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It was like a constant shadow that lurked around him. A beast preying on him just around the corner. Guilt was such a large part of his life that he had forgotten how to live without it. He was not sure he could live without it. Even when he told himself it was common for women to die during childbirth, that it happened to many other women besides his mother. He simply could not forgive himself, and wished it would have been he who died and his mother who lived. Maybe then Viserys would not be so sad all the time, and maybe, just maybe, Daemon would have someone to reel in that temper of his.

Alyssa Targaryen was said to be just like Daemon after all. From what his father had told him, she had no regard for rules or tradition. She had taken all three of her sons into the sky on her dragon. Viserys was nine days old, Daemon at barely two weeks, and Rhaegon only after a month. It was no wonder that two out of three sons turned out to love flying above all else. Viserys may have been more grounded, but Rhaegon and Daemon flew in the skies.

Perhaps that was the one thing the Gods had allowed him to keep of his mother, for he looked just like his father in everything else. They had the same long and angular face, silver-gold hair and indigo eyes, the same elegant nose and soft curve of lips. He even took after his father in swordsmanship and diplomacy, learning to balance the two just right, as his grandfather had often told him. Little did King Jaehaerys know that the only reason Rhaegon kept himself so collected was because he felt guilt.

How could he allow himself to let loose and indulge in anything when he took away such an important woman from their family? Viserys and Daemon lost their mother – they knew her, unlike him. His grandfather and grandmother lost a beloved daughter, one of many in the years to come. And his father, the great Baelon the Brave... well, he did not seem so brave during the anniversary of his mother's death. He had never taken another woman to wife, though Rhaegon often wished he had. Maybe then he would cease feeling so guilty.

It was easy to sit with any of them and listen to the tales about his mother. Easy in a way that he would simply stare out of the window and pretend he was someone else, some distant family member who had returned to visit and just wanted to hear about his poor deceased cousin. It barely seemed to work, and he would often feel the telltale sting of tears behind his eyes before he aggressively blinked them away. He endured it for them because whenever they spoke of her, lost in wistful memories rather than the sad reality, they were happy. And so he would call it easy, even though it was the hardest thing for him to do.

Rhaegon's only escape was his dragon, the great big shadow he had claimed at the age of ten. Morghul was only twenty years younger than Vhagar but had never been ridden. Until he came along, that is. Many thought the ebony beast would simply live out his life in the Dragonpit as the wild dragon he had been for nigh on a hundred years. It was one of the many times Rhaegon had accompanied his grandmother into the Dragonpit when he had felt the tug at his ribs. Never before had he felt such a thing, the call of something strangely magically, bound to him by blood. And when he carefully broke off from his grandmother, making sure he was not seen, he had walked straight to where Morghul had been sleeping.

The dragon's nostrils were so big that his exhales were as strong as the wildest of storm winds, and when he opened his eyes, the cat-like yellow of them bore into Rhaegon's form as if he was his meal for the day. Rhaegon could only stand and stare, not quite shaking, but not content in this position either. Morghul had shifted slightly, and then quickly. Before long he was on his feet, the top of his wings scraping viciously against the roof of the Dragonpit. And then he roared, so loudly the very ground shook beneath Rhaegon's feet and he had to cover his ears in fear of all the blood vessels in them popping and losing the ability to hear all together.

By then, his grandmother had noticed his absence and was rushing to him. Perhaps in fear that Rhaegon was about to be doused in a bright hot flame, or torn apart by teeth bigger and sharper than the largest great sword. But Morghul had merely dipped his head down and nudged Rhaegon's body with his snout as if he was some playful dog and not the third-largest dragon in existence.

From that day on, Rhaegon flew almost every day. It was an easy escape from reality. One he took with open arms. And it was the first step to healing, if anything the books about Old Valyria said was true.

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Rhaegon was fifteen when he first felt the brunt force of his brother's rage. It came in the form of a fist to his jaw, then his nose, then his cheek. Soon enough, he was on his back, his head cracking painfully against the hard floor of Dragonstone. Daemon was shouting something at him, but he spoke so quickly and so brokenly that Rhaegon could not make any of it out. There was something hot dripping onto his face, and he was not sure if it was blood coming from his nose or his brother's tears. His brother's tears. He did not think he had ever seen Daemon cry before.

