AN: Sorry guys, I've been in the hospital for health reasons and didn't have the chance to update… I honestly don't know when I'll be creating new chapters in the future but I will update the rest I have saved.
I love the character Rhaella. She's strong in many different ways that most people aren't. And I know for a fact, that if I was in her shoes….you better bet I ain't staying in the land of the living for that long.
RHAELLA
Queen Rhaella Targaryen stood at the window of her solar, watching dark clouds gather over Blackwater Bay. A storm was coming—not just the one brewing over the choppy waters, but the one building within the Red Keep itself. She could feel it in the air, in the hushed conversations that stopped when she approached, in the careful way the servants moved about their duties with downcast eyes.
Aerys was getting worse.
Over the past few years, her husband had changed. The dreams had started it—vivid visions of fire and glory that left him sleepless and fevered. At first, she had attributed his increasingly erratic behavior to simple exhaustion. But as months became years, it became clear that something more fundamental was transforming within him.
The man she had married—proud and temperamental but essentially rational—was disappearing day by day, replaced by someone whose moods shifted like quicksilver and whose cruelty emerged with increasing frequency. The prophetic dreams had twisted his ambitions, convincing him that greatness required purification through fire, that opponents must be cleansed rather than merely defeated.
Today had been particularly troubling. Reports had reached court of a minor uprising in a village near Rosby. The details were sparse, but it appeared to be little more than a tax dispute that had escalated when an overzealous collector had mistreated a local woman. Such matters were typically handled by local lords without royal involvement.
But Aerys had seized on the incident, declaring it the beginning of a broader conspiracy against the crown. He had ordered the entire village razed as an example, with the residents brought to King's Landing for public execution.
It was madness, of course. Even Tywin Lannister, normally adept at finding diplomatic middle ground with the king's more extreme impulses, had struggled to moderate the response. The Hand had managed to reduce the punishment to only the "ringleaders"—three farmers whose main crime appeared to be speaking too loudly in the village tavern.
The men had been brought to King's Landing and thrown in the black cells to await the king's justice. And that justice, Aerys had declared, would be delivered by dragonfire.
Which meant Thalor and Nightfury.
Rhaella closed her eyes briefly, steeling herself against the memory of her husband's face as he had announced this decision—his violet eyes fever-bright, spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth as he expounded on the symbolic power of reminding the realm what happened to those who defied the dragon.
"The dreams have shown me," he had whispered to her in their private chambers the night before, a feverish intensity to his words. "Fire is the purifier. Fire is how we reclaim our true power. The dragons of old didn't negotiate with their enemies—they burned them. And the realm knew peace under their shadow."
These prophetic dreams had become Aerys's obsession, the lens through which he interpreted every challenge to his authority. What had begun as occasional nightmares about ice and darkness from the North had transformed into a complex tapestry of visions that he believed revealed the path to Targaryen restoration. And increasingly, that path was lined with flames.
Her second son had been summoned to court immediately, called from his workshop where he had been testing improvements to the city's water filtration system. Thalor had appeared promptly, still in his work clothes, smudges of graphite on his fingers from the drafting table. At ten, he was growing taller, his face losing some of its childish softness, though his unusual green eyes remained as striking and perceptive as ever.
Aerys had explained his command with the grandiose certainty that now characterized his pronouncements, clearly expecting immediate compliance. After all, Thalor had always been his favored son, the "twice-born prince" who had fulfilled his prophecies by hatching a dragon.
But the king had not anticipated Thalor's response.
"No, Father," the boy had said quietly but firmly. "I will not use Nightfury to execute prisoners."
The silence that had fallen over the throne room had been absolute.
Even the most seasoned courtiers had held their breath, stunned by the direct refusal. No one said no to Aerys Targaryen—not anymore, not since his dreams and ambitions had consumed the more rational aspects of his personality.
For a moment, the king had seemed too shocked to respond, his mouth working silently as he processed this unprecedented defiance. Then his face had darkened with rage.
"You dare refuse your king?" he had hissed, rising from the Iron Throne. "Your father? The blood of the dragon?"
Thalor had stood his ground, neither challenging nor retreating, his young voice steady despite the danger. "Nightfury is not a tool for execution, Father. His fire is meant to protect the realm, not to be used as a spectacle against farmers who spoke unwisely."
