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"My sweet winter child."

-Queen Alysanne, on Gael the Winter Princess

100 AC, Dragonstone

Dark. Grim. Foreboding.

Those were the three words that came to mind when one described Dragonstone. Both the castle and the island.

Sheer cliffs of basalt and volcanic rock rose out of the ocean, dark as night and crusted with grass so dark the green looked black. Interspersed between them were beaches were black sand. Basalt and obsidian from the volcano. Cooled magma and ash. All reduced to powder by the encroaching sea over millennia. Further inland, the rocks rose even higher, growing into hills and mountains. Some covered on grass, though most were bare stone. And yet they were all dwarfed by the colossal Dragonmont volcano at the heart of the island, towering above all, still exhaling clouds of steely ash and smoke like a slumbering dragon. 

And at the foot of the volcano, nestled in a natural deepwater harbour, was Dragonstone castle. Fashioned completely out of black fused stone, held together without mortar. Grim and gothic, and covered with enough statues of mythological creatures to fill several zoos, it fulfilled every edgelord fantasy I'd ever had as a teenager. The Red Keep was larger, and boasted taller towers, though Dragonstone's indestructible curtain walls were thrice as high as the Red Keep's.

Though I was born and raised in the Red Keep, this castle was home in a way. This was where my ancestors first migrated to from the Valyrian Freehold. Where the three Conquerors were born and raised. The site of our first and oldest castle.

"Not scared, sweetling?" My grandfather Baelon asked gently, picking me up so that I'd have a better view of the castle and town.

"No." I simply said. "I'm brave, Grandpa. Like you."

"That you are, my dear." Baelon agreed. "Rhaenyra the Brave."

"I'm surprised you're not scared." My father Viserys idly said, coming to stand by our side. "Your aunt Gael always cried when she saw Dragonstone. Said it gave her nightmares"

I wasn't surprised. Auntie Gael was mentally handicapped. Pour soul never aged mentally beyond eight.

I remember the first time I'd met her. Back when I was still relearning how to crawl. If someone had told me she was seven instead of seventeen, I'd believe them. My great-aunt was short and small for her age, with a baby-face and flat chest to boot. Combined with her mental age, it made her seem an entire decade younger than she actually was. We made a fun pair. A toddler with a mind far older than she actually was, and a teenager with a mind far younger than she actually was.

I'd seen similar developmental disabilities twice in my life. My cousin Matt had a similar issue. His body grew, but his mind was always that of a four-year-old. He could neither read nor write, and spoke with great difficulty. An acquaintance of mine, Rick, had it both better and worse. That guy's mental ageing stopped at twelve, so he could at least work a job and function in society, but he suffered from a list of other mental issues longer than my shopping list. All stemming from the fact that he was a twelve-year-old in the body of a man twice that age. At least Matt was too young mentally to even comprehend, much less suffer from such ailments.

Gael split the difference between those two. She was older mentally than Matt, but younger than Rick. She was considerably more functional than either, with neither Matt's underdevelopment or Rick's various mental issues. Or so I thought, before her stillbirth shattered her spirit, leading to her suicide.

She might have lived longer, but Alysanne had been unable to bring herself to give her favourite daughter Moon Tea.

"I miss Auntie Gael." I replied, looking off into the distance. "She was sweet and nice."

A pallor had come over the once jovial mood of us royals. Neither Baelon nor Viserys were particularly close to Gael, as she was a quarter of a century younger than her brother and four years younger than Viserys, whom mostly hung out with boys in his childhood anyway. Those two got over her death quickly, but my aunt had always doted on me, frequently spending time with me.

Gael made a great catspaw for my mischief and sundry schemes. It would have been suspicious to see a toddler scheming away, but Gael was the perfect puppet in that regard. Never questioning my orders. Obediently following them, and never asking why they were given, how was a toddler giving them or why she should obey them. And though I knew she was doomed to die, her death had been a blow. It hurt more than I'd expected. I'd been fonder of her than I believed, and shed genuine tears when she died.