By the time their father pulled Daemon off of him, Rhaegon was already numb to all feeling. He simply lay there, waiting to see if he could even properly inhale through his nose, which was throbbing painfully. Arms wrapped around him and sat him up, but he could not say anything or do anything. Blood spilt from his nose in a vivid stream of red, and Rhaegon had to wonder how he had not choked on it when he was laying down.

He looked up to where Daemon was kneeling on the floor, silver hair wild and eyes filled with something he had never seen his brother express. Heartbreak. It was a strange sight, and something in Rhaegon tightened painfully at the realisation he was once again the cause of his brother's pain. Killing his mother just was not enough, was it?

"I'm sorry," he said, even though it was difficult to wheeze out anything at this point. Tears of his own stung behind his eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He suddenly felt like he could not breathe, but then his father was behind him, wiping at his nose with a cloth and collecting some of the red around it.

"What should you be sorry for?" he asked, though it was rhetorically. "What the fuck, Daemon. What had gotten into you?" His father pressed further. Daemon's nose curled up viciously, and he had to swallow before he said anything else.

"He is going to be betrothed to Aella!" What did their cousin have to do with this? He had not seen her in years, had never even exchanged a single letter with her and-

Oh. Oh.

This time, he could not stop the sob that tore through his throat painfully. Of course. Of course, it had to have been him. Their grandfather may be called the Conciliator, but he sure was talented at tearing his own family apart. Rhaegon would not be able to fight this betrothal, not if he wanted to stop feeling so guilty. But now there was a new kind of guilt clawing at his insides, an entirely new form of regret.

Daemon's form turned blurry in front of him as the tears finally fell, and he was glad for it because he could not bear to look at his brother anymore. He loved Aella, he had to. Why else would he pummel Rhaegon into the ground? And if he loved her, that meant there was a big chance she loved him too. Which meant he was hurting two people, instead of one, and suddenly his heart clenched so painfully he was sure it would stop.

There was the sound of scrambling as Daemon forced himself to his feet. He did not even look at Rhaegon as he left.

When Rhaegon flew to King's Landing a week later, he made sure to cover the bruises.

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The screams of agony that came from the other side of the door were the most bone-chilling thing he had ever heard. They resonated throughout Maegor's Holdfast, bounced off the wall, and burst through the windows and the doors. Rhaegon was sure everyone had heard them by now, even those all the way in Flea Bottom.

Crescent moon shapes were dented in his skin, not quite deep enough to draw blood, but painful nonetheless. With every cry, he dug his nails into them. Hours passed and the babe was still not born. His nerves were at an all-time high. Surely it did not take this long? Surely it had to be finished soon.

It was a difficult task to stop his mind from wandering to thoughts that would only make him feel worse. Nevertheless, they still resurfaced now and again, especially when his eyes grew tired and he contemplated sleeping on the floor outside of Aella's birthing chamber. Was this how his mother had screamed when she delivered him? Was Aella going to die just like she did? Was he going to be responsible for yet another tragedy?

There was a soft hand on his shoulder now, squeezing him tightly and shaking him. He blinked his weary eyes. The shapes and curves of his grandmother's ageing face formed before his eyes, a bright smile and tears in her eyes. His brows furrowed. Why was she smiling? And then he noticed it, the silence in the halls, the open doors to the chamber. Had he truly missed it? Had he been so out of it that he had not noticed the screaming had stopped? He decided it did not matter now, he only forced himself to stand up, bracing himself on the wall beside him.

His grandmother led him in, saying something though he could not hear it. There were too many things to focus on and his brain was tired, grasping at the last semblance of energy stowed away in him.

The metallic tang in the air forced him to curl his nose. He smelled the blood before he saw it on the previously white sheets, now fumbled into a ball and thrown down beside the bed. The maids were just helping Aella into the freshly cleaned bed when they entered, wiping at her sweaty forehead. When she noticed them, she forced a tired smile onto her face. Her eyelids were droopy, and Rhaegon could not say he blamed her. He was exhausted and he hadn't even been the one giving birth.

"Husband," she said, her voice hoarse. She was forced to clear her throat. A midwife stepped towards the bed, a squirming bundle in her arms that she slowly handed over to Aella. The smile on her face was not emphatic at all this time. It was the most genuine he had seen her in his life. "Come meet our son."

