bronzebtch - Tumblr blog

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blog status — alright, after a lot of consideration, i think i'm announcing a total hiatus of this blog, or rather, i'm moving rhea back to my multi ! this is simply because i'm definitely still open to writing her though i've found myself being more active there. thus, my decision. of course, i'm always available on discord ( though admittedly i am sparse there as well ) , and again, my multi is open for any rhea-related interactions :)

* on that note : save from odette's ( stcrmhund ) reply, i will drop all threads i've held on this blog. if you'd like to salvage and continue one ( or some! ) though, please always, always, reach out to me and i'd love to continue developing our dynamic once more <3 again, i am reachable on my multi, forgaeven, for any query.

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Gemma Arterton as Alice Archer in Rogue Agent (2022) dir.Declan Lawn,Adam Patterson

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There's a slight smirk tugging at his lips as he stands there with his arms folded, watching her orchestrate her commands to the many workers building the stepstones castle. He finally decides to draw close to and when he does. he leans close and whispers in her ear, ever so lewdly as she would put it, ' it's a shame the tent has no walls. I would've loved to fuck you hard against one of them, wife. '

despite her husband's frustration, rhea has it in her thoughts that the construction to the new keep is doing rather well.

if anything, it is going along much better considering the still quite-fragile state of lands around the area. after all, the isles near the south are still populated with stray and stubborn pirates, as well as the few supporters of the crabfeeder, despite the efforts of her lord husband's army to vanquish them. whatever meagre fort they did manage to build in the meantime, it is clearly serving its uses to help establish a domain of support — whether that be a place of rest, to heal, to socialise, commute; the soldiers are returning and going at a rate that's momentously encouraging. no large losses, that is; no more battles with more than half the men injured or clueless, if they were battles at all.

the keep, all the while, gains itself in mass, length, and height. these days, the men who occupies the space are more builders than fighters. there are craftsmen of every size and kind: roadmakers, stonemasons, bricklayers, cartmen, painters, carvers, and all the added staff in between. rhea has glanced over the print of the new keep only a few times. it is a challenge to not only build a new castle that will reflect the royal house it will be inherited to, which means prestige and grandeur will certainly be something the builders will be expected to integrate, but to keep in mind the harsh conditions of these lands as well.

aye, it will be a challenge indeed — which rhea is beginning to question whether it's fortunate or quite unfortunate that she seems to lean towards and typically thrive on challenges, seeing as the month she intended to be away from runestone is now slowly becoming a month of her adopting a commanding role in stepstones instead. in all honesty, once having been put at work, rhea does not mind the change of environment as much, nor this new role she's found herself saddled with. still, it does not mean it is not a little bit disappointing.

and just because of that, at her husband's direct suggestion, rhea gives little away except the raise of her brows.

a beat.

❝ i would have liked that, ❞ she tells him quite honestly, though straight-faced and plainly, as if she were speaking nothing more than a change of the stonemasons they hired, or the weather for the day. she thinks about sweating bodies and her husband's sculpted back, though she schools her expressions enough to, again, not give much away except for the purposeful manner in which she flicks her eyes downwards, taking his body right in. this choice is deliberate: she intends for him to remember all the ways he has had her; all the ways he has let her touch him; and how true it is that she'd be willing, if only they were not in public and she were not put to work.

alas — ❝ what a shame, indeed. ❞

with that, she turns back to the scene of the working men, heading ahead to discuss the choice of stones the roadmakers were intending to use for the civilian road.

@dastardlydaemon — random asks.

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by Nancy King

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he speaks in riddles now, it seems.

i'm the son of no king, when the truth is evident. if he is no son of any king, he would not have worn the crown. rhea would not have met him again in such a manner that they had met, which was terrifyingly official and dripped in the expected decorum one expected when one meets those of the royal blood. you bow at certain cues, you hold your tongue, you pretend you're enjoying the conversation. she would have known - that was not the first time she'd to face, or be granted an audience, with a king before.

don't misunderstand me, he quickly follows the first statement, i wouldn't wish to be the son of a sailor, and rhea's impatience had nearly gotten to her. for a moment there, she nearly frees her thought; nearly wants to bite out, what is so wrong with being the son of a sailor, even though such an argument is fruitless given the revelation that's unfolded between them. after all, her first defensive argument would have been that she'd known a son of sailor once, and he had taught her freedom no one else had cared to.