I always found it strange why Matt was my aunt's favourite child, but now I knew why. There was a sweet purity to Gael's actions. She wasn't duplicitous, had no hidden agenda or expectations, wearing her heart on her sleeve. When she asked how your day was doing, you knew that it was a genuine question from the heart, asked because Gael cared for you, instead of it being asked because she wanted something else or because it was societally required. And she was sweet, kind and obedient. To the point where you felt bad for manipulating her.

No wonder why Alysanne loved her so much.

"Yes, she really was a great nanny, wasn't she?" My father sadly said.

On the contrary, Gael was a horrible nanny by any reasonable standard. The only reason why I liked her so much was because she gave me free reign whenever she babysat. She obeyed my every instruction unquestioningly. Including my order to dismiss the other nannies whenever she babysat, allowing me to scheme in peace. The other nannies would have been alarmed if they saw a toddler scheming away, but Gael didn't understand why my behaviour was out of the ordinary.

In fact, a serious argument could be made that it was I that was babysitting Gael, and not the other way around.

"You should have listened, when I said she needed to be watched." I accused, both my father and grandfather recoiling at my words. After the stillbirth, I'd tried to comfort Aunt Gael, and even if I wasn't a medical professional, I could outright tell that she was in a dangerous state of mind. But I was only a toddler at the time, and none of the 'older and wiser' adults had the foresight to listen to me. Dismissing my concerns and saying that her mental issues were just 'women problems'.

"Yes, you were right, Rhaenyra. You're always right." My father hastily agreed.

"Oh, we're about to dock, go find your mother, Little Dragon." My grandfather simultaneously said, putting me down and practically shooing me away.

———

You know that old stereotype where grandma puts you on her lap, sits on a rocking chair and knits by the fireplace? That was exactly what Queen Alysanne did to me.

Father was drunk, and had taken Mother to the bedchamber, pawing lecherously at her the entire time. And Grandpa was visiting my grandmother Alyssa's ashes in the crypt beneath the castle. So my great grandmother agreed to babysit me for the evening. Personally, I think she just wanted to spend some alone time with me. Queen Alysanne was lonely and starved of affection, particularly from a child.

I didn't mind. She was one of my great inspirations and admired figures of our dynasty.

The Good Queen was old and small. She was still the single most beautiful older woman I'd ever met, with a slender build and firm face that stood unbowed to loose skin. She had wrinkles, but they didn't mar her face overmuch. It was a graceful ageing, for all that my great-grandmother loathed it. She looked far better than the grandmothers I'd had in my last life. Being neither wrinkled nor shrunken, like my maternal grandmother, and neither fat nor balding like my paternal grandmother.

But for all that she still retained most of her dignity and beauty, the years hadn't been kind to her. She was unsteady and frail, requiring a cane to walk. Her hearing had slowly began to fail. But most cruelly, fate had seen fit to strip her of most of her children. No mother should outlive a child, and Queen Alysanne had outlived ten.

God. How could she keep going?

It was only when Gael died that she finally broke. Unable to bear living in the halls where her children had been born and raised and to avoid the cesspool of scheming vipers that was the royal court, Queen Alysanne had retired to our ancestral home last year.

It broke my heart. The greatest Queen in Westerosi history. Dying sad and alone.

When my grandparents passed away, they were always all surrounded by their many descendants and loved ones. Dozens of us. But Queen Alysanne had so few left. Three children, two of whom she hadn't seen in years if not decades. Only four grandchildren and three great-grandchildren.

She didn't deserve this fate, and I wouldn't wish it on anyone else either. Not even my worst enemies.

Except maybe Derek, but something told me that that depraved asshole would find it funny if his kids kicked the bucket before he did. God I hate that bastard.