Rhaegon took a few more steps forward, unsure of how close he was allowed. Aella had never been one to refuse touch from him – not that he offered any that she did not want anyway – but she had just finished giving birth. Surely... surely she had to be tired. Surely, she'd want her own space. Aella noticed his hesitance and padded the mattress beside her. She smiled softly. Rhaegon slowly took a seat.

The mattress sunk beneath his weight as he leaned slightly towards Aella, looking down at the squirming bundle in her arms. The boy's face was slightly purple and raw, freshly cleaned off from the blood that had coated his skin. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut, his lips protruded forward in a little pout. And his hair, though there were just a few puffs of it, it was obviously dark. Black even, or at least the darkest of browns Rhaegon had seen. The Baratheon hair, he smiled to himself, remembering the look of his aunt Jocelyn all too quickly.

"He looks like your mother," he whispered, careful not to frighten the babe in his wife's arms. The boy let out a quiet gurgle before pressing himself closer to the warmth of Aella's chest. Rhaegon could not help but grin. "He is beautiful."

Aella nodded. "He is, mother will be ecstatic." She pulled the cloth around the boy's face down slightly with her finger, exposing his chin that was already so like Rhaegon's own. "I wish to name him after my father if it is alright with you." He looked at her, brows furrowed. Why would it not be alright, he almost asked but chose against it. He remembered the night his own father found out about the death of Prince Aemon, how utterly shattered he had been before he rode off on Vhagar towards Tarth. When he brought the already rotting body back, he did not look much better. Naming his son after the fallen prince was the least Rhaegon could do. For his wife, for his father, and even his grandparents. And so he nodded, placing his hand beneath his son's head.

"Aemon Targaryen, it is perfect."

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Joy was not something that ran through the blood of Targaryens, Rhaegon realised soon enough. There had been barely three years of utter calmness if one could call life at court that. To Rhaegon, the flurry and high nerves of serving on the council were something that belonged in his life. It was easy to get used to, and so even when things grew stressful with the amount of work he had to do, he would call it calm.

Three years of calm. The calm before the storm, one could say. Aemon grew as any healthy boy would, Aella was content to spend her days with him or in the library, sometimes taking the boy off the Driftmark so he could spend time with his aunt and uncle. Aemon would always come back with some trinket Lord Corlys had given him, excited beyond any measure. His nursery was filled with those treasures, resembling High Tide more than it did the Red Keep. With this, Rhaegon's son learned to love the sea. Often, he would wake Rhaegon up at the early hours of the night when the tide was low, begging him to take him to the mouth of the Blackwater Rush – where the river met sea – so he could look for sea shells.

It was on one such morning that the calm was broken. Rhaegon sat on a rock, sharpening his sword as there was nothing better to do while Aemon ran around in the shallow water. He refused any help most of the time, only staring at his father with a pout when he could not lift something. When that happened, Rhaegon would happily stand to help. But now, Aemon did not require anything of him, and so he listened to the splashing and the giggling and drew the wet stone over his blade with quiet contempt.

There was already a pile of sea shells at his feet, colourful or bland, it did not matter to Aemon. He would take them all home either way. When there was a loud splash coming from the water, Rhaegon did not bother to look up. It was not uncommon for Aemon to trip and fall. What was not usual, however, was the terrified scream that escaped his son a few moments later.

Rhaegon jerked at the sound, sword and wet stone falling from his hand and hitting the sand with a muffled thump. He tore towards the water without a second thought. Aemon was kneeling in the water, up to his chest. Big round tears fell down his cheek and he was trying to clamber away from something, though the strength of the water kept him from getting far. Rhaegon burst into the water, boots and trousers soaked through immediately. He reached Aemon within seconds, pulling him from the water and quickly holding him to his chest. Aemon was muttering something, blabbering incoherent words.

It was only when Rhaegon looked down into the water that he realised what his son was saying. Aunt Gael. The pale and bloated face of Rhaegon's youngest aunt looked towards the sky hauntingly, her silver hair splayed out around her head. Her head, which was submerged beneath the water. Dead. Dead, she was dead. Drowned.

Rhaegon could only take in a shuddering breath.

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By the end of the day, his aunt's death was deemed as suicide, though that was not what the court had been told. In the eyes of everyone in the realm, Princess Gael had succumbed to summer fever. Only the royal family knew the truth.

