Chapter Text
part one. we begin in the dark
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The Dragonwood extended as far as the eye could see in this corner of the world. The red-leafed trees dominated the horizon, the rise and fall of the hills as the terrain grew steeper and barer, the mighty volcano known as the Dragonmount rising in the distance like a portent of doom. The beast was quiet now, slumbering, the faint plume of smoke emerging from the mountaintop the only proof it was even alive.
The sky above the forest and the volcano was battered, bruised, all grey and purple clouds shot through with crimson veins. Even at the height of noon the sunlight was weak and pale, a warrior that had seen too many battles, too much sorrow, and no longer had the will to fight. The shadows lengthened, darkened, comfortable in the perpetual half-light.
Nestled in a glen between hills on the edge of the Dragonwood stood the village of Dragonstone. Far away from all major commercial routes, seldom did traders venture there, for the village boasted few goods that could entice a merchant's greed. The journey itself was unkind too, the decrepit road winding through ghost grass moors haunted by the chill wind.
Dragonstone didn’t appear in any of the most recent maps. It was a whisper in the dark, a rumor passed around adventurers and hunters, drawn there in the pursuit of fame and glory. The Dragonwood had little in the way of riches, but it had monsters aplenty: firewyrms burrowing near the boiling sulfur pits; wyverns nestling atop the crimson trees, their venomous tails hanging innocuously from the blackened branches; direwolves roaming the thorny paths after the sun sank beneath the horizon and darkness fell. Rarest and deadliest of them all were the dragons, mighty beasts of fire and brimstone who ruled over all who were mighty.
The bones of those would-be hunters and adventurers littered the twists and turns of the Dragonwood, entombed in graves of moss, root, and stone, their names lost to mists of time.
The people of Dragonstone were used to the danger, to death awaiting beyond the line of black-barked trees. With fear and caution ingrained deep in their bones, they knew from an early age to respect and honor the Dragonwood. Never venture too deep, never stray too far from the village; keep to the trails and clearings where the light reaches and the beasts don’t approach.
"But what of the Weirwood Path?" A young child asked, perched on his grandmother's knee. "Isn’t it safe?"
"The Weirwood Path is empty of monsters, yes, but that doesn’t make it safe." The woman combed her fingers through his gnarly hair, undoing matted knots. "No common man should thread there."
"And what of the people I have seen coming off it carrying a lamp and a dagger?"
"Those are the Targaryens," the grandmother said, "and they are not common men."
With silver-spun hair and eyes a kaleidoscope of purple shades, the Targaryens stood apart from the rest of Dragonstone's inhabitants. They were the Lore Keepers, the last remnants of the ancient Valyrian Empire which had laid the first stone in their village. They kept to themselves, carefully weaving their bloodline into wreaths, jealous of their secrets.
The Targaryens alone traversed the Weirwood Path, passing by the weeping Heart Trees of the Old Gods, salt-white against the blackness. The path winded through the hills and up the jagged edges of the Dragonmount until it stopped at an ancient altar.
There the Targaryens followed their ancient rites, worshiping the gods of fire and brimstone, of ash and blood, of shadow and wind. They sang in the dead tongue of their ancestors before an altar of polished obsidian, using valyrian steel to bind their blood to the basalt of the Dragonmount itself. They lulled the beasts in the woods to a hazy sleep and the inferno raging inside the volcano to a half-slumber.
Dragonstone needed the Targaryens to survive their unforgiving land, to keep their traditions alive, and to ensure it continued to thrive as it always had. It needed them to survive the Dragons.
Dragonstone knew nothing but shadows, and they thought them real.
⊱༺༒︎༻⊰
The sky wept the day Rhaenyra turned ten.
She sat on the window seat, watching the droplets of rain run down the smoky glass in thick rivulets. Lightning split the dark grey sky and the roar of thunder shook Dragonstone to its foundations.
There would be no playing outside with Alicent, Laenor, and Laena today, no foraging the edges of the Dragonwood for berries and wildflowers either. The Lord of the Skies and the Lady of the Waves were quarrelling fiercely, furiously, and their words were the hissing winds lashing against the village’s buildings like a barbed whip.
Rhaenyra pulled her knees close to her chest and sighed despondently, leaning against the glass. If the Gods of Wind and Sea had to quarrel, couldn’t they have waited until after her nameday?
She glimpsed the doorknob twist through the window and the door opened just a fraction. Her mother, Aemma, peered into the room, her silver hair falling over her shoulder in a shower of moonlight. When she saw Rhaenyra was fully awake and still in her nightgown, Aemma raised an eyebrow and threw the door open, the rusted hinges creaking with the sudden movement.
"Already awake?" Aemma placed her hands on her hips. She wore a simple dress of finespun cobalt wool and a white shawl around her shoulders. "’Tis very early, sweetling."
"I can't sleep," Rhaenyra answered with a shrug. "The thunder keeps waking me up.”
"I could brew you some tea." Aemma closed the door behind her with a soft thud. She approached the window with an unhurried gait and sat down beside Rhaenyra. "It would knock you out for a few hours, help you relax. Or —" Reaching out, she tucked a stray lock of Rhaenyra’s hair behind her ear, her lips curling into a smile. "— you could slip out of this nightgown and help me bake your favorite cake and Grandmother Alysanne’s biscuits. How does that sound, hm? "
Rhaenyra lowered her head, glancing at her mother from beneath near-translucent eyelashes. "Might we keep some for Alicent, Laenor, and Laena?"
Aemma threw her head back with a peal of hearty laughter. "Whatever you want, darling girl." She patted one of Rhaenyra's cheek and placed feather-soft kiss on the other one. "Happy nameday, Rhaenyra."
