When Rhaenys Targaryen was three years old, the Seven Kingdoms bled out. Her family bled as well.
Aegon died as soon as his skull was dashed upon a stone wall, but he was lucky; he didn’t have to wait for death. Elia was raped bloody before her own head was crushed.
Rhaeger lay dying in the Trident, the water running red as the rubies that encrusted his armor. Aerys’ throat was slit, right after a sword was driven through his back.
Murdered by his own Kingsguard, a man swore to protect the Targaryens.
Yet, the king slayer Jaime Lannister kept his oath that night.
Amory Lorch was more pig than man. Rhaenys could recall the mirth in his pasty flat face as he pulled her out from under her father’s bed.
She could also remember the look in his tiny rat eyes as Jaime drove his sword through him.
Jaime took her into his arms and went to the throne room. The room was cold and reeked of blood and death. The stone walls muffled the sacking of King’s Landing.
The skulls of the dragons of old watched over them as they waited.
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