Chapter Text
Rhaenyra"s POV
Catherine and Jasmine worked deftly, their fingers nimble as they fastened the fine fabric of her dress, while Elinda combed through her hair, weaving it into a crown of intricate braids. Layla and Sillas hovered nearby, carefully laying out the jewelry—a glint of gold here, a flash of gemstone there. The chamber buzzed with quiet industry, the soft rustle of silks and murmured instructions a counterpoint to the cool mountain air drifting through the open windows.
The lords and ladies of the Vale had arrived the day prior, greeted with a modest feast to tide them over until the grand banquet tonight. From lands more distant came the envoys of Yi Ti and Pentos, their banners unfamiliar against the gray skies of the Eyrie. Escorted to the Eyrie by her uncle, who had waited at the harbor for two days to greet them with proper honor.
The heavy oaken door creaked open, and in swept Jeyne, her young cousin swept inside like a summer breeze.
“Sister Nyra, you must see my dress!” she cried, spinning before the assembled ladies. The dress was a delicate blue, like the pale sky before dawn, trimmed with white lace at the collar. Fine embroidery adorned it—flowers and creeping vines in soft silver thread, catching the light with each movement. She twirled again, and the fabric flared, swirling about her ankles like rippling water.
“Am I not beautiful?” Jeyne asked, tilting her head in a way that made the women smile, their faces softening at the sight.
The girl had known tragedy early, losing both her parents while still too young to grasp the weight of such loss. Jeyne reminds her of her children Aegon and Visery, too young to lose a parent"s embrace, just like Jeyne. It was their aunt Amandla who had raised her in their stead, though the girl"s days were often marked by loneliness, her only company the servants who saw to her needs. When she first arrived at the Eyrie, shy and unsure, the bond between them had been tentative. Yet time, like a gentle stream carving through stone, had softened those barriers. To Rhaenyra, Jeyne was more than a cousin—she was a sister.
"But of course, not as beautiful as you, dear Rhaenyra," Jeyne teased as she stepped closer, wrapping her arms around her in a warm embrace.
Rhaenyra chuckled softly, running her fingers through the girl’s fine hair. “Flatterer. But something is missing…”
She turned toward her chest of jewels, lifting its heavy lid to reveal treasures that shimmered in the dim light. After a moment"s pause, she selected a pair of earrings—small diamonds set in gold, simple yet exquisite. She returned to Jeyne and knelt, studying her as one might a portrait in need of its final stroke.
“These will do,” Rhaenyra murmured, fastening the earrings to Jeyne’s ears with delicate care. The diamonds caught the light as they settled, gleaming like stars in a winter sky.
“There,” she said, her voice soft. “Now you are perfect, my dear Jeyne.”
Jeyne smiled, her fingers brushing against the earrings as though to ensure they were real. “I love you, cousin,” she said, her voice as tender as a whispered prayer.
“And I, you,” Rhaenyra replied, standing to kiss the girl’s forehead. “Now run along before the others begin to wonder where you are. Let them see you shine.”
After readying herself, she and her aunt awaited at the grand doors of the Eyrie to welcome the envoys from Yi Ti and Pentos.
The delegation from Yi Ti was led by Dowager Empress Han, a woman of sixty-eight years whose hair had turned a regal shade of silver with age. Her locks were swept into an elaborate bun, secured with delicate YiTish hairpins shaped like blooming lotuses. She wore a flowing dress gown of fine silk, its wide sleeves and long hem embroidered with intricate golden patterns of cranes and clouds. Beneath the skirts, a glimpse of high-heeled boots bespoke a practicality that belied her grace. The air around her was one of quiet authority and wisdom, earned over decades of rule and survival.
Her retinue was formidable: thirty knights clad in lacquered armor, twenty servants, and seven handmaidens, their presence alone a testament to her power. Behind them, carts carried chests filled with seeds—gifts intended to help the Vale’s barren lands bloom anew.
