Chapter Text
In her old life, Rhaenyra perished at the dragon’s maw.
Her half-brother’s beast snarled at her, and its boiling breath all but seared her skin from her body. Next was worse: she felt its serrated teeth sink into her flesh and snap apart her bones, little more than twigs in comparison. The pain was all-encompassing and the agony was unbearable.
So, naturally, when she next woke, it was to the sound of her own screaming.
The noise ripped from her throat, echoing all around her. For a heartbeat, she did not know where she was, only that the beast had not yet finished devouring her. It was not until an almighty roar answered her own that she finally came to, broken from the fearful fit encompassing her.
Syrax.
None living could mistake that shrieking cadence. It was the cry of her dragon, fearsome and furious, and it broke the spell that held her in its grip. She blinked open her eyes, but all that greeted her was darkness.
Frantic now, she reached out as a blind woman might, her hands trembling as they groped through the black enshrouding her. Then, she felt it: beneath her palms were hardened scales, smooth like stones of mother-of-pearl and warm beneath her touch. Dragonhide. The heat bled from Rhaenyra’s mount like remnant coals of a dying fire, in spite of the biting cold surrounding them.
Syrax shifted beside her, vast and looming in the unseen dark. The dragon’s chest rose and fell beneath Rhaenyra’s palm, each breath a deep, uneven rumble that trembled through her bones.
It should not be possible.
The smallfolk made sure of it, snatching the life of her dragon away with their frenzied act of violence.
They were both dead, then.
There was no other explanation.
And what a cruel, merciful god that death was: confining her to this cold, damp cage of shadow-gloom – a tomb with naught but her dragon to keep her company. At least she did not have to bear the afterlife in solitude.
That thought offered little comfort in the shadow of all that she lost. Like a child, Rhaenyra curled up around her beast and allowed the grief to take her.
For each child ripped from her.
For her husband, his body forever lost to the God’s Eye.
For her father, and his gentle, foolish heart – whose choices set the realm upon the path that ended them all.
Daeron sat upon the Iron Throne.
Before him stood a lesser lord, beseeching him with his woes and bellyaches. The taxes were too high, the family to which they were vassals to were overreaching their bounds, and on and on.
Daeron listened, nodding once, his fingers brushing against the sharp edges of the throne. He said nothing, though his eyes measured the man from head to boots. A king must hear all complaints, as loathe as he was to do so. There need not be an intermediator for every dispute. If duty bound him to sit as counsel for every small gripe, little would ever get done in the kingdom.
The lord shifted in place, uneasy beneath the attention of his Targaryen gaze, and Daeron’s mind drifted briefly – though the thought was not for taxes or vassals, nor for petty squabbles. The stone beneath the throne rumbled almost imperceptibly. He frowned, lifting one brow.
Silence. It ended as soon as it started.
Just the echo of distant boots, perhaps. Nothing more.
That is, until later, when his Kingsguard poured through the entrance to the throne room, all haste and alarm.
“My king,” One lowered himself to his knees, hands trembling and white cloak pooling at his feet. He looked nervously around the room, and spoke in little more than a whisper. “There’s… something in the dungeon.”
Daeron blinked once, and then twice.
With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the jabbering lord and the rest of the guests waiting to say their piece. It was not until the room was empty, with little but servants and knights, that the king bade his man to continue.
“Seven hells, speak not where everyone can hear you.” He couldn't help but to chastise, already dreading the rampant rumors that would come of this. “Pray tell, Ser, what is in the dungeons?”
There was a moment of strained quiet, and the knights looked between themselves reluctantly, as if dreading to answer the question. Unnerved by their queer behavior, Daeron tapped his fingers against the iron of the armrest, gaze fixed. Not a single man dared speak first.
Finally, the crouched knight managed out:
“Err… a dragon, my king.”
Well, that was a wretched jest if there ever was one.
“Gwayne –” He began, willing the gods to grant him patience. The words died in his throat as another rumble sounded beneath his feet.
He looked from Ser Corbray to the rest of the assembled men. No one laughed. No one smiled. In fact, they all seemed rather pale.
After some more nonsensical back and forth, Daeron rose, signaling the knights to follow. The hall stretched before them, silent now but for the echo of their boots. He could not help but glance over his shoulder more than once; a fool might walk headlong into treachery, and he half expected some kind of ambush.