She beamed, covering her mother's hand with her own. "Thank you, Mama."
"Now let’s stop dilly-dallying!" Aemma pulled back and clapped her hands. "The cakes and the biscuits won’t bake themselves, will they now?"
Rhaenyra laughed and nodded, turning on the seat and jumping to her feet. She rushed to the small wardrobe and perused through the neatly stacked clothes, scrutinizing the garments until she settled on a simple red wool dress and a black jacket embroidered with red dragons. Aemma remained seated, a fond smile etched on her fine-boned features.
Once Rhaenyra was done changing, mother and daughter went downstairs, where Viserys Targaryen, current Lore Keeper of House Targaryen, sat by the hearth. Built to hold the sacred fire of their home according to valyrian tradition, the hearth was a mighty beast of polished basalt chiselled with the motif of dragons and flames. A fire crackled inside, the burning logs releasing a soothing, sweet smell.
Viserys rocked back and forth on a carved wooden chair, humming in high valyrian, a piece of wood in one hand and a chisel in the other. When he heard footsteps approaching, he glanced over his shoulder and grinned.
"Do mine eyes deceive me?" He stood and placed the half-carved dragon figurine on the mantelpiece beside an obsidian flute. "Isn’t it a bit early for you to be up and about, little one? And on your nameday, no less!"
Rhaenyra scowled and crossed her arms, pouting. Why must everyone keep reminding her of that? "Mama and I are baking cake and biscuits, papa."
"Cake and biscuits?" Viserys shared a glance with Aemma, a twinkle in their eyes. "Will you share them with me, my dear girl?"
"I’m not sure." She sniffled, turning her head away. "Mama has laid claim to part of the batch,some are promised to my friends, and I must take my share as well. It is my nameday, after all. I don’t know If there will be enough for you, papa.”
"That so?" Her father kneeled and leaned down until he matched her height. His deep indigo eyes bore into hers, the skin around them crinkled with mirth. "Not even if I have a present for you?"
Rhaenyra squealed, all pretension of defiance set aside before the promise of a new, shining thing. ""You have a present for me? Truly? Might I see it, papa? Please, please, please?"
"Well, I am not sure if I should share it with you. After all, you will not share your sweets with me."
A rosy blush spread across Rhaenyra's cheeks as she remembered that she was indeed supposed to be angry with her father. She jutted out her chin, clasped her hands behind her back, and said, "If you give me my present, me and mama will bake more biscuits for you."
Viserys made a face and placed a hand upon his heart. "You drive a hard bargain, Rhaenyra. What say you, Aemma?"
"Oh no, no, no." His wife smirked, cocking her head and crossing her arms over her small chest. "This is between you and Rhaenyra, Viserys. I'm merely a spectator."
"I want my present first," Rhaenyra said, squaring her shoulders, proud and dignified before adversity. "Then I shall let you have a slice of cake and one-quarter of the biscuits."
"Three slices of cake," he countered, "and you have a deal."
Rhaenyra narrowed her eyes and tapped a finger to her lips, pretending to consider his offer. One should never reveal their eagerness when presented with a good bargain, lest they knew to use your excitement against you, or so her mother said. "Very well. I shall accept your terms." She offered him her small hand.
Viserys’s smiled and in a swift movement, he swept Rhaenyra off her feet, taking her into his arms. She shrieked with laughter, kicking her feet in the air and shouting, "Papa! Put me down, papa!" as they twirled around the living room.
When he slowed down, Rhaenyra settled on the crook of his elbow and wrapped her arms around his neck. Viserys gently placed her on the counter, told her to wait there, and headed upstairs to fetch her present. Rhaenyra's feet bounced, excitement coursing through her veins as Aemma moved about the kitchen, searching the cupboards for all the ingredients and utensils they would need.
When her father returned, he had a polished ebony box in his hands, the Dragonmount and the Dragonwood carved in bas-relief on the lid and a dragon eating its own tail on the sides.
"Do you know what this is?" He asked, setting it on her lap. Rhaenyra frowned and shook her head, running her fingers over the silver latch, the dragon's head and tail. "Well, open it!"
She did as ordered and inside found an old book wrapped in a thin silk cloth. The book's once glossy black leather cover had faded and dried, though one could still make out the three-headed dragon insignia embossed on it, and the vellum was yellowed and frayed at the edges. When Rhaenyra opened the book, a musty smell filled her nostrils.
"What is it?" She asked, leafing through the pages. The book held a collection of drawings and writings in high valyrian, each section in a different calligraphy and each illustration stranger than the next. Her hand halted as her eyes fell upon a particular illuminated painting depicting the Dragonmount. The mountain stood black as soot, with the white ridges forming the shape of a bare Heart Tree. A sleeping yellow dragon rested curled at the base of the mountain whilst a red one flew above.
"A book of folktales kept by the women in our family since we were still in Old Valyria. It was my mother's, and my grandmothers before her. This painting for instance —" Viserys tapped the page with the Dragonmount and the two dragons. "— was made by Daenys the Dreamer, as was the last chapter."
"You have always liked to read," Aemma said, coming from behind to place both hands on Rhaenyra’s shoulder. "We thought you would like it."
Rhaenyra couldn’t find the right words to express the warm joy gathering in her heart. She hugged the book tightly against her chest, letting the words and memories of her ancestors wash over her. She was so full of happiness she might burst with it; she was bursting with it, were the teardrops hanging from her eyelashes any indication.
"Thank you," she whispered, swallowing a sob. "I love, love, love it. I will take good care of it too, I promise."
