A Life in Westeros
Chapter 10 - Part 3
The Safehouse stood on a quiet canal in Braavos's Purple Harbor district—not ostentatious enough to draw the Sealord's eye, not shabby enough to invite thieves. Four stories of weathered grey stone, narrow windows shuttered with iron lattice, a single arched door painted the same dull green as the water lapping at the quay. From the outside it looked like any other merchant's townhouse: respectable, unremarkable, forgotten. The building blended seamlessly with its neighbors—plain stone facade streaked with salt from the sea air, no gilded signs or lavish carvings, just the faint creak of wooden shutters and the soft slap of canal water against the quay steps. A casual passerby would assume it housed a modest spice trader or a retired scribe, nothing more. Inside it was something else entirely.
Queen Rhaella Targaryen no longer wore silk or jewels. She wore plain wool in muted greys and blues—Braavosi cut, high-necked, long-sleeved, practical against the salt damp that never quite left the air. The fabric was thick enough to ward off the constant chill that seeped through the stone, yet soft from repeated washings, the color chosen deliberately to help her blend into the background of Braavosi life. Her silver hair was braided simply and pinned beneath a linen cap; no crown, no diadem, no trace of the royal style she had once been forced to maintain even in terror. The children called her "Mother" without titles now, and she answered without hesitation, the word feeling both foreign and achingly right after so many years of being addressed as "Your Grace" or worse. She moved through the house with quiet grace, her posture still carrying the echo of royal training, but her eyes held a new, guarded softness born of survival and motherhood.
The house belonged to no one on any public ledger. The deed was held through three layers of Braavosi shell companies, each one tied to a different Free City factor, each factor quietly indebted to a certain Riverlands lord who preferred his name spoken only in shadows. Servants came and went through the back courtyard—six in all, hired by Adian Frey's people months ago and paid triple what any Braavosi household would offer for silence. They were not slaves, not courtesans, not spies; they were professionals. A cook who had once fed a Pentoshi magister, a laundress who knew how to remove bloodstains without asking questions, two maids who never met the eyes of the silver-haired woman they served, a tutor who taught the children High Valyrian and arithmetic in equal measure, and an older woman named Lira who acted as nurse, confidante, and—when necessary—enforcer. Each servant had been chosen with care: discreet, competent, and bound by generous pay and the implicit understanding that speaking of the silver-haired woman and her children would end their comfortable lives. They moved through the house like ghosts—efficient, silent when needed, always watchful for any sign of trouble from the canals or the streets beyond.
Every morning began the same way.
Rhaella woke before dawn. The canal outside her window was still dark, the water black and glassy, reflecting only the faint lanterns of the earliest water taxis gliding past like ghosts. She rose quietly, the straw mattress creaking faintly under her weight, and wrapped a thick shawl around her shoulders against the persistent chill that seeped through the stone walls no matter how many fires burned below. The air always carried the faint, briny tang of the sea mixed with damp wood and old stone. She moved with practiced silence, bare feet padding across the cool floorboards, and crossed to the children's room next door.
Viserys still slept curled on his side like a small dragon guarding treasure, one arm flung protectively over Rhaenys's blanket, his silver hair tousled and sticking up in wild tufts. The girl—four now, all wide violet eyes and stubborn Targaryen chin—always woke first. The moment the door creaked open, she would sit up, small hands clutching the edge of the coverlet, her face lighting with that familiar mix of hope and caution.
"Is he coming today, Grandmother?" she asked every morning, voice small but steady, the question carrying the weight of months of waiting and quiet disappointment.
Rhaella would kneel beside the bed, the rough wool of her gown pooling around her knees, and brush a strand of silver-gold hair from the child's forehead with gentle fingers. She gave the same gentle answer she had given for months, her voice soft and reassuring, never wavering.
"Soon, sweetling. Our friend keeps his promises."
She never said his name. Adian Frey was never spoken aloud in this house—not by the queen, not by the children, not by the servants. He was "our friend," "the man who helped us," "the one who brought us here." The children understood without being told that some names carried weight that could sink a ship or bring fire to a city. They had learned that lesson early, in the smoke and terror of King's Landing, and the habit had stuck.