still — rhea bears no ill thought towards those of modest birth. she has dealt with many folks of many classes and from many backgrounds, given her role. none have offended her as much as her own husband's house, and they were the top of the social class. no, there was nothing wrong with being the son of a sailor - which was something klaus had been to her for a long, long time. a statement which stood to further prove how much exactly she knows nothing of him; and with that, how much of her belief that she'd built from knowing him now is crumbling apart.

he comes forward, reaching out —

and rhea's brown eyes, for a moment, flickers to his hands; recognising the action. her breath follows. in that few seconds that he had moved, she holds her breath, as if anticipating ( as if daring ) for what would have easily happened years and years ago. that is, him grasping onto her. and her, welcoming him right in. they'd twirl and twirl, wouldn't they ? in another life, she might have even smiled; told him, welcome back. in this life, he wore gloves. rhea's first thought is: why would he wear gloves ?

❝ ... if i were to propose a new place for us to meet — ❞ and oh, what a way to ignite a scandalous rumour if word were to ever get out, yet rhea persists. she is brave. in her expression, there is nothing to frighten the lady of runestone. ❝ — one where i am sure there would be no ears nor eyes to trail after us... ❞ her brown eyes flicker to his face. ❝ will you say yes ? will you tell me what happened ? ❞

what a lie. her not knowing him, when she is the one person in the world who can claim otherwise.

rhea is the one person who knows him. not his title, or his accomplishments, or any of his many claims to fame ( for there are many ) which have spread across the world. despite all the lies, and again there were way too many, he was always himself around her. she got to see not just a glimpse of the man behind the masks, but the full picture; never obsfucated, or eclipsed. in front of her, in spite of all of it, the truth reigned supreme.

his version of the full truth, anyway.

❛⠀⠀i might as well be. i've heard rumors i'm the son of a footman, of a diplomat from westeros, and even the bastard son of a powerful sorcerer. i have no idea which one is the truth, but i can assure you, i'm the son of no king. ⠀ ⠀ ❜ ⠀ ⠀nikolai knows that this is not what she meant. rhea was attempting to build a wall between them by pointing out the hundreds of lies he used to build their kingdom. the only weapon he has in his arsenal against such a defense, is a frontal attack, shattering the wall with the truth.

he is the son of no king. the bastard prince of ravka, their king of scars.

❛⠀⠀ don't misunderstand me. i wouldn't wish to be the son of a sailor. i have a duty to my kingdom. you understand that. ⠀ ⠀ ❜

more than anyone, she's always understood the burdens of duty. nikolai goes in search of it now. it was a subject he couldn't indulge her as a child, only listening politely, asking few questions, trying to not let it show how much he was absorbing and using it to build his own code.

now he comes charging forward, hand reaching forward between them.

❛⠀⠀ don't tell me you don't recognize me? have i aged so terribly? ⠀ ⠀ ❜

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They’re lying, your honor.

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you were my town, now i’m in exile, seein' you out

❝ i hardly call this an exile, ❞ she says so around a petulant, and stubborn, pout. not that she would think anyone would dare to describe her expression as a pout, at least not quite to her face. rhea had always carried herself with a specific manner, after all. she will one day inherit her father's seat to their ancestral land, and, if all goes well, she would soon be married to the prince of her kingdom — not quite the heir, but a very close second indeed. a soon-to-be princess cannot pout; to be in the position she will soon wear, she must stand regale. proud. unbothered.

it's clear that she is not, though.

aside from the pout, if one were to look closer — or if one, like klaus, who has known her beyond the role that's been assigned to her their whole lives — surely they must spot the hesitancy in this... in this goodbye. in this particular parting. surely they would see indeed that there is a huge struggle in the way the young lady of runestone is trying her very best to be composed, but something inside falters. something inside cannot yet let go. could this really be the last time she would see of klaus ? he is wrong in that sense, he must be. he is not in exile, and he's no reason to believe so. even with marriage, can they not see each other ? rhea is not so prude to not allow men to interact with her; she will still be the lord of her kingdom one day, and klaus will be a great merchant, an ally in sea trading. their adventures will be different, surely, but —

she will not lose him, would she ... ?

❝ and if anything, is it not the opposite ? ❞ that it is her who will see him out ? though she does not like to think of such, which rhea demonstrates, when she shakes her head at the thought, the pout somehow growing as she turns her gaze away. she resents this. she resents this quite vehemently. she wishes not for this to end. she wants klaus to be with her all the time; she mourns, quite suddenly, for all the hope and dreams that he'd fed her, the ones they both know they could not accomplish together. she will be taken, after all; and klaus belongs to the sea. oh, if only.