"Now, now. No need to cry." Viserys wiped a tear trailing down Rhaenyra's cheek with his thumb. "The sky is already weeping enough for us all today. Besides, you have cake and biscuits to prepare, don’t you?" He glanced up at Aemma. "Do you need any help, love?"
"I do, in fact," Aemma said, helping Rhaenyra down and gesturing for her to place the box in a cupboard, away from all the fire and the flour. "Fetch the flute and play us some music, Viserys."
Viserys grumbled under his breath something that sounded suspiciously like “This was not what I meant by helping”, but acquiesced to his wife’s request and collected the valyrian flute from where it rested on the mantelpiece. He settled back on his chair, brought the glass instrument to his lips, and started to play. The sounds the flute produced were high-pitched and ethereal, the melody tantalizing; the fire crackled and danced to the tune, like calling to like.
Time slipped by as Rhaenyra and Aemma baked and Viserys played, the sound of thunder fading into the background, drowned out by the fire and the music. The silence was comfortable, tender; it enveloped the three of them, an invisible string of affection and familiarity binding them together.
Rhaenyra and Aemma were removing the biscuits from the oven when the ground shook beneath their feet.
The people of Dragonstone were used to shakes — they were an inevitability, close as they were to the Dragonmount with its changing moods. Some were too small to be of any concern, a low rumble everyone ignored. Dragonstone had been built to withstand far stronger shakes and all children in the village grew up knowing how to behave should one occur. The lore was carved in their bones and memories by concerned parents.
But some shakes were so faint, so discreet, and happened so deep beneath the earth that only the Targaryens noticed, attuned as they were to the shifting currents of magma at the core of the Dragonmount.
The music stopped abruptly; the tray slipped to the ground, the sound reverberating on the dark walls as the biscuits cracked. Viserys, Aemma, and Rhaenyra stood still as stone, eyes wide and glassy, heads turned towards the Dragonwood and the Dragonmount.
“It cannot be," Aemma whispered, covering her mouth with her hands. The distinctive blush of life and joy drained from her cheeks, leaving them pale as bone. "The Dragonmount is waking."
“And it is angry.” Rhaenyra turned towards her father in a swirl of red, hands clenching into fists besides her body. "It's not time for the Rite yet. Why is it waking up now?"
"It's the storm." Viserys pressed his mouth into a thin line and placed a hand over the dagger hanging on his belt. "It’s unnatural, and the Dragonmount feels it." He looked to Aemma, looking older than his years. "Fetch my jacket and help me saddle the horse, Aemma. I will need to go to the altar."
Aemma gagged, arms going slack. "Are you out of your mind, Viserys? You said it yourself: this storm is unnatural. Go outside — on a horse, no less! — and you might not return to us."
"I must get there quickly, Aemma," he replied earnestly. "It's my duty. You know that."
Her mother didn't seem reassured. Rhaenyra glanced between her parents, dread climbing up her spine like a spider. It was her nameday and it was supposed to be a happy occasion, full of love, warmth, and laughter — there should be no fear, no uncertainty.
Heart hammering against the confines of her ribcage, Rhaenyra closed the rushed to her father and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her small head against his soft belly.
"You need to come back," she pleaded. "You need to come back, papa, so you can have your cake. You made a bargain and you must fulfill it."
Viserys didn't hesitate to embrace her just as tightly.
⊱༺༒︎༻⊰
Early morning changed into noon, noon into afternoon, and afternoon into dusk.
In the distance, the Dragonmount glowed with the red and orange shades of a bygone twilight, the lava incandescent as it trickled down the mountain’s sharp edges. The volcano was disquiet still, spewing ash and brimstone into the air, but the worst of its rage had abated. Rhaenyra’s father had succeeded.
That had been long ago, before darkness consumed the world and the storm worsened, but Viserys had yet to return. Multiple lightning bolts tore through the pitch-black night sky in the span of a breath and the Dragonwood burned in the wake of their shadows.
Rhaenyra paced the living room, now and then glancing towards the door and the windows, hoping for a glimpse of her father.
"Papa should be here already," she said, voice small and trembling. “He should have been back long ago."
Aemma sat at Viserys’s usual place by the hearth, as stone-faced as a marble statue, poking the fire at regular intervals with a wrought iron poker. She stared at the rising sparks as though they could tell her things her eyes couldn’t see.
"He is coming home and he's alive," Aemma said and let go of the fire iron, the metal clattering as it hit the floor. She folded her hands on her lap and buried her nails in the palm of her hands far, far away from her daughter’s eyes. "The fire doesn’t lie, but there’s no harm in praying for his safe return. Go fetch the prayer beads, Rhaenyra."
Rhaenyra hesitated, biting her lip. How was she supposed to leave the room and go upstairs when her father could come back at any moment? He would need a change of clothes, a soft blanket, and a warm cup of tea once he arrived. A slice of cake would do him good as well, a sweet delight to counter the bitterness of the storm.
Aemma's solemn expression brokered no argument. Rhaenyra swallowed hard, throat burning, and threw one last glance at the door before rushing to her parent’s bedroom. She kept her ears trained on the sounds outside as she perused her mother's jewel box for the prayer beads, straining her senses to try and listen beyond the roar of thunder.
Rhaenyra found the prayer beads at the bottom of the box, tucked safely inside a velvet bag. The beadwork consisted of fourteen rubies for the major gods of the valyrian pantheon, interspersed with three black onyx beads between them, held together by a thin valyrian steel chain. There was a different symbol etched in each gemstone, fifty-six glyphs for the fifty-six gods.
