Aenar Targaryen
The Throne Room of the Red Keep had never held so many people. Every pillar was wreathed in banners, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen dominant, but also the direwolf, the sun and spear, the rose, the trout. The great houses of Westeros had come to witness what no one had seen in three hundred years: a coronation. What no one had ever seen: three crowns placed on three heads in a single ceremony.
Jon stood before the Iron Throne in armor of black steel chased with red, the colors of his house. To his left, Daenerys wore a gown of crimson silk. To his right, Rhaenys was resplendent in cloth-of-gold trimmed with Dornish orange, her dark hair braided with rubies.
The new High Septon stepped forward. He was younger than the last one, chosen by the Faith after Jon had... encouraged the previous leadership to retire. This one knew which way the wind blew.
"In the sight of the Seven," the High Septon's voice rang out, "and before the lords and ladies of the realm, we consecrate this restoration. House Targaryen has returned. The dragons have come home."
He lifted the first crown from its velvet cushion. A circlet of Valyrian steel set with square-cut rubies. Aegon the Conqueror's crown, lost during the Dance and found again in the vaults of Dragonstone.
"Aenar of House Targaryen," the High Septon intoned. "First of His Name. King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."
The crown settled on Jon's head, heavier than he expected. He heard the rustle of thousands of people shifting, the weight of their eyes upon him.
The second crown was brought forth, a masterwork of Valyrian steel shaped like dragon wings sweeping back from the temples, garnets glittering like drops of blood along the edges.
"Daenerys of House Targaryen," the High Septon continued. "Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. The Unburnt. Mother of Dragons."
Daenerys bowed her head, and when the crown touched her silver hair, she looked up with tears gleaming in her violet eyes. A smile broke across her face like sunrise.
The third crown was perhaps the most beautiful, a delicate circlet of yellow gold set with blood-red rubies that caught the light like captured fire. A dragon coiled around the band, wings spread, honoring both her Targaryen blood and her mother's Dornish heritage.
"Rhaenys of House Targaryen," the High Septon said, his voice softening slightly. "Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Daughter of Rhaegar. The Red Queen."
Rhaenys closed her eyes as the crown was placed, and when she opened them again, Jon saw they were bright with unshed tears. She reached out, and he took her hand. Daenerys took her other hand, and for a moment, the three of them stood linked.
"Behold your King and Queens!" the High Septon proclaimed.
The roar that went up shook dust from the rafters. "Long live King Aenar! Long live the Queens!"
Jon led them to the dais before the Iron Throne. That monstrosity of melted swords loomed behind them, but he had refused to sit it. Instead, three chairs of equal height had been placed in a row, carved from weirwood and ebony and crowned with dragonglass. They sat together, and the symbolism was clear: this was not one ruler with consorts. This was three.
The line of lords waiting to bend the knee stretched back through the doors and into the outer yards.
"The Most Honorable House Tyrell," the herald called.
Margaery came first, her rose-gold gown trailing behind her. She knelt with grace. "Your Graces. House Tyrell pledges its swords, its grain, and its loyalty to the Three-Headed Dragon."
"Rise, Lady Margaery," Jon said. "Your house's service is noted and valued."
Willas Tyrell followed, leaning on his cane but steady. Garlan came next, then the matriarch herself.
Olenna Tyrell's curtsy was more of a controlled fall, but her eyes were sharp as ever. "Try not to go mad, Your Graces. The realm has had quite enough of that."
A ripple of nervous laughter went through the hall. Daenerys smiled. "We shall do our best, Lady Olenna."
The Tullys came next. Edmure knelt, his voice strong: "The Riverlands remember their friends. You freed us from the Freys. You have our loyalty until the rivers run dry."
The Northern lords made a formidable block. Rickon Stark walked at their head, and the hall went silent watching him approach. Still carrying that bone-tipped spear, but Jon had managed to get him into proper clothes at least.
Rickon knelt, and Shaggydog lay down beside him, a mountain of black fur.
"The North bends the knee," Rickon said in that flat, dead voice.
Jon met his cousin's blue eyes and nodded slowly. "The North's loyalty is treasured, Lord Stark. You will always have a seat at my table."
Then came Dorne.
Prince Doran was wheeled forward in his chair, his useless legs hidden beneath a blanket. Princess Arianne walked beside him, radiant in orange silk, her smile warm and genuine.
"Dorne kneels to the Dragon," Doran said, bowing his head. "House Martell swears its spears to House Targaryen, as we did in days of old."