❝ klaus ! ❞ she calls, once he's turned his body and ready to aboard his ship. rhea runs through the crowd. she grabs hold of the coarse materials of his coat, while her one hand grasps — quite hastily — to pull upon his face so that their lips would meet. rhea does not think it is a good kiss. it is forced, and she might have put too much force for it to be anything nice to be remembered by. clumsy with her inexperience, desperate even through her lack of charm. though she kisses him still, with all the ferventness she could muster, with all the teenaged passion she otherwise would never allow herself to indulge in.

this is alright. with klaus, there isn't a need to necessarily put up a guard or a farce or whatever else. with klaus, she's... she's this. his wildling lady.

❝ ... i apologise, ❞ she says after, her mouth pink. for a moment, she is dazed as she tries to explain: ❝ i - i wanted - ❞ what ? what does she want ? rhea isn't quite sure. she is overwhelmed with him leaving; heart-torn with the thought that this might be the last time they'll meet, or have the summers as the simple children that they once were. beyond that though, why had she done what she'd done ? her mouth and kisses are not for klaus. she is meant to be betrothed for another. this is not some fanciful tale of a noble lady who's fallen for a whimsical sailor, and yet — rhea searches klaus' eyes, and she knows.

much more firmly, she settles with: ❝ i wanted. ❞

and with klaus, it feels safe to — at least it has, while it lasted. rhea shall have no regret.

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infidelity wins cause feeling the other person's wedding ring on your skin while having sex is kinda the most erotic thing ever

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❝  i know not who you are,  ❞ she answers him  —

not quite angrily, not quite as pointedly as one in her position perhaps had ought to be. instead, there is a small, defeated smirk that curls there at the edges of her mouth, almost in mocking. the stupid, hopeful little girl, who made friends with the anonymous sailor boy. the very same one whom she did not think further to investigate the background of. she had simply... trusted him. she had simply had faith. she had planted a sense of nobility she thought everyone would aspire to.

she trusted the queen as well. she had absolute faith in her father. whatever she commanded, rhea had been so willing to follow. whatever he decreed to be good for the prospect of their house's future, rhea had believed. she had sought so much of honour at the feet of the targaryens, hoped so much that there'd be a day when such injustice will finally be met with consequences — they do not. now the queen is kept in her crypt; her lord husband make his way through the street of silks or any whore houses who would accept him.

rhea is left with the pieces. she has always been left with only pieces.

how shocked could she be that it is the same with klaus ?

❝  not entirely. as i've said, one either lies, or he does not. you must choose your poison, your grace. the boy i knew was no king. he was the son of a sea merchant. he was— kind, and adventurous, and lively. he was... he is dear to me.  ❞

and the sea took him. or rather, a war had emerged, and rhea was already someone else's bride that longing and wishful letters would have been inappropriate; salacious, at most, for her to send. or maybe it's a different option altogether : klaus had never existed. therefore, why would the summers they spent together be any more real than her marriage which is entirely only in name ?

still, is this not hurt that lodges itself deep in her throat ? is this not heartache that she feels when her brown eyes land on him, as if re-visiting whether he is there at all, that he has not yet disappeared, not existing in some distant imagination she remembers holding on to in the early years when he was gone, and her marriage was slowly unfolding itself to be a ruined one, an abandoned one ? when she looks to him, does apart of her not want to spring into his arms, to fly back into their past, to spring down those shores and hills and gather the shells and berries for the picking ?

how could that not be real ? how could that not have existed ? why would he lie at all ? — rhea does not ask any of that. instead,

❝  i'm glad, then. ravka is fortunate to have you as their king.  ❞

❛⠀⠀says who? you know i’ve never played by what is supposedly possible. ⠀ ⠀ ❜

it is in the space between the possible and the impossible that he shines. proving that the latter is only a characterization used by those without imagination. which, just as well, he doesn’t want a clever enemy. as long as he is twice as smart as the other side, he can play the impossible card for his benefit, always acting in a manner that no other person might expect.

like now. the newly crowned king of ravka stands before an old friend, the one person in the world who can claim the title of his closest confidant, despite the distance that’s crept into their relationship in the past few years. marriage, a war, fake identities and lies all filling up the space between them until the physical distance between their lands actually measured how far away they were from each other.

where before he felt like he carried her everywhere, her words in his breast pocket, her advice swirling in his mind. since the war started, that clever voice went silent. no longer there to push him further when he felt hopeless, lost in the wind as he tried to hold his country together.