With the prayer beads in hand, she made her way back to her mother, who nodded her thanks and took the beads from Rhaenyra's hand. Each of them would hold a different ruby between their fingers and each would chant a different prayer: Aemma for Meleys, goddess of the hearth and home, a wife and mother pleading for her husband's return; Rhaenyra for Morghul, god of death, a daughter begging for decades more with her sire amongst the living.
They chanted in a low voice, anxious but steady, quiet but determined. As the prayer went on, the rubies grew warmer and warmer until they burned skin, but neither let go. The Gods of Old Valyria were capricious creatures, as fickle as the fires which had spawned them, and their tribute was blood.
When they were done, they kept their hands close together, unwilling to let go from the faint spark of hope.
⊱༺༒︎༻⊰
The night was dark and full of horrors.
The storm still raged.
Aemma had given up waiting by the fire and had shifted her focus to preparing their evening meal. Every time she thought Rhaenyra wasn’t looking, her mother would glance at the door and mutter a prayer to Meleys and Morghul.
Rhaenyra leafed through her ancestor's journal, trying to find comfort in their tales. Some of them she knew by heart, having grown up listening to them as her parents put her to sleep. She could hear Aemma's soft murmur as she described in minute detail the Queen of Winter's frozen beauty, how she set seemingly impossible challenges for those seeking her hand in marriage and how the seventh and final suitor, a Dragonlord, completed her tasks and won her heart. Viserys preferred the tale of the Mother of Dragons, whose beloved children were cursed to become the eponymous beasts, and how she had wandered the world to find and bring them home.
She wanted him to return and tell her the story himself. He had to. He promised.
Rhaenyra set the book aside and walked to the window. There was no moon or stars to lit up the darkness — only lightning, its radiance twisted and obscured behind the blurry veil of raindrops.
Wait. Had something just moved out there?
She narrowed her eyes and brought her face closer to the glass, touching it with her forehead. Cocking her head, unbound silver hair following the movement, she tried to get a better glimpse of the world beyond the sheets of rain and the darkness.
Lightning struck closer to home, chasing away the shadows. It was over too soon, but Rhaenyra saw it: two human shapes approaching from the Dragonwood, as pale as she was.
"Mother!" She screamed and ran towards the door, throwing it open and stepping outside.
The wind screamed; the rain howled; the thunder roared. It was a cacophony of angry sounds, drowning out all else. She thought she heard her mother shouting "Rhaenyra, do not—!", but could no longer tell.
Rhaenyra couldn’t care less for the hissing wind whipping her cheeks nor for the cold rain soaking her clothes and chilling her to the bone. All that mattered was that it was her father approaching, his dark clothes splattered with mud and with their heritage dagger, Blackfyre, dangling forlornly form his utility belt. His arm was slung over another man’s shoulder, his head hanging to the side as if by a thread.
"Papa!" Rhaenyra ran to Viserys, tears of relief lost in the tempest. She wrapped her arms around his tights in a desperate hug.
The Targaryen patriarch's shriek of pain cut through the storm.
Rhaenyra let go of her father, taking a step back and watching, wide-eyed and lips parted, as he threw his head back. His face twisted in agony, eyes rolling back until they were fully white.
"Careful now, little lady,” the man carrying her father like a burden said, drawing Rhaenyra's attention. "He is badly wounded.”
She stared and stared at him, lost for words. He was tall, taller than her father even, and leaner. His face was sharp and aristocratic, with a defined jaw, high cheekbones, and set with twin amethyst eyes. Though his pale tresses were wet and clinging to his fine features now, Rhaenyra could easily imagine them on a clear night, a curtain of starlight reaching his shoulders.
He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen.
"Who are you?" Her question was a whisper in the wind, but the stranger seemed to have no problem hearing them.
"A ghost," Aemma interrupted before words could begin to form on the man's lips. She inserted herself between Rhaenyra and the two men, a mother dragon protecting her hatchling. "It's been a long time, Daemon."
"Goodsister," the stranger — Daemon — greeted, smiling sardonically. "The years have been kind to you, though the same cannot be said for my brother."
Rhaenyra blinked furiously, thoughts melding together like the rainbow of colors painted on Laenor’s favorite spinning top. Not once had she heard the name Daemon uttered within the walls of her home, nor had her father ever mentioned the existence of a brother. She had thought the three of them, aunt Rhaenys, and the graves of their ancestors were all that remained of the Targaryens in this corner of the world.
Yet here stood an uncle she never knew she had, come to return her father.
Aemma's stony mask remained unmoved by his attempt at flattery. "Thank you for returning my husband alive. You can go back to your woods now, Daemon. We don’t need your help."
"His leg is broken, Aemma." Daemon inclined his head and raised an eyebrow. "Surely you cannot mean to carry him on your own?"
Rhaenyra thought her mother meant to do exactly that, but she immediately caught his implication: her father's leg was gravely wounded and her mother couldn't help him to his bed without causing terrible pain.
Aemma's periwinkle gaze, usually as sweet as the scent of the same flowers growing in the meadows, was void of all warmth as she gave Daemon a perfunctory nod and said, "Very well. You may stay for the night. Come, let's head inside."
Daemon's answering grin was sharp and full of teeth.
⊱༺༒︎༻⊰
Rhaenyra filled a teapot with water and placed it on the fire, chancing a glance at her uncle. He sat on her father’s chair with one foot on his knee, occupying it with the languid contentment of a dragon coiled in besides a sulfur pool. The ill-fitting dry linen shirt and black pants her mother had given him finished a portrait of dangerous indolence.
Daemon caught her stare and raised an eyebrow. Rhaenyra looked away, embarrassment a red rose blooming beneath her cheeks.