It had been the wrong thing to say—or rather, the right thing said to the wrong man in the wrong state of mind.
Aerys had erupted in a tirade about ungrateful sons and treasonous subjects. Spittle had flown from his lips as he screamed about the need for fire and blood to purify the realm of those who would challenge the dragon's authority.
When he had ordered the Kingsguard to seize Thalor and "teach him obedience," Rhaella had finally intervened, stepping between her husband and son with a courage born of maternal instinct.
"My love," she had said, using the gentle tone that sometimes still reached whatever remained of the man she had once known, "perhaps we should discuss this privately. Court matters have tired you, and young Thalor is clearly confused about his duties."
It had been the right approach for that particular moment. Aerys's rage had wavered, his attention shifting enough for her to suggest that Thalor be confined to his chambers until "a proper understanding could be reached."
The king had agreed, though his eyes had remained fixed on his son with a cold fury that sent ice through Rhaella's veins. Thalor had been escorted away, not by the Kingsguard but by her own household knights—a small mercy she had managed to secure in the moment.
Now, hours later, a more immediate danger had passed, but Rhaella harbored no illusions about what would come next. Aerys did not forget perceived slights, and what he saw as defiance from his son would fester in his mind until it found violent expression.
Steps had to be taken, and quickly.
A soft knock at her chamber door interrupted her troubled thoughts. "Enter," she called, turning from the window.
Ser Bonifer Hasty, captain of her household guard and a man who had once loved her before duty and arranged marriage had separated their paths, entered with a bow. Though their youthful romance had ended decades ago, he had maintained a quiet devotion to her that expressed itself through perfect service.
"Your Grace, the king has retired to his chambers with the pyromancers," he reported quietly. "The prisoners remain in the black cells awaiting his pleasure on the morrow."
"And my son?" Rhaella asked, though she already knew the answer.
"Prince Thalor is under guard in his chambers, as commanded. Nightfury remains on the platform outside the Broken Tower, watched by archers with explicit instructions to prevent any attempt at flight."
Rhaella nodded, her mind working rapidly through their options. "And Rhaegar?"
"The crown prince is with Lord Tywin and the Small Council, discussing how best to... moderate the king's judgment regarding the prisoners."
A diplomatic way of saying they were determining how to prevent Aerys from committing a public atrocity that would further damage the crown's standing. Rhaella felt a surge of gratitude for her eldest son's steady presence and political acumen.
"I wish to visit Prince Thalor," she decided. "Have my litter prepared."
"At once, Your Grace." Ser Bonifer hesitated, then added in a lower voice, "The king left instructions that no one was to see the prince without his permission."
Rhaella straightened, channeling every ounce of the royal authority she typically wielded with such restraint. "I am not 'no one,' Ser Bonifer. I am the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and the prince's mother. I require no permission to see my son."
The knight bowed, a flash of approval in his eyes. "Of course, Your Grace. I shall escort you personally."
Within minutes, Rhaella was being carried across the castle grounds toward Maegor's Holdfast where Thalor's chambers were located. As they passed the Broken Tower, she glanced up to see Nightfury's dark form pacing the platform that had been constructed for him at the tower's broken summit. Even from a distance, she could sense the dragon's agitation. Four archers stood at compass points around the tower, bows at the ready—a precaution ordered by the king to prevent Thalor from escaping on dragonback.
The absurdity of the situation struck her suddenly.
Aerys truly believed he could contain Nightfury with mere archers if the dragon decided to leave. It was a measure of how disconnected from reality her husband had become, that he thought human weapons could restrain a creature of such power if it chose to act.
Yet Nightfury remained in place, clearly understanding that any aggressive action would only worsen Thalor's situation. The dragon's restraint was further evidence of his remarkable intelligence—and of the deep bond he shared with her son that transcended normal animal loyalty.
Upon reaching Thalor's chambers, Rhaella dismissed her litter bearers but retained Ser Bonifer and two of her most trusted ladies-in-waiting. The royal guards posted outside Thalor's door shifted uncomfortably at her approach.
"Your Grace," the senior guard began, "the king's orders—"
"Will not be violated by a mother visiting her child," Rhaella finished firmly. "Stand aside."
After a moment's hesitation, the guards complied, unable to directly refuse their queen despite their instructions. Rhaella entered Thalor's chambers with her small entourage, finding her son sitting calmly at his desk, surrounded by books and papers as if this were merely another day of study.
