From Flames to Fury (Part 2)

Dinner was more subdued than the last one I had attended, and I had a feeling it had everything to do with the serious talk Rhaenyra had given the boys earlier. The air around the table felt heavier, like everyone was still processing her words. With one hand, I speared a roasted potato from the platter in front of me, while with the other, I cradled a sleeping Freya against my chest. She had gotten rather crabby just before dinner, and somehow, I was the only one able to soothe her, something that earned me a soft, smile from Rhaenyra.

Across the table, Joffrey suddenly broke the silence, his words garbled through a mouthful of food.

"Will—Frys—st—nim—bee—wat—s?" he mumbled around the meat he was chewing, eyes wide with curiosity.

Rhaenyra turned to him with a raised eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by his table manners. Her gaze held a firm but affectionate reprimand, and Joffrey, realizing his error, sent her a sheepish grin before swallowing his food hastily.

"What will Freya's last name be Waters?" he asked more clearly this time, his eyes darting between me and his mother.

The question hung in the air, its weight pressing down on everyone at the table. Lucerys and Jacaerys both looked up from their plates, but their reactions couldn't have been more different. Lucerys, tilted his head in interest, but Jacaerys... he stiffened. His jaw clenched ever so slightly, the tension in his shoulders more pronounced. Joffrey's innocent inquiry seemed to press something deep in him.

Rhaenyra, perceptive as ever, noticed instantly. Her gaze flickered to Jacaerys, a mother's intuition guiding her, and they exchanged a look that spoke volumes—one filled with unspoken words.

I knew immediately what this was about.

The last name of Waters was given to children who were born out of wedlock—not true bloods.

Bastards.

It was the worst kept secret in Westeros that all three of Rhaenyra's dark-haired sons were not the offspring of her first husband, Laenor Velaryon, but rather the result of her love affair with Ser Harwin Strong. Laenor, while a good man who worshipped the ground Rhaenyra walked on, preferred the company of men. The expectation for women, even those destined to rule, was to bear children—heirs—and that was difficult to achieve with a husband who did not desire her in that way. Harwin Strong had filled that void, offering her intimacy and children in a way Laenor could not.

Laenor had known the boys weren't his by blood, but it hadn't mattered to him. He had given them the Velaryon name, raised them as his own, and treated them with the same love and respect any father would. But Laenor was gone now, and so was Harwin, lost in the dangerous game of Westerosi politics, a knight sacrificed in the brutal moves of a never-ending chess match.

With both men gone, the whispers had spread like wildfire. The Greens—had seized upon it, labeling her sons as bastards, unfit for the Velaryon name, unfit for any claim to the throne. Lucerys and Joffrey, still young and innocent, remained blissfully unaware of the full weight of those whispers. Rhaenyra had done all she could to shield them from the ugliness of it, the cruelty of the world they were born into.

But Jacaerys knew.

The eldest, with more responsibilities on his shoulders than any boy his age should have to bear, had heard the rumors, the slanders. He knew what people called him behind his back—a bastard—and it weighed on him like an anchor, dragging him down even as he struggled to rise above it. It was a burden he carried in silence, but the strain of it was starting to show.

Rhaenyra, still locked in that silent exchange with Jacaerys, finally broke the tension with a small sigh. Her body seemed to sag back into the seat, as if the weight of her crown pressed down on her even in this quiet, intimate moment with her family. I could see her mind working, the gears turning as she considered her options.