Throughout everything – the examination of the body, the funeral, then the pouring of ashes into an urn – Rhaegon could not stop his hands from shaking. Even picking up a glass of wine was difficult, and so he had not allowed himself to drink or eat for two days straight until Aella all but forced water and bread down his throat. That night, she had crawled beneath his covers for the first time since their son was born. The tightening of her arms around his torso and her head on his chest was a small comfort, but comfort nonetheless. And Rhaegon was glad for it.

Nightmares were a difficult thing to get rid of, they would plague him nightly. Most of the time, he did not even remember them. He simply woke with a startled gasp, body soaked in sweat and heart hammering so hard he was sure it would burst from his chest. Every time, Aella would be beside him, running her fingers through his silver hair – it had grown past his ears, curling ever so slightly. He hated it. But he could not be bothered to have it trimmed.

"When Aunt Viserra died," Aella said one night after a particularly bad nightmare, one he remembered. Cold pale hands dragged him below the surface of the Blackwater, pulling him further and further until he was surrounded only by darkness. Logically he knew that it was not real, that the Blackwater was not so deep that he would be plunged into blackness, but he swore he could still feel those hands on his skin. "I was only four. The screaming woke me up and I followed it. People say you do not remember things from when you were a child, but I remember the look on her face so clearly." She shook her head, looking off into the distance as if she was back in that room. "It stays with you, Rhaegon. It does get easier, but it stays. And it will stay with Aemon too, though I wish he would forget it."

Rhaegon swallowed harshly. "Perhaps he will. He is a year younger than you were," he whispered, throat sore as if he had inhaled seawater. "Perhaps he will be alright." Aella nodded, running her fingers over his scalp again.

"Perhaps he will." After that, no more words were spoken and he eventually fell asleep. The nightmares never stopped, even months later when Aella once again grew big with their child. Even when he spend his days exerting himself so he would fall asleep easier, even when he would feel the baby kick in Aella's womb. They were a shadow on the wall, a paranoid feeling that told him something was waiting for him just around the corner. He had refused the maester's offer of nightshade. He would not allow himself to take the bitter substance. Addiction was a thing he would rather avoid.

It was another sleepless night filled with terrors when Aella shook him awake, gripping her belly with a harsh hand and breathing rapidly. He was aware of everything in an instant, jumping out of bed and running to get the maester.

Later on, when all the midwives had arrived, the Grand Maester had pulled him aside with the grimmest look Rhaegon had ever seen on anyone. It made his skin crawl, and tighten over his bones as if it was forced to shrink.

"The Princess' term is far from complete, my Prince," he said, his hands met in front of him, rubbing his fingers together in a show of anxiety. Rhaegon could not blame him, he was far taller than the man, younger and stronger. But he was not like others from his house. He would not blame a man for things that only nature and the Gods could cause. "There is a large chance the babe will not live long."

Rhaegon could only nod and wait until the man turned away. The moment he did, he clenched his jaw so tight the bones creaked. Tears clouded his vision and he rapidly forced them away. Now was not the time. Aella did not need to see him cry, she was already in pain as it was.

Daella Targaryen was born at first light, weak and dying.

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It was only a week after his daughter's birth that he walked into the nursery to find the second tragedy of that year. The Gods had not only seen it fit to take his aunt – that sweet woman who had never done anything wrong – but also his daughter.

Rhaegon found little Daella wrapped in her swaddling, held in his wife's arms as she sat on the floor, leaning against the wall. Tears ran down her cheeks in an unstoppable flow, dripping down her jaw and neck. She was humming softly, rocking the babe in her arms. Rhaegon did not need to ask to know that his daughter was gone.

He sank to the floor beside Aella, pulling her to his chest as tears gathered in his eyes. One hand came up to hold the babe's head, so tiny and fragile. He ran his thumb over the silver hair that grew there. Aella's body shook violently with her sobs as the hold she had on her emotions burst.

"I'm sorry," she cried, burying her face in his shoulders. Rhaegon shushed her, holding her head just as gently as he did Daella's. "I am so sorry."

"It is not your fault," he muttered, kissing the top of her head. "Do not blame yourself. It is not your fault." He could not stop his tears either now, the nursery blurring before his eyes. His throat burned, and his chest ached with suppressed sobs. They stayed like that for hours until the sun set behind the horizon.

It was their grandmother who found them like that. Poor broken Alyssane Targaryen, who had already experienced so much loss. She would die only three days later.