Torches were then lit, and the flames cast long, trembling shadows along the stone walls. As they descended, the air began to reek of damp mustiness, offending the back of his nose. Each step downward carried them further from the light of day. The dungeon stairs twisted and groaned beneath their weight, the only sound breaking the tense silence following after them.
All the while, Daeron’s hand never strayed far from the hilt of his sword, though he hoped never to draw it.
At last, they reach the lowermost chambers. The door loomed, dark and silent, as though it had swallowed the light whole. Daeron pushed it open with force.
The breath in his chest left him at once.
There, coiled and vast, laid a dragon.
An actual living, breathing beast of fire and legend. Even in the torchlight, the creature hardly seemed possible. Its scales gleamed in the darkness like molten gold. Its eyes, narrowed and serpentine, glowed like wildfire. As if offended by his entrance, the dragon’s nostrils flared in a slow, threatening rhythm. A deep, rumbling growl erupted from its chest and vibrated the room, the sensation reverberating through his bones.
“Gods be good.”
Daeron swallowed, his voice catching in his throat. The knights behind him were frozen, some inching backward, whilst others gripped their swords that felt suddenly too small for what stood before them.
Then he saw her.
A woman kneeling at the dragon’s side, hands resting lightly on the scales, as if the beast were no more dangerous than a hound at her feet. She wore the typical finery of a high-born woman, and her silver-gold hair fell loose across her shoulders. In the low light, she fixed her eyes upon his own with a sharpness that made him pause.
For an eternity, nobody uttered a word. What would one even say, in a situation such as this? Daeron was flummoxed speechless.
The woman also seemed perplexed, eyeing him up and down as if he was an anomaly.
“You wear a crown.” She said finally, casual, as if speaking to an equal. “Which of my forebears are you?”
Daeron cleared his throat, brows knitting together. “My Lady…”
“Queen.” She corrected. “I know not where my father’s crown lies, but it is not here.”
She speaks nonsensically. He stared at her harder, taking in the full sight of her. She knelt there, small against the vastness of the dragon, yet unmistakably commanding. She was a Targaryen. He knew it with certainty – if not by looks alone, but by the beast looming over her.
But who?
Some cousin lost to rumor and song? A daughter of a branch long thought dead? Or heavens forbid, a Blackfyre spawn?
“I am King Daeron, Second of His Name.” He managed out, watching warily as smoke drifted out from the corner of the dragon’s maw. “To whom do I address?”
The woman blinked and pressed a hand against her forehead. “Daeron? Second of his name?” She suddenly eyed him as if he were a rat. Her eyes flitted to inspect the men at his heels, before she said something that made his blood turn to ice. “My name is Rhaenyra Targaryen. And this is my mount, Syrax.”
The hall smelt of roasted meat and spilled ale.
Baelor sat across from Maekar, the clatter of plates and the hum of conversation filling the long, vaulted chamber. Their supper was modest compared to what they were used to in King’s Landing: a joint of beef, rye bread, and honeyed apples. For all the pomp of a tourney gathering, the two brothers ate in relative quiet, speaking only in low murmurs.
Baelor had raised a goblet of wine to his lips when the doors burst open. A knight, boots clanging against the stone, stormed in, cloak whipped by haste.
“Your Graces!” The man cried out, voice sharp and trembling. “By command of King Daeron the Good, all Targaryens present are to return to King's Landing at once. Every one of you. He requests your immediate presence.”
Maekar nearly choked on his mouthful, eyes flashing to Baelor. “At this hour? Surely –”
“The trial,” Baelor muttered aloud, concern knitting his brow.
“There will be no delay.” The messenger interrupted impertinently, cutting him off with a glare as if daring argument. “His Grace will hear no excuse. Every Targaryen, at once.”
The room tilted slightly for a heartbeat as the weight of the command settled over them.
Baelor set his goblet down carefully, mind racing. The trial of seven was set for tomorrow. Every strategy and preparation, all set aside in a heartbeat.
“You’ve got to be shitting me.” Maekar all but growled, bristling as he stood abruptly. “You cannot summon us all before the king at this hour!”
The messenger inclined his head curtly, eyes narrowing. “I serve only His Grace’s will. You ride tonight, or be deemed in contempt of the crown.”
Baelor’s hand rested briefly on his brother’s shoulder, a quiet attempt at restraint. “Keep your voice, brother. The summons leaves us no choice. If the king wishes it, we ride tonight.”
Maekar muttered under his breath, shaking his head: “By the fires of old Valyria, what in seven hells could demand all Targaryens at once?”
Baelor felt a knot of unease tighten in his chest.