“You can ask me questions if you want to, little lady,” Uncle Daemon said, amused. “I can tell you’re curious.”
The comment struck a chord within Rhaenyra. She pivoted towards him, her small nose wrinkled with an indignation she didn’t quite feel. “I’m not curious.”
“We both know that’s not true.” He leaned forward, eyes twinkling. “Come now, Rhaenyra. I don’t bite — not often, at least.”
She stood her ground, conscious that Aemma wasn’t too keen on having him around. There must have been a reason why her father had never spoken of a brother, why he was never around for their family celebrations, and why none of the villagers had ever mentioned his name.
“As I said —” She lifted her nose up in the air, refusing to look at him directly. “— I’m not curious.”
Daemon sighed deeply and closed his eyes, slumping on the chair. “Very well. As you wish. “
Rhaenyra nodded and turned to check on the teapot. A comfortable silence fell between them.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood to attention under his amethyst gaze. Soon, she was back to glancing at him from over her shoulder, her own damned curiosity refusing to be denied.
When the teapot began to whistle, she removed it from the fire with a wood stick with an iron hook attached and set it on the counter. As her mother had instructed, she fished the tea leaves from one of the cupboards and dropped them inside the hot water, tapping her foot to the ground as she waited for the right time to pour it.
A moment passed, then another, and then the silence became too much for her to bear.
“Are you truly my uncle?” She asked suddenly, though there was little doubt they were family. Mirrors didn’t lie, after all, and to look into his bejweled eyes was to stare at her own.
“To my dearest brother's everlasting despair.”
Rhaenyra snorted and turned to him, fisting the large sleeves of her jacket. “Then why have they never mentioned you? Why have you never visited?”
Daemon’s smirk barely moved at her barrage of questions, but the glimmer in his eyes dimmed to something darker, something angrier. “It’s as your mother said, little lady. The dead have no place among the living.”
“You don’t look very dead to me.”
“Pray tell, what gave me away? “
“You are quite solid, as you carried papa here yourself, so you can’t be a ghost.” She placed a finger upon her lips and pretended to think quite hard on the matter. “I suppose you could drink blood, but you aren’t that pale to be a vampyr. Nor blue enough to be a White Walker.”
A burst of genuine, startled laughter escaped Daemon's lips. “Quite right,” he agreed, shoulders still shaking with mirth. “Besides, I’m much more handsome than any of these creatures.”
Rhaenyra covered her mouth with her hand and coughed, but didn’t dispute his assertion, lest she became even more of a liar. “Now that we’ve established you aren’t dead, will you tell me why you were never around?”
“That, little lady, is something you ought to ask your parents,” he said, a sad curve to his bow-shaped mouth. “Maybe they will even tell you the truth.”
“Can’t you tell it to me yourself?”
“It’s quite a long and sad story, I’m afraid. We would never be done before your mother returns to harangue me. So why even bother to start?”
Because I think my parents won’t tell me, she thought, and I want so very badly to know.
“Don’t make such disgruntled expression, little lady. It doesn’t become your pretty face.”
“Fine,” Rhaenyra snapped and pouted, her heart fluttering at the compliment. “Don’t tell me — but what of the Dragonwood? Do you really live there? Isn’t it dangerous?”
“Even Dragonstone is dangerous if you aren’t careful. Besides —” Daemon's hand slid to his side and for the first time did she notice the glimmer of metal. A sword’s handle. “— there are very few dangers that can survive a valyrian steel blade.”
Rhaenyra’s breath hitched when he pulled the blade from its scabbard. “Dark Sister,” she murmured with unabashed wonder.
Dark Sister was Blackfyre's twin and opposite: long and sleek whereas the other was short and brutal; blood red whilst her twin was jet black; one for life and one for death. It had last been seen in the hands of Visenya Targaryen, Aegon the Conqueror’s first wife and elder sister.
Visenya was by all accounts an austere, harsh, and guarded individual, quick to anger and slow to forget, as different as the night and day from her younger sister Rhaenys. She had taken it upon herself to deliver justice in Dragonstone, ousting her corrupt predecessor by slicing his throat with a swing of her blade. She was judge, jury, and executioner.
Then, one day, she vanished into the night, Dark Sister with her. Aegon remarried his younger sister, sired a son with her, and life moved on.
Visenya Targaryen was never seen again.
“How did you find it?” She stepped ahead, bewitched by the beautiful crimson blade inscribed with valyrian glyphs so old they bore little resemblance to the ones she was familiar with. “Where did you find it? “
The Dragonwood was vast, treacherous, full of twists and turns and deep ravines hidden under the thick foliage. One wrong step could lead to certain doom.
“Visenya knew what she was doing, little lady. Like calls to like,” he said, but Rhaenyra could hardly hear him.
She was close now, close enough that her shadow hung heavy over Daemon. With trembling fingers she traced the inscribed glyphs, marvelling at the faint, warm thrum of magic prickling her skin.
“I see you two are getting along.” Aemma’s dulcet voice cut through the living room, breaking the moment’s spell. She stood at the foot of the stairs with a pile of clean sheets on her arms. Her windswept white hair was matted with sweat, the droplets dripping down her forehead and her cheeks.
Daemon pulled the sword from Rhaenyra’s grasp, sheathing it with a clack, and she almost wept at the loss of contact. He turned to Aemma and flashed her a brilliant grin.
“So returns the lady of the house. Has my brother finally succumbed to the milk of the poppy and slipped into the arms of Tessarion?”
Aemma rolled her eyes and threw her braid over her shoulder. “For the time being.” She made her way to them and unceremoniously dumped the sheets on Daemon's lap. “And so should we all. The hour grows late.”