Trailing the Yi Ti envoy came the carriages of Pentos, led by Prince Reggio himself. The man, aged thirty-two, stepped down from his gilded carriage with the ease of one accustomed to wealth and power. His dark brown hair and beard were immaculately groomed, and he wore a loose-fitting golden-yellow tunic of many layers, its brocade shimmering like sunlight on water. Around him moved a retinue of fifteen guards, three concubines dressed in Pentoshi silks, and ten servants. His gifts were no less generous: crates of supplies for the water channels and panes of glass meant for the construction of greenhouses.
She and her aunt inclined their heads deeply as they greeted Dowager Empress Han. “Dowager Empress, we are honored by your presence,” her aunt said warmly. “I trust your journey was a pleasant one.”
The empress smiled faintly, her sharp eyes gleaming as though measuring their worth. Before she could reply, Prince Reggio’s voice rang out, loud and unceremonious.
“There’s no need for all this fuss over an old woman,” he teased, stepping to the empress’s side. “She’s still as lively as ever.”
She observed the exchange with quiet curiosity. Prince Reggio’s casual familiarity with the empress was surprising, though not unwelcome. She had heard the stories from her uncle: years ago, Reggio had saved the life of Han Xì, the empress’s son and now King of Yi Ti, during an ambush in Pentos. Back then, Reggio had been little more than a minor noble, but the favor he had earned from Yi Ti had elevated him to the title of Prince of Pentos.
Her motives, however, were far removed from their histories or ambitions. She had no intention of leveraging these alliances to reclaim a throne. She had seen too clearly how that chair of swords had devoured her husband and her children, one by one, leaving nothing but ash and grief. This was not about power, not in the way the crown might see it. This was about survival, about ensuring that the Vale could stand on its own, untethered from the whims of Kings Landing. The seeds from Yi Ti, the tools from Pentos—they were not symbols of submission or ambition but of resilience.
She had learned, painfully, that relying on others led only to disappointment. And disappointment was a luxury she could no longer afford.
“Reggio remains as insolent as ever,” Dowager Empress Han remarked, seizing the man’s ear between her fingers with a firm yet amused tug. The prince merely chuckled, entirely unbothered, before wrapping the empress in an affectionate embrace.
“Forgive this boy’s lack of manners,” the old woman said with a wry smile, her gaze shifting to meet hers.
“I’ve always wondered about the sort of woman who could persuade a miserly prince to part with thousands of gold dragons,” the empress continued, her voice warm and edged with playful curiosity as she stepped closer. “Beautiful. You have an eye for choosing a fine bride, Daemon,” she added with a teasing glint in her eyes.
“You’re only just now realizing?” her uncle quipped as he dismounted his horse.
“I pity you, truly,” the empress said, turning her focus back to Rhaenyra. “A woman as lovely as you, doomed to spend her days shackled to such a scoundrel. I’ve a son your age, if you’re looking to trade up,” she added, entirely ignoring the sharp look Daemon shot in her direction.
Rhaenyra stifled a laugh, finding herself unexpectedly entertained by the exchange. “I’m deeply flattered, Dowager Empress Han,” she replied smoothly, “but I fear it’s far too late to annul the betrothal now.” Her tone carried a hint of jest, earning her a knowing smile from the older woman.
Daemon, ever unamused by such jests at his expense, stepped to her side and gave her a light pinch on the cheek. “Careful,” he murmured with a pointed look, though his lips twitched in something that might have been amusement.
“You’ll need to teach that man some manners,” the empress said, directing an exaggeratedly disapproving glance at Daemon. “He’s as uncouth as his companion, Reggio.”
Daemon merely rolled his eyes at the remark, though Rhaenyra caught the faintest twitch of a smirk at the corner of his mouth.
When the formalities of greeting were complete, Rhaenyra took on the role of introducing Dowager Empress Han and Prince Reggio to the gathered nobility of the Vale. The welcoming celebrations began in earnest.
The festivities opened with a theatrical performance recounting the storied history of the Vale, followed by music and dances that set the hall alive with color and sound. On the second day, a grand hunt was arranged, where hawks soared and hounds raced across the lush hills. The final day culminated in a splendid feast and a lively ball, the kind where alliances were forged over cups of wine and whispered words.