"Penny for your thoughts, my dear?" My great grandmother asked in a kind and soothing voice. I nuzzled closer, bringing my mouth to her ear before speaking as clearly and slowly as I could.

"I was just thinking about when I grow up. I want to become a queen like you." I told her.

"You will be a better queen than I, little dragon." Queen Alysanne fondly said. "Brave, clever and kind. You will be a great companion to your brother, when he becomes your king and husband."

"Booh. I don't want a husband." I complained. "Boys are dumb. I'm not getting married."

"Then how can you become a queen?" Queen Alysanne asked.

"Grandpa will become king. Then Father. Then I'll become queen." I replied.

My great-grandmother let out a long sigh.

"Girls cannot sit the Iron Throne." The Good Queen ruefully sighed. "I wanted to crown your aunt Daenerys, did you know? And later your cousin Rhaenys. Both times, your great-grandfather refused."

"Why?" I asked. "Why did Grandpapa not let them become his heir?"

"He was afraid that it was too early for a woman to sit the Iron Throne." Grandmama sighed. "He was afraid that the lords and ladies would buck her authority, or that another Faith Militant uprising would occur."

"We have dragons." I pointed out, making a roar for emphasis. "Rawwwh!"

"And they have numbers." The Good Queen said. "That was what brought down my uncle Maegor. He became an enemy of the entire realm, and they rose in rebellion to dethrone him."

Yes, Aegon II's cause was filled with lords whom sided with him solely based on sexism. I'd have to get rid of that in the decades before the Dance.

"But you disagree with Grandpapa? Grandpa told me that." I asked, Grandmama sighing once again.

"Yes, I did. I disagreed. Quarrelled for years." Queen Alysanne said, and oh how tired did she sound. So broken and sad. It was the voice of an idealist, whose dreams were trampled and ground down by the relentless march of reality. "I knew it was impossible. I always did. Jaehaerys was right, of course. But you cannot blame a woman for trying."

"I'll take over your dream, Grandmama." I solemnly said. "I promise to you, here and now, that I will see either Aunt Rhaenys or myself on the Iron Throne. Westeros will have its queen."

I stuck out a chubby hand, pinky finger smaller than a grape extending.

My great-grandmother planted a kiss on my forehead, hugging me close. She took my pinky in her own, and shook it.

"You're a precious dear, Rhaenyra." The Good Queen Alysanne whispered. "I'll hold you to that promise."

———

101 AC, Red Keep

"Why didn't you save Grandpa?! Why?!" I wailed, tiny fists pounding on the heavy grey robes of Grand Maester Runciter. My grandfather Prince Baelon was dead. Dead of a burst stomach. Poor man. It was a horrid and painful way to go, in my opinion. Worse was that it was preventable. The tools I had on hand were primitive, but I'd definitely could have saved him. I had anaesthesia and disinfectant. Stitches and thread. Surgery wasn't my strong suit, but I'd learnt enough to perform it. Alas I was but a four year old, and Runciter thought himself above the petty whining of a child.

"Rhaenyra! Cease this behaviour at once! You are a Princess of the Realm, not some wailing monkey!" My mother shouted, scooping me up in her hands and pulling me away from the old man in front of me.

"He didn't save Grandpa!" I shouted, angrily trashing and throwing a tantrum in the way only a petulant four-year-old could. Princess Aemma struggled to hold me, eventually dropping me back to the ground, though my attempt to continue assaulting the Grand Maester was halted by Ser Robin Shaw grabbing my arms and holding me away from Runciter.

"Prince Baelon suffered from a burst belly, and it did not heal. This is beyond medicine. I can only mitigate the pain and ease his suffering. His fate was in the Gods." Runciter sniffed condescendingly.

"I've read books on medicine from the library." I replied coldly. Still breathing heavily but no longer screeching. "Couldn't you have opened Grandpa up and stitched his belly up?"

Oh. That struck a nerve. Ponderous and collected, some might say wise, as Runciter was, the old man visibly purpled with rage at my words, veins throbbing on his temple.