“Don’t be so hasty, goodsister. Morning won’t arrive faster just because you will it. Rhaenyra has been kind enough to prepare us tea — why not appreciate a good cup before we retire for the night?” He winked at Rhaenyra, and she immediately perked up.
“Please, please, mama? It’s done already and we need only pour it.” When she saw Aemma remained dubious, Rhaenyra lowered her head and cast her most disarming and pitiful pleading gaze. “Please. It is my nameday.”
Aemma glared at Daemon in open accusation, but his grin only widened.
“Oh, very well.” She relented with a long-suffering sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Let’s have some tea. But I want both of you in your rooms afterward, understood?”
“Whatever you say, Aemma.” Daemon chuckled as Rhaenyra fervently nodded in agreement. “Whatever you say.”
⊱༺༒︎༻⊰
When Rhaenyra woke up the next morning, the rain had diminished to a gentle murmur. Tessarion, the Blue Queen, goddess of night and dreams, had granted her a good night of sleep, one filled with the comforting crackling of flame and the sweet smell of fresh lemon and cinnamon.
Tossing the bedsheets aside, she rushed to the door and flew downstairs, not bothering to change out of her nightgown. When her feet hit the ground floor, she made a sharp turn left, where an arched entrance led to a hallway of rooms that had fallen out of use as steadily as the number of Targaryens in Dragonstone dwindled.
The door closest to the living room was left ajar. Faint sunlight streamed through the open gap, illuminating a dusty , faded tapestry hanging on the opposite wall.
Rhaenyra nudged the door with her feet. The hinges creaked loudly with disuse, but no sound came from the inside — no rustling of sheets, no long yawn after a long night, no smooth voice telling her to come inside. With a small gulp, she approached the sunlit rays and peeked inside.
Her heart sank.
The room was void of all life, the only proof her uncle had been there at all the rumpled sheets and the faint scent of blood and burned cherrywood.
She didn’t know why her heart was so heavy, why tears sprung from her eyes. Uncle Daemon had been gone for longer than she had been alive, and her mother wasn’t thrilled to have him back even if he had only come to return Viserys. Why would he stay? Certainly not for her, not when he had known her for less than a night.
Still, against all reason, Rhaenyra had hoped to find him downstairs when she rose from her slumber. She wanted to ask him more questions about the Dragonwood and the Dragonmount, about Dark Sister and Visenya’s fate. Like a moth to a flame, his presence made Rhaenyra long for something she couldn’t name, something she had spent her whole young life not knowing she was even missing until it was within her grasp and then gone.
Wiping away a stray tear, she closed the door and headed back to the living room. She would eat a slice of cake and head back upstairs, where her nameday gift awaited on the nightstand to be read.
When she left melancholic solitude of the hallway, she caught a glimpse of silver-white and sky-blue at the corner of her eye.
Aemma stood behind the counter with a basket laid before her, silver-white hair pulled up in a loose bun and wearing a dress of the palest blue trimmed with embroidered falcons. A darkness that wasn't there the day before highlighted the curve of her cheeks, the corners of her mouth, and the exhaustion in her eyes. She seemed older and tired.
“Uncle Daemon is gone,” Rhaenyra said, more to herself than to her mother.
“I know. I heard him leave at the break of dawn.” Aemma picked up the basket, settling it on the crook of her elbow. “It’s better this way.”
“Why?” Rhaenyra questioned, unable to clamp down the feeling of loss, of discontent. “Why was it better for him to leave?”
“The dead have no place among the living, Rhaenyra. For all Dragonstone knows, your uncle died more than a decade ago.”
Rhaenyra’s nostrils flared. “And why is that? What did he do?”
“Something whose punishment he could not escape,” Aemma replied ominously, an early frost covering the flower of her eyes.
Rhaenyra didn’t flinch away from the coldness of her mother's gaze. She raised her chin in defiance, a fire burning in her chest, refusing to back down. It was a battle of wills, of ice against flame, doomed from the start.
Aemma's eyelids fluttered shut and she sighed, her body slumping under the weight of years of secrets. She knelt beside Rhaenyra so they would be at the same height and placed one long, slender hand on her shoulder.
“When the time is right, we shall tell you the whole story behind your uncle's banishment, why the village believes him dead, and why it must remain so,” she said. “I promise. But for now, his continued existence must remain a secret.”
"I don’t understand." Rhaenyra's voice quivered, vacillating. “I don’t understand, mama.”
“I know.” Aemma squeezed her shoulder. “But I need you to trust me on this, Rhaenyra. I will soon leave to fetch Maester Mellos, and he can’t know Daemon was here. I need you to swear it to me, my daughter, that you won’t whisper a word about Daemon's visit to Mellos or anyone outside our family.”
Rhaenyra swallowed, finding she didn’t have the proper words to answer. She didn’t wish to disappoint her mother, but neither was she comfortable making such an oath. It seemed so much larger than herself, so much deeper and more meaningful. It was like staring at a deep, dark lake where one couldn’t see the bottom.
She searched Aemma's eyes for an explanation and there she found a mixture of emotions she seldom associated with her mother: fear and despair, anxiety and uncertainty, grief and pain. The truth of her mother's soul lay bare before her, and Rhaenyra found she couldn’t deny her.
“I won’t tell a soul outside our family about Uncle Daemon being alive, nor that he was here,” she whispered. “I swear it by ash and obsidian, by blood and fear. I swear it, mama, by ice and fire.”
⊱༺༒︎༻⊰
The Maester came and went and confirmed something that Rhaenyra and Aemma feared but hadn’t allowed themselves to dwell on: Viserys’s pain would lessen in time and with the proper treatment until it was but a ghost, but his leg would never fully heal. He would walk again but never for long and always with the help of cane.