From her seat of honor, she observed the revelry. The lords and ladies of the Vale mingled with their guests from distant lands, while Dowager Empress Han and Prince Reggio appeared to be thoroughly enjoying the music, the rich fare, and the entertainment laid before them. She noted with satisfaction that the empress, sharp-eyed and slow to praise, seemed genuinely impressed by the Vale’s offerings. For now, at least, everything was proceeding as planned.
Daemon rose from his seat with an air of practiced ease, as if the weight of the hall’s attention was no more than a feather on his shoulders. His steps were deliberate, his gaze fixed on her with a mix of mischief and purpose. When he reached her, he extended his hand, the corners of his mouth curving into a smirk that hinted at both charm and trouble. “Betrothed,” he said softly, his voice carrying the kind of confidence that could both comfort and unsettle, as he pressed her hand to his lips in a fleeting gesture.
Before she could respond, his hand found its way to her waist, drawing her into the dance with a commanding surety. The music shifted, a lilting melody weaving through the hall as the assembled nobles watched the two of them with wide eyes.
“I didn’t know you could dance so well, Uncle,” she teased, her tone light and playful.
“There’s much you don’t know about me, betrothed,” Daemon replied, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“I can hardly wait to uncover it all,” she said, leaning into the game as they moved in perfect rhythm.
Daemon’s grip tightened ever so slightly, pulling her closer. The air between them seemed to hum with unspoken words, and for a fleeting moment, she thought he might kiss her again, as he had that night beneath the stars. But instead, his lips brushed the shell of her ear, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“We have a lifetime to learn each other’s secrets,” he murmured, his gaze locking with hers as their foreheads touched, a gesture as intimate as it was unorthodox.
“A lifetime,” she repeated softly, her breath mingling with his.
“Until the end of our story, Rhaenyra,” he murmured, his voice low and laced with a promise that was as intoxicating as it was unyielding. It was neither question nor plea but a declaration, binding as any oath sworn before gods or men.
The festivities continued well into the night, with the Vale’s lords and ladies singing praises of the feast. It was said, in hushed tones of admiration, that no celebration in recent memory could compare to the one hosted by her, Rhaenyra Targaryen.
As the meeting progressed, her resolve deepened. She was not rebuilding the Vale for conquest or ambition. She had seen what the Iron Throne could do, how it devoured her father, her husband, and her children. No, her purpose was simpler but no less powerful: to create something enduring, something unyielding to the whims of kings and crowns. She would make the Vale a realm that could stand alone, where disappointment had no place, and where every seed sown was a promise of a brighter future.
Dowager Empress Han also brought with her several fruit seeds, including melon and watermelon. Prince Reggio explained the use and construction of water pipes, which not only provided clean drinking water but also served for cooking, bathing, and various other needs. He also elaborated on the use of glass, which he had brought for the construction of greenhouses.
In the span of three moons that Prince Reggio and Dowager Empress Han resided in the Vale, remarkable changes took root. The construction of a grand glasshouse was undertaken, and, owing to a wealth of laborers, the structure was completed in less than a moon’s turn. The soil across the Vale was tested for cultivation, and after extensive trials, rice was successfully planted in the vast fields that stretched across nearly every region. Alongside the rice, seeds for melons and watermelons were also planted. By the time Prince Reggio and Dowager Empress Han returned to their lands, the harvest had already begun—rice, watermelon, and melon were ready to be reaped.
The harvested rice was turned into stored grains, carefully preserved in warehouses throughout the Vale in preparation for the coming winter. The irrigation system functioned perfectly, and, at Prince Reggio’s suggestion, Her aunt took action to build two public bathhouses in each of the Vale’s regions. This move, inspired by the Prince"s counsel, was aimed at improving hygiene, as it was believed that many of the common folk suffered from illness due to poor sanitation.
It was Dowager Empress Han who introduced the Vale to a strange object called ‘soap.’ In her distant land of Yi Ti, both nobles and common folk used it when they bathed, unlike the oils or milk favored by the Westerosi nobility. The empress explained with authority that while oils and milk merely perfumed the skin, soap cleansed it.