"And House Targaryen remembers its friends," Daenerys replied. "Rise, Prince Doran."
Arianne came next, sinking into a deep curtsy. When she rose, she smiled at all three of them. "May your reign be long and prosperous, Your Graces. May the realm know peace at last."
"Thank you, Princess," Rhaenys said warmly. "Your presence honors us."
Then the Dornish lords and ladies came forward in a stream, Daynes and Yronwoods and Fowlers. And last of all, moving like a viper through tall grass, came Oberyn Martell.
He wore black and orange, the colors striking against his olive skin. Eight daggers were visible on his person. Likely sixteen more were hidden.
Oberyn knelt, but his head stayed up, his dark eyes fixed on Jon.
"Prince Oberyn," Jon said.
"Your Grace." The words came out like he was chewing glass. "I pledge my service to the Crown. I swear to defend the realm and uphold the King's justice."
The formality was perfect.
"Rise, Prince Oberyn," Daenerys said.
Oberyn stood, and for a moment, his gaze locked with Jon's. Then Oberyn's eyes shifted to Rhaenys, and something in his face changed, softened, just for a heartbeat.
Rhaenys reached out from her seat, extending her hand. Oberyn stepped forward and took it, bringing it to his lips.
"Uncle," she said softly. "I'm glad you're here."
"Always, little viper," he murmured. "Always."
But when he stepped back and his gaze returned to Jon, the hatred returned like winter frost.
The ceremony continued. More lords, more oaths, more pledges of service. Finally, as the sun reached its zenith, Jon rose.
"The coronation is concluded," he announced. "But there remains the matter of governance. A King needs good counsel."
He gestured, and Willas Tyrell stepped forward, leaning on his cane.
"Lord Willas Tyrell," Jon said. "Your wisdom in matters of governance is well known. Your knowledge of trade, agriculture, and the intricate workings of the realm is unmatched. I name you Hand of the King."
Willas's eyes widened in genuine surprise. He bowed as deeply as his twisted leg would allow. "Your Grace does me great honor. I swear to serve faithfully and well."
Margaery beamed from her place among the Tyrells. Olenna looked satisfied.
"Aurena Waters," Jon continued, and a man stepped forward, a handsome one. "For your service to the Velaryon fleet, for your loyalty during the war, and for your expertise on the seas, I legitimize you as Aurena Velaryon. And I name you Master of Ships."
Aurena's face remained stoic, but Jon saw his throat work as he swallowed hard. "Your Grace, I... thank you. The fleet will serve you well."
"Lord Randyll Tarly." The stern Lord of Horn Hill stepped forward. "Master of Laws. Your reputation for justice is known throughout the realm."
Tarly's bow was stiff but approving. "I will serve, Your Grace. The law will be upheld."
Jon hesitated before the next name. He felt Rhaenys tense beside him.
"Prince Oberyn Martell." The hall went quiet. "Your knowledge of eastern markets and coin is considerable. The Crown's finances need skilled management. I would name you Master of Coin. Will you accept?"
Oberyn's jaw tightened. For a long moment, he simply stared at Jon. Then his eyes flicked to Rhaenys, who was watching him with desperate hope.
"I accept," Oberyn said flatly. "I will serve the Crown with all the dedication it deserves."
The words were loyal.
The feast that followed filled the Great Hall to bursting. Tables groaned under the weight of food—the first true abundance King's Landing had seen in months. The Tyrells had come through with their grain, and now roasted meats, fresh bread, and flagons of wine flowed freely.
Jon sat at the high table between his queens, watching the celebration unfold. Musicians played, nobles danced, and the mood was genuinely joyful.
Except for one table.
The Dornish sat together, and at their center, Oberyn drank steadily. Cup after cup of Dornish red disappeared down his throat. His eyes never left Jon.
"He's staring again," Daenerys murmured, following Jon's gaze.
"He hasn't stopped," Jon replied.
Rhaenys set down her cup. "I'll talk to him."
"Rhaenys—"
"He's my uncle. Let me try." She rose, her skirts rustling, and made her way down to the Dornish table.
Jon watched her lean down, speak quietly to Oberyn. Saw her hand rest on his shoulder. Saw Oberyn's face shift—the hatred draining away, replaced by something softer. Love. Genuine familial love.
Then Rhaenys gestured back toward the high table, toward Jon specifically, and the hatred returned like a door slamming shut.
"This isn't going to work," Daenerys said quietly.
"It has to," Jon replied, though he didn't believe it himself.