No more could he travel the length of the Weirwood Path or ascend the Dragonmount.
All her life her parents had told Rhaenyra to be careful when walking the edges of the Dragonwood and to never wander too deep, too far out of the isolated pockets of safety. The Weirwood Path would be hers to walk one day when her father was ashes on the wind and she the Lore Keeper, but never the forest. Death awaited beneath the blood-red canopy of the trees and even the Targaryens would do well to avoid it.
Yet for all its dangers, Daemon had found a home in the Dragonwood and so had Visenya, if her uncle was to be believed — which Rhaenyra was inclined to do, as he had Dark Sister to prove it. Rhaenyra wondered if, just like Daemon’s very existence, there were other secrets about the Dragonwood she wasn’t privy to.
Some time after Maester Mellos left, her parents called her upstairs and Rhaenyra wondered if at last she might get answers to her questions.
In the bedroom, her mother sat by Viserys’s side, clutching his hand tightly, her eyes bloodshot. She didn’t look at Rhaenyra as she entered the room. Viserys smiled, weak and gentle, and beckoned her closer.
There were no answers that day, only more questions, more doubts, and a heavy burden placed on her too-small shoulders.
⊱༺༒︎༻⊰
Rhaenyra was a clever child, more perspicacious than her ten namedays suggested. Though she had sworn to her mother never to speak of Daemon’s continued existence and his reappearance to anyone outside the family, she had never sworn not to ask or speak of his life before his presumed death.
The first person she sought to question was her aunt Rhaenys, her father’s cousin and Laena and Laenor’s mother. Rhaenys’s father had been great-grandfather Jaehaerys’s eldest son and his presumed heir, but Aemon Targaryen had died early and suddenly, felled by a hunter’s stray arrow.
His only daughter had been no fitting successor for the Lore Keeper’s duties. Rhaenys was a Baratheon on her mother’s side, a descendant of the sea and the wind. The storm in her blood had quenched the flames, and though she had the purple eyes of the Targaryens, her hair was as black as the night. Rhaenys Targaryen’s connection to the stone and the fires of the earth had been dulled before she was even born.
But she was a Targaryen. She was family, and therefore an exception from Rhaenyra’s oath.
“I have been reading grandmother’s journals,” Rhaenyra said to Aunt Rhaenys when she headed to the Velaryons’s house to deliver a jar of her mother’s homemade jam. “They mentioned she and grandfather had another son named Daemon. Do you know anything about him, auntie Rhaenys?”
“Aunt Alyssa's journals, you said?” Aunt Rhaenys raised an eyebrow.
“Yes.” She nodded fiercely. “Father gave them to me as a nameday gift.”
“I’m sure he did,” Rhaenys muttered and sighed. She didn’t seem to believe Rhaenyra and she had the right of it, but there was no way she could know for sure that it was a lie. Or could she? “I know about Daemon, of course. Isn’t that why you came to ask me in the first place?”
“Well, I assumed —”
“Daemon was your father's younger brother by a few years,” Rhaenys said before Rhaenyra could continue. “He was a hot-headed menace and proud to a fault, but charming enough to lure people to their ruin without much effort and gone too soon.”
In any other situation, Rhaenyra would have taken her words at face value, but this wasn’t any other situation and words mattered. Rhaenys had said gone and gone wasn’t the same as dead.
With a glance over her shoulder to ensure there was no one around to hear her, Rhaenyra leaned forward and said, “Aunt Rhaenys, did you know that it was uncle Daemon who—”
Rhaenys placed a finger on Rhaenyra’s lips, silencing her. A deep, old sadness had overtaken her strong Baratheon features, a wound reopened that hadn’t fully healed. Her mouth was set into a grim line.
“Let the dead rest, Rhaenyra,” she whispered softly. “They have no place among the living.”
It was useless to push the subject any further. Rhaenys was loyal to their family and she wouldn’t betray their secrets even at Rhaenyra’s request. With a nod of acknowledgement, Rhaenyra thanked her aunt for her patience and fled from the Velaryon’s home, eager to continue her quest for answers.
She headed for Alicent’s house to play and await an opportunity to question her father, Otto Hightower. He was from the same generation as Rhaenyra’s grandfather, Baelon, and had acted as her great-grandfather Jaehaerys’s liaison in the village when he grew too frail to do so himself. His proximity to the dead patriarch had in turn allowed him to become close friends with Viserys.
Rhaenyra sat with Alicent and Otto at the kitchen after a long day of playing on the backyard, waiting for Alerie Hightower to finish preparing their afternoon snacks. Alicent’s older brothers were running amok in the village still, playing with the other older kids.
“Mister Hightower,” Rhaenyra called, folding her hands on her lap, the portrait of innocence. “Might I ask you a question?”
Otto set down his book, eyebrows dipping in a confused frown. She didn’t often speak directly to him. “But of course. What do you wish to know, Rhaenyra?”
“I know you have been friends with my papa for years. Were you friends with my Uncle Daemon too?”
“Daemon?” He blinked, startled. “Now that is a name I haven’t heard in a while. But no, child. I'm afraid your uncle was no friend of mine.”
“That’s an understatement if I’ve ever heard one, Otto,” Alerie said with a snort. She set a tray with four steaming cups of tea at the center of the table and sat down on one of the empty chairs. Helping Alicent and Rhaenyra to their drinks, she added, “Otto and Daemon couldn’t stand each other, Rhaenyra.”
“Alerie!”