"We do not vivisect living men!" Runciter thundered, slamming his fist down on the table, his various bottles and equipment clinking from the blow. "To do so is against the rules of the Citadel and a crime against both Gods and men!"

I blinked in sheer surprise. Was that a thing? I let myself be dragged away, but the thought stayed with me. Keeping me distracted throughout Prince Baelon's funeral. Through dinner. And even as I laid down on my bed, my mind kept turning, repeating the words again and again.

I thought hard, recalling all of my past readings on Westerosi medicines. All had emphasised on the brewing of potions, leechings and other noninvasive treatments. The notion of surgery didn't exist to them. Oh, they had some knowledge on the subject, being capable of stitching up wounds from the battlefield or amputating limbs to halt infections and the like, but the concept of cutting open a living man to operate on his organs was utterly repulsive to them. Even performing cesarean births was seen as a last resort, only done when there was no other choice or when the mother was beyond saving.

Westeros had no chirurgeons, for all that they dissected corpses. Their physicians were exactly that. Physicians whom prescribed medicine, but never performed any form of surgery on the operating table.

The closest thing to a chirurgeon I could find was Qyburn. Whom I'd always felt was cheated by the Citadel. The man was the single best healer on Westeros, and they denounced and stripped him of his rank, ignoring his vast knowledge because they deemed him unnatural. The man could have revolutionised healthcare. But the Grey Rats balked at his practises.

So what if he vivisected and killed a few nobodies? If he approached me, I'd have given him as many death row prisoners as he wanted to experiment on—Which would have been a more productive use of their deaths—Not to mention funding and the appropriate legal amnesty. The blood he spilled today would pave the road to a brighter tomorrow.

One of the key tenets of Confucian values, which held sway over great swaths of Asia, was the notion of the greater good. That there were things, that people had to put before themselves. That were worth sacrificing for.

My homeland Singapore's rise ultimately stemmed from this notion as well. We began our independence as a dictatorship. But our dictator Lee Kuan Yew was unique in that he actually had the best interests of Singapore at heart. He broke away from the self-serving stereotype of despots and tyrants, dedicating his life to the greater good of our country, and was willing to do many morally dubious things in order to accomplish it.

His consolidation of political power and suppression of the opposition allowed the Singaporean government to plan long term in ways that many western nations could only dream of. Even at the point of my death, the government was essentially unopposed. And while they had loosened up significantly on the authoritarianism, one could not deny that they were the undisputed leaders of our little island.

The same could be said for the common Singaporean folk. My grandparents' generation shut up and fell in line, sacrificing much to build the nation. Freedoms. Human rights. Liberties. Cultures. Years of their lives. They willingly served under an authoritarian regime. All for that same dream. That of a prosperous home.

And tellingly, they succeeded.

Singapore went from a third world developing country to a first world developed country in a mere three decades. With no natural resources or significant tracts of land to boot.

There were many lessons to be learnt from the triumphs of my ancestors, but the one sticking point was this: Sacrifices had to be made for the greater good.

If the Citadel hadn't let petty morality leash them, then Prince Baelon wouldn't have died because Runciter and the other maesters were too cowardly to perform surgery on him.

How many thousands of lives would be saved for every man and woman sacrificed as a test subject? The arithmetic was clear. And if I was to be damned as a butcher, then that was fine by me. I'd gladly burn in hell for the sake of the Realm's greater good.

The decision firmed up in me. Settled into my soul. I smiled, closing my eyes, and letting sleep take me. I'd just decided on the very first doctrine of my reign.

Notes:

This chapter initially sprung up because I always wanted a scene between Alysanne and Rhae, but then at some point, Gael usurped it. I didn't realise how much I'd written about her until the end. It just… felt right. I can totally envision toddler Rhae bossing around Gael, making her do her bidding. Carrying her around, fetching her books from the library and an extra helping of candy from the kitchens.