ARC IV: THE SECOND DANCE OF DRAGONS
Chapter 57: The Fury of Rhaenys
POV: Princess Rhaenys Targaryen (304 AC)
Fury. Never in my entire life had I felt a fury so overwhelming, suffocating, and burning as the one consuming my very core at this exact moment. Yet, more than the rage making my Rhoynar blood boil like a pit of vipers under the midday sun, what truly bled deep inside my chest was the crushing weight of feeling betrayed by those who were supposed to be my safe haven.
I stride forward with long, heavy, echoing steps down the corridors of pale stone and marble in Sunspear. The warm, salty breeze of the Dornish sea, which once brought me comfort and childhood nostalgia, now served no purpose other than to suffocate me even further. I walk toward the great throne room where my uncle Doran Martell summoned me. He sent for me as if I were a child about to receive orders, but the truth is he owes me a colossal debt. And he will need to have flawless, perfect, and divine explanations to give me regarding what all this farce is and what he has been orchestrating behind my back while I served the Empire's interests.
To my right side, matching my swift pace with rhythmic strides that make the castle slopes vibrate, is Small Jon Umber. I look out of the corner of my eye at the young giant from the North who has escorted me since the day I set foot in these hot lands and ask:
— Are you ready, dear Jon?
Small Jon, who has absolutely nothing "small" about him other than the ironic nickname coined by his father in the North and who has always faithfully accompanied me in Dorne, adjusts the leather and steel straps of his heavy armor and replies with a broad, fierce, and utterly fearless smile:
— I was born ready, my princess.
To my left side, in absolute silence, the seasoned Ser Oswell Whent walks with the flawless posture of a Kingsguard veteran. When I look at him seeking confirmation, the old knight merely nods gravely, keeping his hand gripped tightly on the hilt of his sword.
Halfway there, as we round one of the archways opening to the water gardens, I run straight into my uncle Oberyn Martell and his wife, Ellaria Sand. Oberyn wears his usual calm, carefree smile upon seeing me approach with my guard:
— Good morning, Rhaenys.
— And what in the hells is good about the day your own family betrays you, uncle? — I shoot without hesitation, stopping a few paces from him with my hands clenched into fists.
Oberyn raises his hands in a placating gesture, losing a bit of his usual lightness:
— This must all be just a big misunderstanding, my niece...
I turn my body, place a hand on my hip, and stare into the depths of his dark eyes with pure disdain:
— Not even you believe that lie, uncle. Look around you. Where are Obara, Nymeria, and the other girls? Why are the courtyards empty of your daughters' presence?
Oberyn's smile vanishes instantly. He runs a heavy hand over his face, visibly perturbed and tense:
— I... I don't know where they are, Rhaenys. But Doran insists that the Aegon in the North is...
— Don't you dare finish that sentence! — I interrupt him, my voice as cold as a Northern blade. — Do you think that I, the Kingsguard, or my mother Elia wouldn't know the truth, uncle? I remember my father Rhaegar, even if in distant childhood memories. But anyone who saw my father alive for even a single second realizes on the spot how much my full brother, Aegon, who was raised at Barrow Hall with House Dustin, is the spitting and exact copy of Rhaegar's blood!
Without giving the slightest room for rebuttals or lame excuses, I push past him with my retinue. Oberyn exchanges a quick, worried look with Ellaria and begins following my steps down the hall.
As we approach the imposing oak doors of the throne room, the herald positioned at the threshold steps forward and opens his mouth to formally announce my presence. I do not give him that chance. I advance without slowing down and strike the chest of the door with a violent kick empowered by a magical surge. Both heavy wooden doors fly open with a monumental crash that echoes throughout Sunspear Castle.
The scene inside reveals a good portion of Dorne's high nobles occupying the side benches. In the center of the hall, before the dais, sits my uncle Doran Martell in his wheelchair, and beside him stands a man dressed in extravagant Golden Company attire, sporting the arrogant face of a messenger.
— Look at what a wonderful audience is gathered here today, isn't it, uncle? — I call out, my voice ringing sharp and clear through the stone pillars.