Arianne approached the high table, curtsying prettily. "Your Graces, the celebration is magnificent. The realm rejoices in your triumph."
"Thank you, Princess," Daenerys said with a warm smile. "Your father's support means a great deal to us."
"Dorne stands with House Targaryen," Arianne said smoothly. "As it always has, and always will." She glanced back at Oberyn. "My uncle can be... passionate. But his loyalty to family is absolute. He'll come around, given time."
"I hope you're right," Jon said.
Arianne's smile never wavered. "I'm certain of it, Your Grace. Blood runs deep in Dorne." '''
Daemon interrupted his son's story.
"And you truly thought making Oberyn your Master of Coin was wise?"
Aenar looked up at the weirwood's bloody face. "It was the first compromise. Rhaenys begged me. She said it would show trust, that Oberyn would see I valued him."
"And you believed her?"
"I loved her." Aenar's voice broke slightly. "I would have done anything she asked."
Daemon was quiet for a moment. Then: "Love makes fools of us all."
"It does," Aenar agreed. "And I was the greatest fool of them all."
''' The Small Council chamber was a circular room in Maegor's Holdfast, its walls lined with maps of the Seven Kingdoms.
Jon sat at the head with Daenerys to his right and Rhaenys to his left. Around the table: Willas Tyrell, the new Hand, his cane resting against his chair; Lady Aurena Velaryon, legitimized just days ago and now Master of Ships; Lord Randyll Tarly, stern-faced as ever; and Oberyn Martell, who sat with studied casualness, a dagger balanced on his fingertip.
"The granaries in Flea Bottom need complete rebuilding," Willas was saying, tapping a map with his quill. "The fires during the siege destroyed three of the five. We're relying entirely on Tyrell grain shipments until harvest."
"How long until the new granaries are functional?" Jon asked.
"Four months, Your Grace. Perhaps three if we divert workers from the Sept repairs."
"Do it," Daenerys said. Her voice was strong, but Jon noticed the faint shadows under her eyes. She'd been tired lately, though she insisted it was nothing. "The Faith can wait. Hungry people cannot."
Randyll Tarly nodded approvingly. "A wise choice, Your Grace. Hungry men make poor subjects."
"The harbor repairs are progressing well," Aurena reported. "We've cleared the sunken ships from the main channels. Trade vessels are returning."
"And what of our fleet?" Jon asked.
"Eighteen war galleys operational, Your Grace. Another twelve undergoing repairs. It's not the armada we need, but it's a start."
Oberyn finally looked up from his dagger. "I've secured contracts with the Iron Bank for additional shipbuilding. Braavosi oak, Myrish craftsmen. Within a year, we'll have forty ships. Within two, eighty."
"Expensive," Willas observed.
"Dragons tend to be expensive creatures to maintain, my lord Hand." Oberyn's smile didn't reach his eyes. "But the Crown's credit is... excellent, given recent military victories."
The discussion continued—sewers, road repairs, restoring the City Watch. Jon listened, contributed when needed, but his attention kept drifting to Daenerys. She was sitting very straight, her hands folded on the table, and there was something in her expression.
Finally, as Randyll finished discussing the establishment of new magistrates, Daenerys cleared her throat.
"My lords and lady, before we adjourn, I have an announcement."
The table fell silent. Rhaenys looked at her sister-queen with sudden curiosity.
Daenerys's hand moved to rest on her stomach, and a smile broke across her face like sunrise. "Grand Maester Marwyn examined me yesterday. He has confirmed what I suspected." She paused, savoring the moment. "I am with child."
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Willas broke into a genuine smile and rose. "Your Grace, this is magnificent news! The realm will rejoice!"
"A child!" Aurena's weathered face split into a grin.
Randyll Tarly actually allowed himself a small smile. "An heir. The succession secured. Well done, Your Grace."
Jon was already on his feet, moving around the table. Daenerys rose to meet him, and he pulled her into his arms, lifting her slightly off the ground.
"A child," he whispered against her hair. "Our child."
"Are you happy?" she asked, though her smile said she already knew.
"Happy?" Jon laughed, a sound of pure joy. "Dany, I'm—I don't have words."
Rhaenys was there suddenly, throwing her arms around both of them. "A baby! Oh, sister, this is wonderful!" She pulled back to look at Daenerys's face. "How far along?"
"Six weeks, perhaps seven. It's early yet, but Marwyn is certain."