❛⠀⠀i’m not worried about your anger. i’m a little perturbed by you calling me your grace. that’s... that’s not me. ⠀ ⠀ ❜ ⠀ ⠀ not when i’m here. not when i’m with you. it had been foolish of him to think that everything would be the same, that the lies and the time that passed wouldn’t matter once they were once again together.

but, that was him. underneath all that grandeur and cleverness, he was still just a little bit foolish.

❛⠀⠀many tried. none succeeded, i’m harder to kill than i look.⠀ ⠀ ❜⠀ ⠀ after all, if there is anything this war taught him, is that a monster can’t be killed.

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the way i’ve got a decent amount of muse and nearly zero amount of energy

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sneaks in here. i rlly thought i’d be online yesterday but i guess not 🤷‍♀️ i do have an outing today with friends and !! if i’ve got energy left, i’d love to do some replies here 🫶 we shall see though. until then, i hope everyone is doing lovely 💛

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Rookery, Traci Brimhall

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are we all to succumb to prince daemon’s fury then? the queen asks, and what would be so different, rhea wonders. whether it be the niece and the queen of the blacks, with her former lord husband as her voice; or it be this fresh green king, with the hand of the king who was envied so heavily by the court and who was once discarded, to play at politics behind his reign, what would be different ? aye, the queen now spoke of the fact that her own faction had not yet resulted to murdering — that much is true — but she suspects it would not be long until even such an accusation they are avoiding would come to fruition.

as she has said, such are the nature of dragons. they burn. they wreak havoc. they inspire fear.

the lady royce is not so stupid to think that, with the tension thick in the air, with only such minor effort for the dam to genuinely break and flood the whole realm with this promise of civil war, it would not end in its own version of bloodshed. how would it be, she wonders ? would the sky be reddened with blood from the fight in the sky ? or would it be so because it is reflecting the blood that has soaked itself across the plains of the land below ? whatever it is, whoever it would be that stands at the end of it, rhea shall ask again : what would be so different of the upcoming reign than the one before ?

there is no honour in this house.

there is only greed, only the absolution of power, or — as rhea takes in the way queen alicent might have as well bitten each of her argument out — the denial of such. that one... that one, the lady of runestone could admit, is new. there is an anger in alicent hightower which rhea feels is so similar to her own, it would have had her head spinning had she been standing. she is thankful she is not. were they in any circumstances besides this, rhea has half the heart to hunch forward, to grip a hand, to ask, quite fiercely, quite heart-achingly : how did they hurt you ? how did they ignore you ? did it burn the same ? or did they find places in you they strike again and again ? were they claw marks, or bite marks ? did you scream ? i did. so loud. no one heard it. and then i learned not to. was it the same with you ?

admittedly, there would be no comfort rhea could genuinely offer; simply companionship, perhaps. though she wonders if the red-headed queen would wish upon it. after all, their circumstances may align once — it is not anymore. the hightower daughter rose to become queen; rhea, in the meantime, has only been replaced. the-wife-barely-used; the-wife-tossed-aside. she does not mind this, of course. she is simply still quite miffed that, no matter how much she separates herself from this damn house, it always has its way of trudging right back to drag her in. when will they release her ? will death truly be the final act of mercy ?

well then, let death know it will not find her waiting idly. she is the blood of the first men, the lady chosen by the late good queen, the wife her husband could not kill. there is a reason she is not yet buried six feet under in her family's crypt. too stubborn to forever-sleep, coughed her cousin once, laughing.

❝ i will be a traitor either or, my queen — either i am branded so by the son you've crowned, or the queen in dragonstone. that is how disputes of the crown works, no ? ❞ in truth, the queen's offer is simply not strong enough, even if the points she has laid out is true, and rhea has little to deny. she is, however, simply not interested to change sides. let her stance stay with rhaenyra targaryen, heir to viserys targaryen. rhea has made her vows. and true to her words, she would not forsake it.

still, to admit so openly would be a death sentence. what shall they do with her if she rejects this offer ? no doubt there'd be a pretty cell for her to sit and ponder in. rhea could not let it be. there are still some loose ends in runestone she must care for. ❝ release me to runestone, and i shall consider your offer and take it to lady jeyne of arryn for further reconsideration. perhaps, if all goes well, the council of the whole vale would be willing to... listen to the green's side of the matter. would that be amendable, your grace ? ❞