When she used the soap herself, it foamed and bubbled, covering her skin in a fragrant lather. As the maids rinsed her, she noted how her flesh felt lighter, less burdened by the stickiness of oils. The scent lingered, fresh and clean. Word of this curious invention spread quickly among both the lords and smallfolk of the Vale. Soon, soap was distributed widely, and sold at modest prices so even the poorest could afford it. Its popularity spurred the opening of new trades, and four types of labor were introduced across the Vale.
The first was farming. With the discovery that rice could flourish in the Vale’s soil, the Lady opened the lands to cultivation. Thousands of smallfolk, many who had once roamed the roads as beggars or vagrants, flocked to the fields. For these workers, small homes were erected near the paddies, granting them shelter and proximity to their labors. The farmers were paid sixty silver coins and fifteen bronze each moon—a fair wage for honest work.
The second job sector created was for bathhouse attendants and cleaners. Each region now boasted two bathhouses: one for men and one for women and children. These bathhouses were designed with three floors. The first and second floors were dedicated to the bathing rooms, each with seven separate stalls. The top floor was reserved for the workers" quarters. Many widows with children sought work at the women"s bathhouse, while orphaned boys, too old to remain in the orphanages, filled the ranks of the men’s bathhouse. The workers were paid fifty silver coins and eight bronze coins for each moon of service.
At Daemon"s suggestion, a new labor sector was established for the collection and disposal of waste. The waste depot was conveniently situated near the farmlands. According to Dowager Empress Han, household waste, which was often foul-smelling and considered worthless, could be transformed into something called "manure," a substance that enriched the soil and made plants grow all the more fertile. Daemon, who had traveled far and wide, had seen many lands, but he praised Yi Ti for its rich vegetation, placing it high on his esteem—though not as high as the history of his own family, it was still a place of great reverence. At each waste collection post, five open carts made of Redwood were stationed. These carts were used to transport refuse from the homes to the depot, where it was converted into manure. The workers were paid forty silver coins and twenty bronze coins for each moon of labor.
The third labor sector was the guardianship and distribution of rice. The warehouse, located in the heart of each region, was known as ‘The Mother Provides.’ The structure itself housed thirty workers, a mix of orphaned girls who could no longer stay in the orphanages, and elderly people without homes, tasked with sewing the rice storage sacks. Street children, desperate for work, were employed to transport the rice to shops, the Sept, and the orphanages. The beggars who wandered the streets, having no place in the fields, were put to work in the warehouse. The workers were paid forty silver coins and ten bronze coins each moon.
The final sector of work was the soapmaking trade. This was her idea. The soap production building was located beside the bathhouse, and the two buildings were even connected. She and her aunt had decided to name the buildings after the gods of the Faith of the Seven. The bathhouse was dubbed ‘The Maiden’s Bath House,’ the soapmaking building was named ‘The Fragrance of the Maiden,’ and the warehouse was named "The Mother Provides." All the buildings were blessed and consecrated by the Septon. At first, she and Daemon were opposed to this—neither of them had any desire to appear as though they were pandering to the Faith—but after a lengthy conversation with dowager empress Han, she changed her mind and agreed to the consecration.
It was the last day Dowager Empress Han and Prince Reggio would spend in the Vale. The construction of the bathhouses, soap-making houses, homes for the farmers, and storage warehouses had begun in earnest. She and Dowager Empress Han sat together in the garden, a faint autumn breeze stirring the leaves around them.
"Do you ever think about taking the throne back?" the Empress asked bluntly, her sharp eyes never leaving her face. "I hear your dragon and Daemon"s is the only one still awake. You could take it back if you truly wanted."
She took a slow sip of her tea, her gaze distant, the weight of the question hanging between them like a cloud. "Westeros isn’t ready for a queen," she said flatly. "They’d burn me alive before I ever set foot on that throne."
The woman considered her for a moment, the silence heavy with thought. "When your uncle sent word, I thought he sought soldiers for a war to reclaim your crown. You have my word, I would have given them to him—Daemon is family. But when I heard what kind of alliance you were proposing, I was… surprised." She paused, her eyes narrowing as she studied her. "But I think it was the right choice. Keep building your power, Princess. Let them see what they’ve turned their backs on. The throne will come to you in time—if you still want it."