"Mother," Thalor greeted her, rising immediately. Despite the circumstances, his composure remained intact—that unnerving maturity that had marked him since earliest childhood evident in his steady gaze.
Rhaella dismissed her ladies to the antechamber with a gesture, though she kept Ser Bonifer near the door, both for propriety and protection. Once they had a measure of privacy, she crossed to her son and embraced him tightly.
"Are you well?" she asked, searching his face for signs of distress.
"I'm fine," Thalor assured her. "Confined but comfortable. I've been using the time to work on the water system designs for Oldtown." He gestured to the papers on his desk. "The calculations for the tidal factors are complex but fascinating."
Rhaella might have smiled at this typically practical response had the circumstances been less dire. Even under effective house arrest, her second son remained focused on his work to improve the realm.
"Thalor," she said softly, taking his hands in hers, "we need to discuss what happened today. Your father is..." She hesitated, searching for a diplomatic description.
"Getting worse," Thalor finished for her, his green eyes holding a knowledge beyond his years. "I know, Mother. I've been observing the pattern for some time. The paranoia, the mood swings, the increasing fixation on fire and purification." He sighed, a sound no ten-year-old should make. "I miscalculated today. I should have found a gentler way to refuse."
"There is no gentle way to refuse Aerys anymore," Rhaella replied, the bleak truth of this statement hanging heavy between them. "Not since the dreams began to consume him so completely."
Thalor nodded in acknowledgment. "The prophetic visions have become his reality, more real to him than the world around him. His belief that fire will restore Targaryen glory has twisted his understanding of our family's legacy and purpose." He paused, his expression troubled. "There are references in the historical records to similar patterns in certain branches of our family tree."
It was a clinical assessment that nonetheless hurt Rhaella's heart. This was her husband they were discussing—the laughing, ambitious boy she had grown up with, the man who had occasionally shown her true kindness amid their complicated marriage. Now he was being analyzed like a historical case study by their ten-year-old son.
Yet she couldn't deny the accuracy of Thalor's observations. The Targaryen bloodline had always carried the seeds of both greatness and madness, and Aerys had finally tipped decisively toward the latter, his natural ambition corrupted by dreams that promised power through fire.
"What will happen tomorrow?" Thalor asked, his tone suggesting he already knew the answer.
Rhaella took a deep breath. "Your father will not forget or forgive what he perceives as defiance. When his initial rage cools, it will be replaced by something colder and more calculated." She met her son's eyes directly. "He will attempt to force your compliance, Thalor. And if you continue to refuse..."
She couldn't finish the sentence, the possibilities too terrible to voice. Though Aerys had never physically harmed their children, his treatment of perceived enemies had grown increasingly cruel as his obsession with fire and purification deepened. The fact that Thalor was his favored son might no longer protect him if Aerys decided his defiance represented betrayal of the family's destiny as he saw it in his dreams.
"I understand," Thalor said quietly. "But I cannot and will not use Nightfury to burn prisoners for Father's entertainment or political statement. It violates everything we stand for—everything Nightfury and I are meant to be in this life."
The curious phrasing—"in this life"—barely registered with Rhaella, who had grown accustomed to her second son's occasional cryptic references that hinted at knowledge beyond his years. Instead, she focused on the immediate crisis.
"Then you cannot be here when tomorrow comes," she said decisively. "You must leave King's Landing tonight."
Thalor's eyebrows rose slightly. "You're suggesting I flee? That would only confirm Father's belief that I'm defying him."
"I'm suggesting," Rhaella corrected carefully, "that you depart for Dragonstone to oversee the implementation of your water system improvements there. With my authorization, as is appropriate for a prince with your particular interests and skills."
Understanding dawned in Thalor's eyes. "A diplomatic absence rather than a flight."
"Precisely." Rhaella squeezed his hands. "Dragonstone is still a royal holding. Going there is not defiance but simply removing yourself from immediate controversy while continuing to serve the realm. It gives your father time to focus his attention elsewhere, and Lord Tywin opportunity to resolve the situation with the prisoners through more... conventional justice."
"And when Father demands my return?" Thalor asked practically.
"Then we will address that when it comes," Rhaella replied. "But the sea between King's Landing and Dragonstone provides a buffer that might allow cooler heads to prevail. And you have Nightfury—no ship could reach you at Dragonstone if you chose not to receive it."