Breakfast was simple: porridge with honey and dried figs, fresh flatbread from the bakery two streets over, watered wine for Rhaella and goat's milk for the children. They ate in the small solar on the second floor, windows cracked open to the canal so they could watch the early barges and water taxis sliding past with their loads of fish, spices, and cloth. Viserys liked to count the oars, his small voice piping up with each stroke, sometimes arguing with himself about whether the count was right. Rhaenys liked to name the gulls that wheeled above the rooftops, giving them grand Valyrian titles like "Stormwing" or "Silverbeak." Rhaella listened, answered their questions with patient smiles, and corrected their Valyrian pronunciation when the tutor arrived at the ninth hour. She never raised her voice. She never struck them. She had not struck a living soul since the day Aerys last put hands on her, and she intended never to do so again. These children would know gentleness, even if the world outside did not.
The days passed in careful rhythm.
Mornings belonged to lessons. The tutor—a thin, bespectacled man named Maegor who claimed no relation to the infamous king—was meticulous and patient. He taught history without the Targaryen gloss: the Doom, Valyria's fall, the rise of the Free Cities, the Long Night, the Andals. He taught sums and letters, geography of the Narrow Sea, the names of Braavosi canals and the Titan's watchwords. Rhaella sat nearby with embroidery or a book, listening quietly, occasionally correcting a date or a name with a soft word. She had been queen, but she had also been a girl educated by maesters; she remembered more than most gave her credit for, and she poured that knowledge into her children with quiet determination, determined they would be prepared for whatever future awaited them beyond these walls.
Afternoons were for the children to play. The walled courtyard behind the house was small but safe—high brick walls topped with broken glass set in mortar, a single iron gate that Lira kept locked at all times. There was a lemon tree in one corner, its leaves bright green against the grey stone, a patch of mint and rosemary for the cook, and a wooden swing hung from a sturdy beam. Viserys chased wooden swords against imaginary foes, shouting battle cries in broken High Valyrian. Rhaenys built castles out of pebbles and shells brought back from the docks, decorating them with bits of colored glass and pretending they were the towers of Old Valyria. Sometimes Rhaella joined them—sitting on the stone bench, skirts spread around her, letting them climb into her lap and ask endless questions about dragons, about the Red Keep, about the father they barely remembered and the brother still unborn when they fled. She answered what she could, turning painful memories into gentle stories, shielding them as best she could from the horrors that had brought them here.
Evenings were quiet. Supper—stew or fish or lentil pottage—then stories by the hearth. Rhaella told them tales of Old Valyria, of Balerion's shadow over the Fourteen Flames, of the Doom that swallowed an empire in fire and ash. She never spoke of Summerhall, of the Trident, of the throne room where her husband burned men alive. Those memories were hers alone to carry, locked away so they would not poison her children's dreams. Instead she spoke of wonder and strength, of dragons soaring over mountains, of heroes who endured.
Night came early in the canals. The servants retired to their quarters on the lower floor. Lira checked every lock, every shutter, her sharp eyes missing nothing. Rhaella tucked the children in—kisses on foreheads, soft Valyrian lullabies whispered until their breathing evened out—then returned to her own room. She did not sleep easily. She never had. Instead she sat by the window, shawl around her shoulders, and watched the dark water reflect the moon. Sometimes she wept silently—tears that left no mark, no sound, sliding down her cheeks and falling onto the windowsill. Sometimes she simply stared, wondering when he would come, wondering what kind of man would risk so much for a fallen queen and her children, wondering if he would ever step through that green door again.
Adian Frey had saved them.
She remembered the night with painful clarity. The secret passage beneath the Red Keep, the stench of smoke and fear thick enough to choke on, Ser Willem Darry's cloak stained black with soot as he carried little Rhaenys in his arms and led Viserys by the hand. She had been eight months swollen with child, legs shaking with exhaustion and terror, certain every step would be her last, certain the wildfire would claim them all before they reached the water. The narrow stone corridor had felt like a tomb, the air hot and acrid, distant screams echoing from above as the city burned. Then the boat on Blackwater Bay—oars muffled with cloth, no lanterns, only the faint splash of water and the ragged breathing of the desperate. The larger ship waiting beyond the chain, its hull dark and anonymous against the night sky. A man in a hooded cloak had met them on deck. He had not spoken to her directly, only nodded once to Ser Willem and murmured something about "the debt being paid." His voice had been low, calm, the kind of voice that gave orders without raising it. The ship sailed before dawn, slipping past the wreckage and the flames. When she woke the next morning they were already far out to sea, Braavos on the horizon like a promise she barely dared to believe.