"A child," Rhaenys repeated, and her eyes were bright with tears. "Our child. The three of us, together, and now this." She pressed her hand to Daenerys's stomach. "Hello, little dragon. Your aunt Rhaenys loves you already."
Around the table, the celebration continued. Willas had produced wine from somewhere, and cups were being filled.
"To Queen Daenerys!" Aurena called out, raising her cup high. "And to the prince or princess she carries!"
"To the heir!" someone echoed.
Jon looked across the table and found Oberyn staring at him.
The Prince of Dorne sat perfectly still, his cup raised with the others, but his face had gone blank as stone.
Then Oberyn smiled—a slow, viper's smile that made Jon's blood run cold.
"To the heir," Oberyn said, his voice carrying clearly. He drained his cup in one long swallow, his knuckles white around the stem.
The moment passed. The celebration continued. But Jon had seen it. That flash of pure, distilled hatred.
Rhaenys had seen it too. Her smile faltered slightly as she watched her uncle, but then Daenerys was pulling her into another embrace, and the moment was lost in joy.
The meeting adjourned shortly after. Lords and ladies filed out, offering congratulations as they passed. Jon stayed close to Daenerys, his hand on her back, protective.
In the corridor outside, Rhaenys caught up to Oberyn as he stalked toward the Red Keep's exit.
"Uncle, wait."
Oberyn stopped, his back to her. "Your Grace?"
"Don't call me that. Not when we're alone." She moved around to face him. "Are you happy for us? For Daenerys?"
Oberyn looked at his niece, and for a moment, his expression softened. He reached up to tuck a strand of dark hair behind her ear.
"Of course, little viper," he said. His voice was gentle, almost tender. "Why wouldn't I be happy?"
But his eyes remained cold as a winter sea.
Rhaenys studied his face, seeing the disconnect between words and tone. "Uncle, please. I know you and Jon have your... difficulties. But this child, it's a blessing for the realm. For all of us."
"Indeed." Oberyn's hand dropped. "A blessed event. The first of many, I'm sure."
"You'll be an uncle again," Rhaenys tried, forcing brightness into her voice. "The babe will need family. Will need you."
"I will serve the Crown's children with all the devotion they deserve," he said quietly. "You have my word on that."
He bowed, formal and cold, and walked away.
Rhaenys stood in the empty corridor, watching him go. A chill ran down her spine despite the summer warmth.
Why wouldn't I be happy?
The words had been right. But the voice had been ice.
She told herself she was imagining things. Uncle Oberyn loved her. He would never harm what she loved.
She told herself this even as doubt coiled in her chest like a serpent.
.
.
Three months had transformed Daenerys. She sat at the intimate dinner table in their private solar, her pregnancy now impossible to hide. The swell of her belly pressed against the flowing silk of her gown, and she moved carefully.
Jon poured wine for himself and Rhaenys, water for Daenerys, as servants placed dishes of roasted lamb, honeyed figs, and fresh bread before them. This was their time—no advisors, no courtiers, just the three of them.
"I swear this child already has the appetite of a dragon," Daenerys said, reaching for a third fig. "I'm constantly hungry."
"That's good," Rhaenys said with a smile. "It means they're strong."
"Strong and stubborn. Like their father." Daenerys shot Jon a pointed look. "Yesterday I wanted to fly on Drogon, and His Grace here practically locked me in my chambers."
"You're five months pregnant!" Jon protested. "One wrong shift and you could—"
"I've been riding dragons since before this child was conceived," Daenerys interrupted. "I'm not made of glass, Jon."
"No, but you're carrying my son or daughter, and I won't risk either of you."
Rhaenys watched them bicker with affection.
She took a breath, her heart suddenly hammering. "Speaking of children..."
Both of them turned to her. Jon set down his cup.
"I saw Maester Marwyn this morning," Rhaenys continued, feeling her cheeks flush. "He confirmed what I suspected. I'm with child as well."
Daenerys's face lit up. "Rhaenys! Oh, sister!" She tried to rise, struggled slightly with her belly, and Jon helped her to her feet. Daenerys crossed to Rhaenys and embraced her tightly. "This is wonderful! How far along?"
"Just past two months. Early still, but..." Rhaenys laughed, suddenly giddy. "But it's real. I'm going to be a mother."
Jon was there then, pulling her up from her chair and into his arms. "This is—gods, Rhaenys." He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, laughing. "Two children. Two dragons."
"Our children will grow up together," Daenerys said, one hand on her belly, the other reaching for Rhaenys. "Cousins and siblings all at once. They'll be inseparable."