Doran adjusts himself in his wheelchair, maintaining his tired and stern expression:
— Yes... the nobles of Dorne are gathered here today to decide on something of extreme and vital importance for the future of our people.
— I don't know, uncle... to me it looks more like you are planning a shameful betrayal behind my back, that's what! — I march with firm steps to the base of the dais. — And who is this man with such an incredibly punchable face?
The fellow beside the wheelchair sports a posture so arrogantly puffed up that it stirs an absurd and immediate urge to beat his face until not a single tooth remains intact.
Doran clears his throat, attempting to maintain royal composure:
— He is the King's official messenger.
— Strange... he doesn't look remotely like a man from the North to be a messenger for King Robb Stark, or my half-brother, King Aemon! — I say with pure disdain in every syllable. — And for what disgusting reason would Gendry Baratheon be sending such an odd lackey here, uncle?
The messenger steps forward, unrolling a thick parchment scroll with ridiculous pomp:
— I am the messenger of the one true King of Westeros! I have brought a personal message from King Aegon VI for his sister, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen!
The man clears his throat and begins to read aloud pompously:
"I, Aegon, legitimate King of Westeros and Protector of the Realm, order you to come immediately to meet me at Storm's End and kneel before me, publicly recognizing me as your brother and sovereign. I perceive your refusal to come to meet me as a direct affront to my authority and a clear sign of rebellion. I ask that you see the truth and come join me, sister. From your dear King, Aegon VI of House Targaryen."
I look directly at Doran with evident disgust and revulsion:
— You want me to believe this bullshit, uncle? Was this the mindless idiocy you were secretly plotting behind my back?
Doran stares at me sternly, showing not the slightest shame:
— Your brother is the legitimate King, Rhaenys! Everyone already knows the truth... that impostor you defend in the North is just a bastard...
The insulting mention of my brother in the North makes my blood boil in pure rage. In an uncontrollable fit of anger, I extend my right hand forward. The water accumulated in the decorative jars around the hall erupts into the air under my elemental command, shaping itself into a highly pressurized liquid spear that shoots through the hall like a bluish lightning bolt.
The water spear strikes the headboard of the stone and wooden throne directly above Doran's head, exploding the structure into dozens of splinters that fly through the air. The impact causes the Dornish nobles to leap backward and my uncle's eyes to widen in pure shock and terror.
— By the bare minimum of decency, shame, and love you still hold for your family, do not finish that sentence, uncle! — I scream, my magical aura causing my dark hair to sway in the air. — For I swear by all the gods that exist in this world that I will kill you right there on your throne! You are a scoundrel of no measure who has no respect for your family, no respect for Dorne, and no respect for our ancestors!
Doran catches his breath with difficulty, wiping stone dust from his robes, and turns to the benches:
— Leave us alone, my lords. All of you, out now!
The Dornish nobles do not wait for a second warning. Terrified by the demonstration of magic and the crash, the lords scurry frantically out of the room, leaving only my retinue, my two uncles, Ellaria, and the damned Golden Company messenger in the hall, paralyzed with eyes as wide as saucers, looking alternately between me and the missing chunk of the stone throne.
— Why are you doing this, uncle? Why tarnish our family's honor so deeply? — I ask, my voice dropping to a dangerously low tone.
Before Doran can answer, the messenger breaks out of his trance. He looks at me with a voice that sounds more like a squeaking mouse than a man:
— My lady... and what is your answer?
I step up to him and spit directly into his face.
— That is my answer.
I see the man flinch in horror, bringing his hand up to wipe the saliva from his cheek.
— If you put that near your mouth, I swear to you I will kill you right here, and to hell with the laws against harming messengers!
That sends the man bolting out of the hall in sheer, blind terror. My uncle Oberyn lets out a sharp, amused laugh at the sight.
Now I turn my full attention back to Doran:
— Speak louder! — I demand with authority.
