's entrance alongside the Valyrian sphinxes pulled off his white cloak and handed it. His eyes glanced down at the princess, a frown evident on his face, and then he looked at Viserys. Something flashed through his eyes, anger or pity, but it disappeared as he turned around and gave the royal family his back in order to not stare. 

   A child did not deserve to be so humiliated. 

   The cloak was wrapped around her like a scarf, the ends trailing to the floor like the skirts of her dress. The white was a contrast to the sunshine yellow of her dress, a stain that made her stare up at her father with widened eyes. Heat rose from her neck and up to her face, tears prickled the edges of her eyes. She moved to stand behind her mother's skirts, peeking from the edge to stare at her father. 

   There was a silence in the room that made the distant echoes from the city below as loud as a dragon's roar.  

   King Jaehaerys cleared his throat. "Lady Aemma, you should take Rhaenerys to change her dress. It is indecent for a princess to be seen in such a way." He turned to face his grandson, head still held high. "Viserys, come with me. We must visit the Tower of the Hand and see how Baelon is faring."

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   All Aemma Arryn could do was stare out the window of Rhaenerys's room as the ladies scrambled about to change her dress. The one she had been wearing before had broken with the force she used to try to pull herself away from her father's grasp, the soft Myrish lace separated at the seams. 

   "My Lady," one of the ladies called to her, standing at her side with the yellow dress in her hand. "My Lady, I'm afraid it cannot be sewn together."

   Aemma grabbed the dress and stared down at the broken fabric. It had been one of the first dresses she and her eldest daughter had picked out together, the yellow fabric shimmering like gold when it was within the light and the Myrish lace an intricate touch. Both had loved the dress, the way Rhaenerys had spun when she put it on for the first time. Rhaenyra, seeing her sister in a beautiful dress, demanded one of the same. 

   Whenever Rhaenerys wore her yellow dress so did Rhaenyra. 

   Now, Rhaenerys had changed into one of her old soft pink dresses. There was no frown on her face, but a straight mouth and eyes staring back at herself from the mirror. Her arms rested at her side, like the guards that stood outside her door. 

   Aemma sighed and nodded toward her lady, handing the dress back. "If it cannot be saved, see if a similar one can be made."

   "Yes, my lady."

   Aemma moved toward Rhaenerys and stood behind her, staring down at her from the mirror. "Are you all right, sweetling?"

   Rhaenerys looked up at her mother, mismatched eyes staring at her mother's purple ones. "Did I do something wrong?"

   "What?" Aemma's heart stopped for a moment. She laid her hands on her shoulders and turned her around so she could look at her better. "What are you asking me?"

   There was no frown on her face, no sign of sadness, but pure confusion decorated her features. "Have I done something wrong?" she repeated. "Father was angry at me, but I didn't do anything wrong to make him angry!"

   Aemma laid a hand on her cheek and moved her thumb carefully, as if she wiped away an invisible tear that fell from her eyes. "No," she softly said, giving her a small and reassuring smile, "you have done nothing wrong. Your father. . ." She sighed and shook her head. "Your father does not understand that you are a child, and you are bound to do things that children do. He was too harsh on you, Rhaenerys. I apologise on his behalf."

   A frown began to form on Rhaenerys' face. "You should not apologise to me, Mother, because you did not break my dress."

   "You are a smart girl, Rhaenerys." Aemma's smile widened. She kissed her daughter's forehead and pulled her closer to her, hugging her as tight as she could. "Such a smart girl, but you are young. Forget about this accident and let us continue the day, yes?"

   Rhaenerys could not forget, no matter what her mother told her or the amount of times she apologised for her father's acts. He had gripped her arm hard, left behind a red mark in the shape of his hand, and had broken one of her favourite dresses because she had been in the presence of the king. After she pulled away from him, she saw his wide eyes and the shape of his mouth. Yet, he said nothing. He bowed his head toward his grandfather and followed after him, leaving her and her mother behind. The white cloak from Ser Myrcel had covered her instead of something from him. 

   He could have taken his tunic off and propped it around her. He could have knelt before her and quickly apologised for the way he grabbed her arm, the way his hand tightened and left behind a mark. Anything. 

   "Yes, Mother," she told Aemma with a nod. 

   Rhaenerys Targaryen could not forget. It would appear in her mind every moment her father, Viserys Targaryen, looked at her.