The implications of her statement hung in the air between them. She was not merely suggesting a temporary diplomatic absence, but potentially placing Thalor beyond Aerys's immediate reach should the worst occur. Dragonstone, as the traditional seat of the Targaryen heir, carried its own political significance as well—a fact neither of them needed to explicitly acknowledge.
Thalor considered her proposal with the methodical thoroughness that characterized his approach to everything. "It could work," he agreed finally. "But the guards, the archers watching Nightfury—how do we manage that obstacle?"
Rhaella smiled faintly. "Leave that to me. Can you be ready to depart in two hours? Take only what you need immediately—nothing that would suggest a lengthy absence."
"Yes," Thalor nodded. "I'll prepare now."
"Good." Rhaella stood, her decision made. "Wait for my signal. When the time comes, go directly to Nightfury. I'll ensure your path is clear."
As she turned to leave, Thalor caught her hand. "Mother," he said softly, "why are you risking this? Father will be furious when he discovers your role."
Rhaella looked down at her son—this strange, brilliant boy who seemed simultaneously ten and a thousand years old. For a moment, she saw not just the prince he was but the man he was becoming—a leader whose vision extended beyond power to purpose, beyond conquest to creation.
"Because you are my son," she said simply. "And because the realm needs what you will become far more than it needs another demonstration of Targaryen fire."
Thalor's expression softened, a rare glimpse of the child beneath the composed exterior. "Thank you," he whispered.
With a final embrace, Rhaella departed, her mind already working through the details of what must be done. She had lived in the shadow of Aerys's growing instability for years, developing skills of subtle resistance that few recognized. Tonight, those skills would serve not just to protect herself, but to safeguard her son and, potentially, the future of their house.
---
The storm that had threatened all day finally broke as evening fell, sheets of rain lashing against the castle walls and thunder rumbling in the distance. It was, Rhaella reflected, almost too perfect—as if the gods themselves approved of her plans and provided natural cover for Thalor's departure.
In her chambers, final preparations were underway. She had drafted official documents authorizing Thalor's immediate departure to oversee critical infrastructure projects on Dragonstone—papers bearing her royal seal as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. While not technically requiring the king's approval for such routine matters involving a younger son, they provided a veneer of legitimacy that might prove crucial later.
More importantly, she had set in motion the practical aspects of the escape. A "medical emergency" had been manufactured in the servants' quarters near the Broken Tower—nothing too serious, but sufficient to draw the attention of the guards and archers posted to watch Nightfury. Her most trusted lady-in-waiting, Lady Jonelle Penrose, had been dispatched to Thalor's chambers with appropriate clothing for travel and instructions for the timing of his movement.
Ser Bonifer had personally arranged for the guard rotation near the Holdfast to include men loyal to her rather than directly to the king—a subtle distinction that had become increasingly important in recent years as Aerys's behavior grew more erratic.
"The diversions are in place, Your Grace," Ser Bonifer reported, returning from his final inspection of the arrangements. "The storm provides additional confusion that works in our favor. The prince should be able to reach the Broken Tower without detection if he moves exactly when instructed."
"And the archers?" Rhaella asked.
"Responding to the medical situation, as planned. One remains at his post, but he is..." Ser Bonifer paused delicately, "...enjoying wine provided by your household staff to ward off the chill of the storm. His attention is compromised."
Rhaella nodded, satisfied with these preparations. "And the king?"
"In his chambers with Wisdom Rossart, engaged in what appears to be an extended discussion of wildfire applications. The pyromancer is describing new visions that have come to him through the flames—visions that seem to align with His Grace's own dreams. They have consumed significant quantities of wine and show no signs of emerging before morning."
This was not surprising. Since the dreams had begun to intensify, Aerys had surrounded himself with men who reinforced rather than questioned his visions—particularly the pyromancers, whose talk of magical flames and purifying fire fed directly into his darkening obsessions.
"Good." Rhaella moved to her writing desk, sealing one final document—a personal letter to Maester Gyldayn on Dragonstone, instructing him to provide all necessary support for Prince Thalor's work and safety. Some messages were too sensitive to be explicitly stated, but Gyldayn had served House Targaryen long enough to understand the implications.
"It's time," she decided, handing the sealed message to Lady Maryam Royce, another trusted confidante. "Ensure this reaches Prince Thalor before he departs."