He raises his head, his voice heavy with an ancient, toxic bitterness:
— This is all Elia's fault! If Elia had returned to her real family in Dorne instead of going to prostitute herself in the North with those barbarians, everything would be fine! Aegon would have been raised here as a true king, and I wouldn't need this to fulfill my mother's wish!
The sharp sound of steel slicing through the air echoes clean through the hall. Before Doran can draw another breath, I draw the legendary Valyrian steel sword *Dark Sister* from its scabbard and point the dark blade directly at his throat. His honor guard panics and levels their spears toward me:
— If you speak of my mother like that again, I will have your tongue, uncle!
When one of the guards threatens to take a step toward me to intervene, a bronze spear cuts through the air and embeds itself violently into the stone floor right before the soldier's feet. It is Oberyn's spear. The Red Viper stares at his own brother with deep disgust and restrained fury:
— So that is what you think of our own blood, brother? I wonder to whom you would have sold Elia if she had made the mistake of coming here... In fact, I know perfectly well to whom you would have given Elia and her children: to Robert Baratheon! Because you are a damned coward who hides behind a false sense of family justice, but in truth, you only care about yourself!
Doran shoots back coldly, staring at Oberyn without blinking for a single second:
— People don't care about blood at the end of the day, brother; they only remember names in history! A hundred years from now, no one will care about the details or where anyone was raised. They will only remember that Aegon Targaryen, son of Elia, married Arianne Martell, and that my blood will be the new royal blood of Westeros!
Looking around and connecting the dots of that vile web, I finally understand the full extent of Doran's greed:
— So that is the disgusting reason why Arianne is missing from Sunspear along with the Sand Snakes?
Doran answers with a cold, smug smirk:
— Yes. And by now, Arianne must already be the crowned Queen in the South. And there is another piece of news you do not yet know because it is fresh: King Aegon has just claimed and tamed one of the Targaryen girl's dragons in Meereen! What greater proof that he has legitimate Valyrian blood do you need?
I laugh with absolute contempt and pity for such ignorance:
— I never doubted that boy had Targaryen blood in his veins, uncle... after all, the Blackfyres are a cadet house of my family!
— No one will care whether he is a Blackfyre or a pure Targaryen when he flies over Westeros raining fire and destruction upon his enemies! Including your masters in the North! — Doran shouts.
I give a mocking laugh, shaking my head:
— Don't be a fool, uncle. A small, young dragon like Viserion can do absolutely nothing against the military and mystical power of the Northern Empire.
Doran tilts his chin up with vanity:
— You may be powerful with your water tricks, Rhaenys... but such tricks are nothing against the living fire of a Valyrian dragon!
I am the one who laughs now, shaking my head in pure pity for that blind old man:
— You estimated the scale of the North's strength based on me, didn't you, uncle? I actually hope from the bottom of my heart that you did... Because I am a complete failure in the magical arts, uncle! Compared to my brothers, I am pathetic at it! And that is only comparing myself to my full brother, Aegon... if you compare my magic to the sorcery of my half-brother Aemon, I fall even shorter!
Doran narrows his eyes, his voice dropping to a dangerous, threatening tone:
— Will you fight against your own family because of those Northern bastards, niece?
— I will not fight against my family, uncle... I will fight alongside my true family! — I declare with pride and firmness. — I will join my brothers to slaughter the armies of that Golden Company bastard and pulverize anyone who dares stand beside him!
Doran shakes his head negatively:
— That is something I could not allow, my niece. I promised Aegon that you would meet him at Storm's End. Be a good girl and stop this useless rebellion.
I adjust my grip on the Valyrian steel hilt of *Dark Sister*. Behind me, Small Jon Umber, who had been silent throughout this entire confrontation, lets out a low, deep, rumbling laugh.
— And how do you plan to force me to do that, uncle? — I ask in a challenging tone.
— By force, if necessary, — Doran makes a hand gesture and his honor guard steps forward with spears at the ready. — Do not resist, princess.
— Don't worry... I won't, — I answer with a dangerous smile.