   “are we all to succumb to prince daemon’s fury then?   i have little intention to allow the realm into becoming his plaything.   which is sure to happen even if we kneel now.   who do you think would be behind the princess’s ruling, my lady rhea?   the princeling even my lord husband wished to spare the realm off, even though he’d never admit it due to the love he always bore for his kin.”

alicent had lived in the red keep nearly her entire life.   there was little she did not know.   she may be young, naive at times, but she was not stupid, and she was well accustomed to the mayhem which characterized the rogue prince.   under certain light, his bravery could perhaps count as charm;   but now, he loomed as naught but a threat they ought to be mindful of.   daemon was their greatest enemy.   rhaenyra, for all her delight, would achieve naught without his protection, even if she possessed the velaryon wealth to back her.   naturally, dragons can only be fought with dragons.   but if they are to accept prince daemon’s dominance, there was little hope for anything at all.

  “because we are not burning or otherwise murdering.” the queen mother declared with an exhale, bearing the exhaustion of the past days, as she laced her fingers atop the table.   still, she held her spine straight.   “we’ve hardly made attempts of such, lady rhea.   our king’s hand, my lord father, is doing everything in his power to postpone unnecessary bloodshed, to settle matters through diplomacy and ravens.   whilst the supporters of our uprising black usurper queen have already resorted to violence.   at the earliest, the princess rhaenys—as it seems solidarity amongst the ladies of this realm must have a mother standing before a dragon to protect her child.” she remembered them well, the vile eyes of the red queen and the beasts’s foul breath.   the stench of sulfur lingering to her nostrils, still.   yet had she choose again, she would have still stood in front of her firstborn and defy a dragonrider and their beast, if need be.

she smiled then, finally leaning against her seat.   still, she stroked along the marble of the table.   even in her late years she was adamant to cease the damage she so stubbornly inflicted on her fingers. “although, as the realm well knows, a single person cannot shield another from dragonfire.   i’d be as good protection to king aegon as walls thick of two meters.   princess rhaenys murdered dozens of smallfolk on her way to the skies.   the bells rung in mourning for the lost, you see, however little solace as it may be.   though, we’re still withholding violence.   that is what we offer, lady rhea.   to light the way, if you wish, with our fires.   whether they are born of dragonbreath, or oiled timbre.”

any supporting lord and castle was valuable.   none could be spared.   noble lords could only do so much without their bannermen and their vessel houses.

  “we also offer protection of the crown, of course.   for if you do not bend the knee, lady rhea, i am afraid our council would be obligated to consider you a traitor.   and that is not a fate befitting of your noble house.   it isn’t befitting of you.   all of us know you’ve always held your chin high in the face of duty and responsibility.   i, the queen dowager, recognise it above all.   and you shan’t compare your circumstances to that of the princess.   you both deserve and have earned your right as ruling lady.   none shall take that away from you.” 

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need this AU badly actually,

lady in waiting AU — rhea was apart of princess aemma's household as her lady-in-waiting and companion. she spent her childhood since she was eight / nine years old in king's landing, alternating between the springs to return home to the vale and resumes her education as her father's heir. this au may include an alternative fate where she was never considered as prince daemon's bride since she may grew up alongside the targaryen princes and princesses, and queen alysanne deemed rhea "too similar" to her grandson¹, thus dismissing her as a candidate; or, ofc, it could follow the similar storyline where she is the bride chosen for da3mon, completely unexpected by either of them.

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If I offered my heart, I believe you would accept it. But that heart is already laid on a sacred altar: the fire is arranged round it. It will soon be no more than a sacrifice consumed.

Charlotte Brontë, from ‘Jane Eyre’

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brat

she raises her chin, cocky. an eyebrow raised.

she does not answer him.