Jon held both women, and for a moment, everything was perfect. The three of them, bound by love and blood and now by the children they would raise together.
Then reality crept in.
"We should announce it at court," Daenerys said, returning to her chair. "Tomorrow, perhaps. The realm should know."
"After your child is born," Jon said. "No need to rush."
Rhaenys sat down slowly, suddenly aware of a tension in the room. "About that..."
Jon poured himself more wine. "The succession."
"We need to be clear," Daenerys said quietly. "For the realm's sake."
Rhaenys looked between them, her joy curdling slightly in her stomach. "What do you mean?"
Jon set down his cup and met her eyes. "My child with Daenerys, whether son or daughter, will be my heir. Born first, raised to rule."
"And... and our child?" Her voice came out smaller than she intended.
"Will be loved," Jon said, and he seemed genuinely not to understand her distress. "Will be a prince or princess. Will have lands, titles, everything befitting their station. But Daenerys's child comes first. That's how succession works."
Rhaenys stared at the table, her hands folded in her lap. She understood the logic. She did. First-born inheritance was the law of the realm, had been for centuries. But understanding didn't make it hurt less.
"Of course," she said quietly. "That makes sense."
Daenerys reached across the table, taking Rhaenys's hand. "All our children will be cherished, sister. All of them will be royal. But the realm needs clarity, needs to know who will sit the throne after Jon. Otherwise, it's civil war waiting to happen."
"I know." Rhaenys managed a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I understand. Truly."
Jon moved to her side, kneeling beside her chair. "Rhaenys, look at me."
She did, seeing the earnestness in his purple eyes.
"I love you," Jon said. "That doesn't change. Our child doesn't matter less because they weren't born first. Do you believe me?"
"I believe you love me," Rhaenys said. And she did. But love and power were different things, and she was Rhaegar's daughter—she knew that lesson all too well.
The dinner continued, though the joy had dimmed. They spoke of other things, nursery preparations, names they liked, how to manage the realm with two pregnant queens. But the succession hung over them like a shadow.
After Jon and Daenerys retired for the night, Rhaenys sat alone in the solar, one hand on her barely-swollen belly. She needed to tell her family. Needed to share this news properly, not have them hear it as court gossip.
She called for a servant. "Send word to Prince Oberyn, Princess Arianne, and Lady Tyene. Ask them to come to my chambers tomorrow afternoon. Tell them... tell them I have news to share."
The next day, Rhaenys's private chambers were warm with afternoon light. She'd had refreshments laid out—Dornish wine, candied lemons, dates stuffed with cheese. Jon and Daenerys sat with her, a united front.
Oberyn arrived first, his eyes immediately finding Rhaenys. "Little viper. You summoned me?"
"I wanted to tell you something. Something important." She gestured to a seat. "Please, Uncle. Wait for the others."
Arianne swept in moments later, radiant in yellow silk. "Cousin! This is mysterious. Should I be worried?"
"Not at all," Rhaenys said with a smile.
Tyene Sand came last. "Your Grace." She curtsied to all three rulers. "This is quite the gathering."
When they were all seated, Rhaenys stood. Her hand moved to rest on her stomach.
"I wanted you to hear this from me, not from court whispers," she began. "Grand Maester Marwyn confirmed it yesterday. I'm with child."
Arianne's face lit up instantly. "Rhaenys! Oh, cousin, this is wonderful!" She rose and embraced her, genuine joy in her voice. "A baby! Dorne will be so pleased. Mother will want to throw a feast that lasts a month."
Tyene's smile was more measured, but she inclined her head. "Congratulations, Your Grace. To all of you." Her eyes moved between the three Targaryens with an unreadable expression.
Oberyn was silent. He stared at Rhaenys for a long moment, then his face broke into something that might have been a smile. "A child. Elia's grandchild." He stood, moved to her, pulled her into his arms. "This is... this is good news, niece."
"I'm so happy, Uncle." Rhaenys clung to him. "I wanted you to be the first to know. You and Arianne and Tyene."
"How far along?" Arianne asked, settling back into her seat.
"Just past two months. Still early, but..." Rhaenys glanced at Daenerys, who was clearly six months pregnant. "But healthy. Strong."
"Two heirs," Tyene observed quietly. "The dynasty secure."
Something in her tone made Jon look at her sharply, but her face remained neutral.