Ser Oswell Whent draws his sword with impressive speed, positioning himself at my side. But before the old knight needs to strike the first blow, Small Jon Umber lets out a loud laugh that echoes off the walls of the throne room.
In a swift, amazingly effortless movement, Jon scoops me up by the waist and places me sitting atop his broad shoulders as if I were made of straw. Then, the young Umber raises both arms in the air in a position identical to the giant emblazoned on his House's sigil.
And then, the power dormant in his blood awakens.
The runic matrices carved onto Small Jon's body begin to spark and glow with an incandescent blue. But the runes hadn't altered the blood of the North over millennia—after all, runic sorcery was a new and recent tool, created just a few years ago by Emperor Arawyn. What was happening there was the exact opposite: it was the very way of living, thinking, fighting, and enduring of the Northern people, shaped over centuries and millennia of winter and wildness, that had altered the bloodline of the Great Houses. The runes were merely the spark, the perfect key that finally awakened the ancestral magic that had always dwelt in the blood of Northern nobles. And the bloodline of House Umber, forged through ruggedness and living alongside giants, carried in its blood the mystical capacity for *Gigantification*.
Small Jon—who was already a colossal man—begins to grow rapidly before the terrified eyes of the Dornish guards. His muscles expand, his joints crack, and his bone structure dilates until he reaches nearly double his normal size. The high ceiling of the throne room suddenly feels close. And the truly terrifying detail of that transformation is that Jon loses absolutely no agility or mobility despite his giant size.
The captain of the guard advances with his spear, but Small Jon swings his massive arm toward the man. With a speed a creature of that size has no right to possess, the giant's fist strikes the guard full on. The force of the blow is so absurdly multiplied that the man isn't thrown backward: he simply explodes into a shapeless paste of blood, bone, and crushed armor against the floor.
Before the guard's blood hits the ground, I catch it midair with my elemental magic and use it to fire dozens of flying, razor-sharp blood blades against the other soldiers. At the same time, Ser Oswell Whent moves like the wind among the Dornish spearmen, slitting throats and piercing chests with surgical mastery.
In a matter of mere seconds, the only ones left in the hall are my retinue, my uncle Oberyn, Ellaria, Doran in his wheelchair, and the terrified messenger.
I glare at the old man in the wheelchair with a cold, unforgiving look:
— Doran Martell... you are no longer my uncle, and this is no longer my family. The next time we see each other, I will bring you that bastard's head for you to analyze up close, to see if you can find a single drop of Dornish blood in him!
With that, Jon grabs Ser Oswell by the collar of his armor with one hand, holds me securely on his shoulder with the other, charges against one of Sunspear's stone walls, breaking a massive hole in the structure with the impact of his giant body, and leaps from a height of several meters straight toward the harbor.
After a few leaps, he lands with enormous force on the wooden and stone dock, kicking up a colossal curtain of dust and stones. Once the dust settles, I see our imperial ship anchored just ahead in the blue waters.
Suddenly, we hear a disgusting, loud noise of someone completely losing control of his bowels right beside us. I look at the ground and see the Golden Company messenger huddled against a wooden crate, and from the unbearable stench emanating from his filthy trousers, I find the culprit for the noise.
I look at his now clean face and say:
— Good thing you wiped that off on your sleeve![1]
I approach the wretch, gather spit in my mouth, and spit right in his face again.
We climb aboard our vessel, which promptly casts off its moorings and sails away at high speed toward the North. Leaning over the stern railing, I ask Jon about what happened in the room after our spectacular exit.
Jon replies that Oberyn, after our departure, yelled furiously at Doran, calling him a madman, and stormed out, declaring he would rescue his daughters at any cost—after all, Doran had sent my uncle's daughters far away to keep them as political hostages and ensure Oberyn's silence.
Greed and the lust for power really can change a man... or perhaps my uncle Doran was always this petty, cold figure. After all, it was his plan from the very beginning for me to somehow seduce Arawyn, so he was always scheming something. But none of that matters anymore. Now, it is time to join my brothers, Aegon and Aemon, and claim that damned bastard's head!
[1] As if he actually did that.