The man had never come aboard again. But the servants had appeared in Braavos as if conjured—quiet, efficient, unquestioning. Rent paid years in advance through anonymous channels. A purse of gold left with Lira for emergencies. Instructions delivered by raven in plain, untraceable script: keep them safe, keep them hidden, keep them alive. No more. No explanations. No demands. Only the steady, invisible hand of a man who had reached across half the world to pull them from the fire.
Rhaella did not know why he had done it.
She had met Adian Frey only once—formally, years before, at some interminable court feast in the Red Keep. A minor lordling from the Twins, polite, watchful, forgettable among the sea of brighter banners and louder voices. He had bowed correctly, spoken a few courteous words, and faded into the background. Yet that same man had risked everything—gold, name, perhaps his life—to spirit the last Targaryens out of a city that wanted them dead. She did not understand it. She did not trust it. But she was alive because of it. Her children were alive because of it. The unborn child she had carried that night now slept safely in the next room. That was fact. Everything else was shadow.
So she waited.
Some nights she dreamed of dragons—Balerion's shadow sweeping over the city, Vhagar's scream splitting the sky, Caraxes's blood-red scales flashing in firelight. She woke with tears on her cheeks and the phantom ache of wings she had never possessed, a hollow longing for a power that had burned away with her house. Other nights she dreamed of fire—not Aerys's wildfire, but something colder, more deliberate. A man with dark hair and steady eyes watching her from across a burning room, his gaze calm amid the chaos. She always woke before she could see his face clearly, heart pounding, the ache in her chest sharper than any physical wound.
The children asked less often now. Viserys still spoke of "when Father comes back," though the words had grown rote, like a prayer he no longer fully believed, his small voice tinged with doubt he tried to hide. Rhaenys had stopped asking about the Iron Throne; she asked instead about the Titan, about the canals, about whether the gulls had names and if they ever got tired of flying. Rhaella answered every question with patience she had not known she possessed, her voice steady even when her heart clenched at the innocence in their eyes.
Lira found her one evening standing at the window again, staring at the dark water as it reflected the scattered lanterns along the canal.
"He'll come when it's safe, Your Grace," the older woman said quietly. She never used the title in front of the children, but here—alone—she allowed it, a small acknowledgment of who Rhaella had once been.
Rhaella did not turn.
"I know."
"He's a careful man. Cautious. The kind who plans years ahead."
"I know."
A pause. The canal water lapped softly against the quay, a gentle, endless rhythm.
"You think of him often," Lira said—not accusing, simply observing, her voice carrying the weight of someone who had seen too many broken women waiting for absent men.
Rhaella's fingers tightened on the sill, knuckles whitening.
"I think of the children. I think of tomorrow. I think of the day after. The rest… is noise."
Lira nodded once, then withdrew without another word, the soft click of the door the only sound she left behind.
Rhaella stayed at the window until the moon crossed the narrow strip of sky visible between the rooftops. Somewhere far off a bell tolled the hour—eleven, perhaps midnight. She closed the shutter, latched it with careful fingers, and crossed to the bed. She did not undress. She simply lay down on top of the coverlet, hands folded over her stomach where the child had once kicked, where the ache of his absence still lingered like an old wound that refused to fully heal.
She closed her eyes.
And waited.
Tomorrow would come. Lessons, meals, stories, the same careful rhythm that kept them hidden and alive. The children would grow a little taller, ask a few more questions, learn a few more words of Valyrian. The servants would watch with quiet competence. The canal would flow on, black and endless, carrying secrets and barges and the faint hope of another day.
And one day—perhaps soon, perhaps years from now—the door would open.
A man with dark hair and steady eyes would step inside.
He would not bow. He would not kneel.
He would simply look at her and say, in that low, certain voice she remembered from a single meeting years ago:
"I told you I would keep you safe."
And Rhaella Targaryen—once queen, now simply a mother in a rented house on a quiet canal—would finally exhale.
Until then, she waited.
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