"About that," Jon said, and the warmth in the room cooled slightly. He leaned forward. "We need to be clear about the succession. Daenerys's child, born first, will be my heir. That's the law of the realm. Birth order."
Oberyn went very still. The arm around Rhaenys stiffened.
"Of course," Arianne said smoothly, though her eyes had sharpened. "Perfectly reasonable. The firstborn inherits."
"Rhaenys's child will still be a prince or princess," Daenerys added gently. "Will still be royal, still have lands and titles. But the crown passes to my child first."
Rhaenys nodded, though her smile had become fragile. "I understand. We discussed this last night."
"Second," Oberyn said softly. His hand dropped from Rhaenys's shoulder. "Elia's grandchild will be second."
"That's how succession works, Prince Oberyn," Jon said, keeping his voice level. "I'm following the law. The same law that's governed Westeros for centuries."
"How convenient that the law favors your preferred woman's child."
"Uncle—" Rhaenys started.
"Though," Jon continued, speaking over her, "if Daenerys bears a daughter and Rhaenys bears a son, or the reverse, they would likely marry. Unite the line. That's been Targaryen custom since the Conquest."
Tyene's eyebrows rose slightly. Arianne looked genuinely interested.
"Marry?" Rhaenys asked.
"It makes sense," Daenerys said. "Keep the blood pure. Unite both our children's claims. If I have a son and you have a daughter, they wed. If you have a son and I have a daughter, the same."
"So Elia's grandchild would be consort to the Stark woman's grandchild," Oberyn said, his voice like ice. "Second throne, second title, second in all things. But good enough to marry the heir and produce the next generation."
"That's not—" Jon's patience was fraying. "That's not how I meant it."
"Isn't it?" Oberyn stood, moving away from Rhaenys. "Rhaegar married Elia. Used her to produce heirs. Then cast her aside for Lyanna. Now you do the same—oh, you're more civilized about it, I'll grant you. Both wives crowned, both honored. But when it matters, when the throne is at stake, Rhaenys comes second."
"The law—" Jon started.
"Damn your law!" Oberyn's control cracked. "Do you think Elia cared about law when they smashed her son's head against a wall? Do you think law mattered when the Mountain raped and murdered her?"
"Uncle, please," Rhaenys said, tears in her eyes. "This isn't the same."
"It's exactly the same!" Oberyn turned to her. "Can't you see it? The Dornish princess, always second. Always the afterthought. Your mother deserved better. You deserve better."
"I love him," Rhaenys said desperately. "I love them both. I chose this. Mother didn't choose her fate, but I choose mine."
Oberyn looked at her for a long moment, and something in his expression broke.
"I know you believe that, little viper." His voice gentled. "I know you think love is enough. That's what makes this hurt worse."
He turned to Jon. "You swear you love her? That this child will be cherished?"
"I swear it," Jon said firmly. "On my life. On my honor. Both children will be loved equally."
"Your honor." Oberyn's laugh was bitter. "Like your father's honor. Like Rhaegar's promises to Elia." He moved toward the door, then stopped. "I will not oppose this. For Rhaenys's sake, I will hold my tongue. But know this, King Aenar—I am watching. And if you fail her, if you cast her aside the way your father cast aside mine aunt, there will be a reckoning."
"Uncle—" Rhaenys reached for him.
He caught her hand, kissed it. "Be happy, niece. Enjoy this time. I pray I'm wrong about him." He glanced at Jon. "I pray you're not your father's son in all things."
Then he was gone.
Silence fell over the chamber. Tyene rose smoothly. "I should go as well. Congratulations again, Your Graces." She curtsied and left without another word.
Arianne lingered, moving to sit beside Rhaenys. "Don't let him ruin this for you. Uncle Oberyn sees ghosts everywhere. He can't let go of the past."
"He's not wrong though," Rhaenys said quietly. "Is he? My child will be second."
Arianne stood, kissed her cousin's forehead. "I'm happy for you. Truly. And Dorne will celebrate. Let me handle Uncle Oberyn. I'll talk to him, help him see reason."
After she left, Rhaenys sat between Jon and Daenerys, feeling hollowed out.
"I'm sorry," Jon said quietly. "I didn't mean for it to go that way."
"It's not your fault."
"He'll come around," Daenerys said. "Give him time."
Rhaenys nodded, but she didn't believe it. She'd seen the look in Oberyn's eyes. The same look he'd had when speaking of Gregor Clegane.
I am watching, he'd said.
And Rhaenys knew her uncle well enough to know: when Oberyn Martell watched, someone usually died