She set her teacup down with a soft clink. Her eyes, as cold and sharp as Valyrian steel, fixed on the Empress. "I fear the nobility of Westeros will never change. Even if I show them my strength, my wit, and my will if I don’t have a cock between my legs, it will all count for nothing," she said, her voice low but filled with bitterness.
Dowager Empress Han smiled faintly, her eyes dark with the wisdom of years lived in the shadows of power. "The thoughts of lords and ladies are often veiled in shadow, their intentions a maze near impossible to navigate. But the hearts of the common folk are no such riddle. Give them a crust of bread when their bellies ache with hunger, and they will look upon you as a savior. Show them virtue, and they will see you as a god. If you seek true strength, do not place all your faith in the alliances of the nobility. Instead, make yourself a god in the eyes of the smallfolk. For before the swords of the lords can reach your neck, the people will rise, and they will tear your enemies apart in your name."
Her words hung in the air like a silent command, and Rhaenyra listened intently, her expression unreadable.
The stories of how Dowager Empress Han had fought to preserve her throne after the death of her husband—and protect young King Han Xì—were well known, etched into the annals of history. They spoke of a day when the streets of Yi Ti ran red with the blood of nobles and knights. Not at the hands of soldiers or swords, but from the fists of the smallfolk. It began at dawn when the bells did not toll for prayer but for warning. The Dowager Empress, radiant and just, had been betrayed. The very guards who had sworn to protect her had conspired to deliver her into the hands of her enemies. Armed men had stormed the palace, dragging her from her throne, shackled as an example to all who dared challenge their power.
The news spread like wildfire—that she would be taken—and the smallfolk rose as one. The bakers abandoned their ovens, the butchers left their stalls, and the blacksmiths halted their hammers. From the docks came fishermen, armed with nothing but sticks and clubs, and from the alleys emerged beggars wielding knives. They poured into the streets like a flood, a river of anger and devotion.
The knights arrived in gleaming armor, their banners high, their arrogance even higher. They believed they could quell the tide of rage with the flash of steel and the thundering of hooves. But the people did not falter. They surged forward, overwhelming the first ranks of the soldiers with sheer numbers. The knights, masters of their craft, could not match the fury of the men and women who fought not for coin, not for creed, but for love.
They dragged the knights from their saddles, trampling them underfoot. A baker crushed a helm with his bare hands; a seamstress drove her shears into the throat of a woman who had once been a noble. The cobblestone streets ran slick with the blood of the aristocracy, yet still, the people cheered her name, their voices a chorus of defiance.
When the battle ended, the streets were littered with the corpses of her enemies, their banners torn and trampled beneath the feet of the people. The smallfolk carried their Empress back to the palace. She had won, not by the swords of nobles, but by the hands of the lowborn.
“Princess, you are a dragon, and dragons inspire awe. But fear alone will not win you the throne. Power rooted solely in fear will crumble, like a castle built on sand. You must be more than just a queen to these people. You must become their goddess,” the woman spoke again.
She raised an eyebrow, her violet eyes reflecting the flickering light of the fire. “A goddess? The common folk in the Vale worship the Septon and their Faith. What use am I to them?”
The Dowager Empress smiled a patient and understanding smile. “The gods of old are silent, child. The people pray, but it is your hands that can lift them from despair. A goddess is not born from temples or texts. She is forged in the hearts of her people. You must make them see you not as a woman, not as a highborn lady, but as something eternal, untouchable. But, for precaution, you should also create an image in the eyes of the Faith.”
“The Faith, Dowager Empress Han?” she asked, confused.
“Faith with too much power is like a sword with two edges—one side can cleave through your enemies, but the other will wound you just as deeply if your hand falters. A wise person knows it is better to make the Faith believe they stand with you than to risk standing as their enemy. Let them spread your name in their septs, let them see your deeds as blessings from the Seven, and they will fight for you. Faith is a weapon of belief, not steel, and those who wield it must understand: faith strikes hardest when it believes it acts in service, not in defiance,” she said.