As her household carried out their assigned tasks, Rhaella moved to the window overlooking the courtyard, watching through the rain-streaked glass for any sign of movement. Thunder crashed overhead, briefly illuminating the Broken Tower where Nightfury's dark form could be seen still pacing his platform, apparently agitated by the storm—or perhaps sensing the imminent escape.
The minutes crept by with excruciating slowness. Had something gone wrong? Had Thalor been intercepted? Had one of Varys's "little birds" caught wind of their plans and informed the king?
Just as anxiety threatened to overwhelm her, a flash of lightning revealed a small figure darting across the rain-soaked courtyard, moving with purpose toward the Broken Tower. Thalor, wrapped in a dark cloak, barely visible against the stormy night. He reached the tower entrance and disappeared inside, unnoticed by the few guards still braving the downpour.
Rhaella released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The first and most dangerous part of the plan had succeeded. Now, if the remaining archer was sufficiently distracted...
Another lightning flash, and she saw Nightfury rise to his full height on the platform, wings extending in preparation for flight. The lone archer appeared to notice, fumbling for his bow, but his movements were slow, impaired by the wine and the difficult conditions.
Before he could nock an arrow, Nightfury launched himself from the platform, circling the tower once before descending to where he must have sensed Thalor emerging onto the lower balcony. A moment of darkness as the lightning faded, then another brilliant flash revealed dragon and rider united, surging upward into the storm-wracked sky with powerful wingbeats.
They were away.
Rhaella closed her eyes briefly, offering a silent prayer to whatever gods might be listening—for Thalor's safe journey, for wisdom to guide his actions at Dragonstone, for protection against whatever consequences might follow when Aerys discovered what had happened.
"Your Grace," Ser Bonifer's voice interrupted her thoughts. "They've made it clear of the castle. None of the archers were able to loose a shot in this weather."
"Thank you, Ser Bonifer," she replied softly. "Now we must prepare for morning, when the king learns of his son's... reassignment."
The knight's weathered face showed concern beneath his formal demeanor. "The king will be displeased."
"Yes," Rhaella agreed with masterful understatement. "But he will direct that displeasure at me, not at those who merely followed the queen's legitimate orders regarding her son's activities." She met his eyes steadily. "I will handle my husband, Ser Bonifer. Your responsibility is to ensure that all evidence of tonight's hasty arrangements disappears before dawn."
He bowed, understanding her meaning perfectly. "It shall be done, Your Grace. And may I say..." he hesitated, then continued with quiet intensity, "your courage does honor to House Targaryen."
After he departed to oversee the removal of any incriminating evidence, Rhaella returned to the window, though Thalor and Nightfury had long since vanished into the storm. She felt no triumph at the success of their plan—only a hollow relief mingled with trepidation about what would follow.
Aerys would rage when he discovered Thalor's absence. He would suspect conspiracy, perhaps even treason. His paranoia, already inflamed by dreams of betrayal and visions of necessary purification, would find new targets, new outlets for the madness that increasingly defined him.
And she would bear the brunt of that rage, as she had so many times before.
Yet watching her son fly to temporary safety, Rhaella found she did not regret her decision. For too long, she had protected herself through careful accommodation of Aerys's deteriorating mental state, bending like a reed in the wind to survive the storm of his moods. Tonight, she had finally taken a stand—not for herself, but for her child and for the realm he might someday help rebuild.
There was a strange power in that choice, a strength she had forgotten she possessed. Whatever punishment Aerys devised for her role in tonight's events, he could not take that from her.
As the storm continued to batter the Red Keep, Queen Rhaella Targaryen prepared herself for the confrontation to come—gathering her dignity around her like armor, finding resolve in the knowledge that her son was now beyond the immediate reach of Aerys's unstable wrath.
Dragonstone had always been a place of new beginnings for House Targaryen. Perhaps it would prove so again, not just for Thalor but for all of them in the difficult days ahead.
The storm would pass, as all storms eventually did. And when it cleared, perhaps clearer skies might follow—not just for the weather, but for the future of the Seven Kingdoms.
It was, she reflected, the most a mother could hope for in these uncertain times: that her children might forge a better world than the one they had inherited.
And with Thalor safe on Dragonstone with Nightfury, at least one piece of that hope had been secured, if only temporarily.
It would have to be enough for now.