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her cheers are coloured pink at her cousin's sudden burst of laughter.

immediately, rhea feels ... embarrassed, though it is unlike in the way she's had them when it comes to the members of this family before. there is no— no shame associated with this embarrassment, no sense of utter failure which will be upon her for all to judge, no grievance to have followed such a feeling. it is only embarrassment of a lady who knows she is speaking of a subject that is beyond her knowledge, and her dearest cousin has clearly picked up on it. rhea tries to internally justify that it is alright, it is understandable that she does not know, that she would've likened such pleasure to the next activity she finds most easing to her everyday routine — for how could she have had an opinion otherwise ?

rhea refuses to follow her lord husband's footsteps, after all. she has taken an oath, and her family has always been diligent with those. or, at the very least, the main branch of her family had been. honour is important to house royce; it is what taught her that the lordship she carries is no mere privilege. no mere excuse to flaunt her riches or her land. there is responsibility attached to such a title, and there is a whole townsfolk she must care for, including their health, their simple livelihood, and the economy surrounding it. aside from that, as she's mentioned before, she could not afford to make mistakes. if all must be ruined, let it be known that her hands were clean. or mostly clean.

aye, it is true, perhaps she had not been so kind to her lord husband, easily rising up to each new anger or insult he's shown, but she will not be the one to remember when one recalls who abandoned this barren marriage. rhea royce has always been here; daemon targaryen has not.

❝  perhaps one day,  ❞ she tells her cousin dearly, the embarrassment tempered with aemma's gentle offer. rhea must admit... it does not sound— so abhorrent, knowing that there is someone to look, someone to ask her queries, should she anticipate answers. it would not have enticed word of scandals anyway, for this was no mere lord nor lady whom rhea is directing her questions towards. and oh, how lovely it is, isn't it ? to still find something kind and good to hold even amidst such a ruinous house. had it not been for aemma, rhea wonders if she could even stomach returning to king's landing.

the young queen's mention of a baby who once lived halted all of rhea's more louder thoughts though. she grows quiet, and the air grows sullen. aemon, aemma says in a quiet voice. of course, rhea has heard of a babe once, dying in a cradle thereafter, though she herself had been so young, and the discussions of infant's deaths are not so rare. back then, she remember only listening to it solemnly along with father; they had prayed in front of the heart tree after that. curious — how, at present, a news of death now becomes... more solid. truthful. real. the babe was a boy. and for a while, he did live.

❝ no one will come for the princess, you know this. ❞ she assures her cousin, determined. fierce. ❝  she is the realm's delight. if anything were to happen, i've no doubt we'll go for war to have her back. and if it is illness that is of your concern, she— she is so strong. had she not already taken interest in riding a dragon ? she will live. and she will live well. and soon, you'll have no need to birth more babes. hopefully, my king good-brother will see it soon, how this is enough.  ❞

aemma can tell that her cousin neither understands what she is referring to, nor cares much about experiencing the same as everyone else. truth be told, aemma would never find pleasure in the martial bed alone. her husband is ill suited to satisfy that need, but had it not been for her ladies and cousin, the young queen also would not know what pleasure truly is, nor care for it. sharing the bed with viserys has always ever just been a duty, not something she sought to enjoy. it was a means to an end and it quickly became a burden through the years, because of the pressure implied by lying with him. her duty to have a son, bear an heir that lives and give her husband what he needs. but should it not be more? sometimes she wishes she had the same freedom as a man and could explore sexuality in ways that have been withheld from her.

when rhea hesitantly speaks and compares what aemma described to hunting, the older cousin snorts a laugh, which she tries to stifle, because of the late hour and the way their conversation has been hushed whispers so far. "that is not even close to the same, my dear heart. but i am glad you enjoy the hunt", she giggles and leans over to press a fond kiss to rhea's cheek. "if you ever wish to pursue this sort of satisfaction, i am your humble servant to tell you what i know and teach you. if you are contented the way you are, that is also a wonderful thing." maybe there are women who truly do not seek pleasure and can live without it. aemma did for a long time, until she was so fed up with the whispers and talks of her ladies about such things, that she decided to find out what they meant. it is surely nothing vital to life, but it can nonetheless be pleasant.

her hand finds rhea's again and she laces their fingers. "have i ever told you that i had a son before i met you?" it is a rhetorical question, because she knows she has never spoken to rhea about it. in truth, aemma never speaks about it at all to anyone, because no one has cared in years. she was five and ten when rhea came into her life, heavily pregnant with rhaenyra and somehow the lives they led before that day were never much of a topic in their conversations. back when it happened, aemma was only a princess and she doubts many people know about the little boy that lived for a week and then slipped away. "his name was aemon, after my uncle, and he was perfect. everyone was sure he was healthy, but one morning he was gone. and almost everyone in the family expected me to move on as if nothing had happened, because viserys was without an heir again, so 3 months later i was pregnant once more and had rhaenyra. i am glad she is so healthy and happy, but that is why i am so anxious when it comes to her. it is hard to let her be a normal child when i see threats behind every corner."