𝔗𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐀𝐒𝐇 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄
0. A JEWEL TO THE REALM

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⋆｡˚﹕110 AC ⎯ 𝖳𝖧𝖤 𝖱𝖤𝖣 𝖪𝖤𝖤𝖯

THE RED KEEP was a lifeless, empty place ⎯⎯ or, at least to all those who lived within its castle walls. For a time it was bathed in decadence, and honour of the House Targaryen.
In the tragic death of the beloved Queen Consort, Aemma Arryn, a relentless disease plagued the halls. It wormed its way through, rotting away in decay and grot and brought forth great change. Gone were the days of a dream. A whimsical fantasy stretching out through the seasons of a mighty Targaryen King and Queen. A cherished daughter, a mere delight to the realm, declared to one day descend the Iron Throne at her mother's death and loss of her younger brother at a day old.

Some folk within the capitol of King's Landing declare that it was a mere delusion. Others not. Nothing was the same again. Rhaenyra was not the same again, the girl she was had been crumbled into dust ⎯⎯ she bore the duty of her birthright and held the weight of it as the heir to the Iron Throne. She had not shunned her father's suggestions in his meetings with the Small Council. Rhaenyra had risen, a flame from the ashes, married and commenced her duty as an heir.

Rhaenyra found that a piece she had lost resurfaced in the swell of a child in her belly. It was a battlefield, an agony to be a woman bearing a child. But a child of her own, a child to be heir to the Iron Throne after her was a gift. Rhaenyra clung to that joy, the immense delight of a child of her own and it washed away her fears of labour and the trauma of her mother's death.

We have royal wombs, you and I. The childbed is our battlefield.

Throughout the long, exhausting hours of her labour, Rhaenyra longed for her mother. It was one of the many moments since the death of her mother she ached for her advice and comfort. It was a moment she was meant to share with her but was stolen. Instead, she had her husband Ser Laenor Velaryon's hand to cling to and who offered every attempt to soothe his wife, using a cloth to wipe the sweat off her brow and utter encouraging words. Although, it went against precedent and tradition, Laenor insisted to be beside his wife. Many curses tumbled from Rhaenyra's lips in her labours as she pushed and pushed and pushed.

A son was born first. Then a daughter a few minutes later.

"Twins," the maestor told the Princess. "Congratulations, your grace."

For the Princess it was a great surprise. She had not expected it. Both babies were pressed to her chest after a brief check up and cleaning by the maestor. Her daughter had a tuft of white fuzz upon her head whilst her son had a deep brown. Both were Targyayen. Rhaenyra was almost taken aback with the bright and wide smile that stretched upon her lips, her love for her two children had came so quickly, so violently. She was a mother. And she would never let any harm come to them both.

Laenor looked to Rhaenyra softly, his dark eyes warm and proud for what she had managed to accomplish. He wished that in another life he would have been able to love her in all ways she deserved.

"May I hold my son?" Laenor asked steadily to his wife. His eyes said: we must play the part.

"Oh. . . yes of course," Rhaenyra spoke, weary of the many eyes of in her chambers. It did not help that she was exhausted.

Laenor was careful, collecting the baby boy in his arms. Catiuosly he took a few brief steps at a time rocking the boy his arms. Laenor had softened around his son and Rhaenyra had noticed.

"Which came first?" Rhaenyra asked her eyes on her daughter. She was smaller than her brother, her skin was alike her own and Rhaenyra could easily see how much her daughter resembled her.

"The boy came first, your grace. Your daughter a few minutes after," the maestor informed the princess.

Before Rhaenyra could respond the door to her chambers burst open. Standing there was her father, King Viserys and his lady wife Alicent Hightower. Rhaenyra felt a slight sense of unease when she had noticed Alicent with her father. A sickening feeling grew within the pit of her stomach. Rhaenyra felt vunerable. She wished that she had time to dress properly or at least a warning that her father would visit with his lady wife. She had barely a moment to rest or to bond with her children.

"How are you my girl? How were your labours?" Viserys asked tumbling forwards with his cane. There was a great worry on his features. That was why, Rhaenyra noticed. It was her father's demand. Rhaenyra couldn't help but wonder that if he was concerned if the labours would effect her the same as it did her mother.

"It was a battlefield in itself, father. We are all well. Myself and the twins. A son and a daughter."

Viserys let out a hearty chuckle, delighted and relieved by the news.

"I am glad of it. My worrying got too much. I knew that we must visit you right away."

Rhaenyra felt her forced smile grow false she felt as if she were one of Laenor's broodmares he had insisted on buying and breeding with his stallion. Alicent had studied the child in her arms from afar and had turned, her feet sounding on the smooth floors.

Viserys had his gaze on his daughter, completely oblivious to his lady wife who was inspecting rather than admiring Rhaenyra's children. The King looked to the child in her arms.

"Would you like to hold her, father?"

"Why yes. . . Ah, and I gather that this is my dear granddaughter Visenya⎯⎯ "

"Aemma, father. My daughter Aemma is named after mother," Rhaenyra said her voice billowy, far away.

"What a delightful way to honour your mother's memory," Alicent spoke, her voice dripped in honey, her hand reaching to hold Visery's good arm. The other was spreading with his sickness and the best maestors were deciding if amputation was the best option.

Whispers were consistent within Kings Landing. How long did King have? When is Rhaenyra descending the Iron Throne? All is well, was what many would promise in these brief happy years. All is well.

Webs were being spun, words as sweet as honey whispered in ears, coaxing and suffocating. Some intended Aegon, Rhaenyra's half-brother to sit the Iron Throne on the basis of tradition rather than the King's declaration. The Kingdom was already chipping away, collapsing, who was one to deny a birthright? Traditions of old Valyria?

Survival or death is only the outcome in the game of thrones. And instead, what would be found was that there was a great festering gloom that had settled in the time before the Dance of the Dragons.