Alicent's mother shrugged, ignoring her husband with an unconcerned sip of her tea. “They were always arguing, your uncle and my husband. Daemon was a wild boy, doing whatever he wanted with no regard for how your father, grandfather, and great-grandfather would worry. He was constantly picking fights around the village, heading back home beaten and bloodied, though his opponents were often in far worse shape. He seemed to drift through life searching for something to fulfil his existence, full of spite and longing, never satisfied with what he had.”
Otto wasn't pleased by the turn in conversation, but he nodded all the same. “Daemon was restless, chaotic, and unruly. Irresponsible, too. He never fulfilled the tasks his father and grandfather set for him and spent his night in the tavern. A menace, all agreed, but we never thought he would die so young and so tragically.”
“How? How did he die?” Rhaenyra asked, her hands tight around the teacup, pushing herself to the edge of the chair. Her mother had said Daemon did something whose punishment he could’t escape — had he committed a crime and paid for it then? But would Otto describe a criminal's fate as tragic?
“Your grandmother Alysanne thought a family might give your uncle some sense of direction and purpose,” Alerie said gently, with small shake of her head. “She arranged a marriage between Daemon and Rhea Royce of Runestone. Rhea was all alone in the farmstead, caring for the sheep, and Alysanne thought they could find happiness together. Daemon was furious and went to confront Rhea about it but… Terrible, terrible timing.”
“What happened?” She whispered, her heart a hammer. So close, she was so close to an answer now.
“A dragon attacked Runestone, seeking to feast on its sheep.” Otto's expression was somber, solemn, and void of all joy. “They both perished that night, burned to death under dragonfire.”
Rhaenyra didn’t ask any more questions.
⊱༺༒︎༻⊰
Now that she knew that her family was full of secrets and that the stories her parents told her might not have been entirely true, Rhaenyra turned her attention to the parts of her house she had never thought to explore. Waiting until only the ghosts of the dead Targaryens were there to witness her exploits, she snuck into the long-emptied rooms, finding most of them unlocked, whilst others were sealed shut. Some of them had been out of use for so long she had to employ force do open the doors.
She turned them upside down, searching every nook and cranny for trinkets its inhabitants had left behind. Rhaenyra found toys aplenty and lost pieces of jewelry; she discovered wardrobes filled with old dresses eaten away by moths and vanities littered with dusty flasks of scented oils and ointments long gone to rot.
The most interesting item she uncovered was Great Aunt Saera's journal, hidden on a crack behind her bed's headboard. It didn’t shed much light on the mystery of Daemon, but it painted an unflattering portrait of Jaehaerys and Alysanne, who Saera claimed favoured her older sons in favor of the younger children. Rhaenyra found her great aunt to be an exceptionally stubborn young woman, one who wanted far more than their village could offer and was constantly denied it for the sake of some nebulous duty that went unexplained. Saera wanted to be free, and no one would let her.
She had little kindness to spare for little sister Daella, Rhaenyra's own maternal grandmother, who she felt was more loved than she was — and Vaegon! Saera thought Vaegon was the most boring existence in the world. It was an amusing read, acerbic and mocking. She detailed her exploits in vivid detail, eliciting giggles and blushes from Rhaenyra.
She decided to lend the journal to Laena. Her cousin would find it as engaging as Rhaenyra did.
The strangest part of Saera’s writings was her account of Grandmother Alyssa. Alyssa loved the outdoors, always sneaking to the forest barefooted and returning with flowers, berries, and strange small animals. She was rambunctious, brash, and never shy — but Saera didn’t make any sarcastic or mean-spirited comments about her sister, nor did she seem to begrudge Alyssa her freedom. Alyssa was simply different.
As the days passed by, Rhaenyra tried to get into the attic, where the Targaryens kept their more precious books and relics, but the trapdoor was sealed shut and the key out of reach, dangling on a leather cord on her father's neck.
Too soon the moon turned, bringing with it the uncertainty of Rhaenyra’s first Rite. The date hung over the Targaryen Household like a churning ash cloud, darkening the joy of day. Every morning Viserys had Rhaenyra sit with him by the hearth and retraced the Rite's steps with her until she knew them all by heart and soul. He was close to bursting with nervous energy, anxiety rushing through his veins, and lamenting not being able to fill his inherited duty.
Rhaenyra held his hand, smiled, and assured him she would make him proud.
Aemma busied herself with another task entirely. She set her loom by the hearth and in the dead of the night, when the darkness outside was so deep one could hardly see what was in front of them, she sat down on Viserys's chair and weaved. From the hidden corner where her mother's periwinkle gaze couldn’t reach, Rhaenyra watched, mesmerized, as Aemma spun shadow and flame into thread.
It was close to daybreak when she rose and set the loom aside, hiding away whatever it was she made so diligently.
When the day of the Rite arrived, Rhaenyra woke at the break of dawn with a gentle shake from her mother. Aemma helped her dress in a comfortable and warm attire: a clean linen undershirt under a long-sleeved red wool shirt, leather pants, a cushy pair of boots, and a leather jacket carved with dragons.
“The days grow colder,” Aemma said, fastening a utility belt around Rhaenyra's small waist. “And the Weirwood Path grows colder still.”
After they were done, hand in hand they went to Aemma and Viserys's bedroom, where her father awaited seated between feathery pillows. His violet eyes glistened with unshed tears.
“I'm sorry, darling girl,” he whispered when she was close enough to listen, enveloping her hands in his. “You shouldn’t have to carry such a burden so young.”
“It is alright, papa,” she replied, offering him a smile that didn’t betray her fears. “I’m ready for it.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Viserys reached for Blackfyre, which waited on the bedside table. He looked at the dagger with the same anguish and hesitation one would feel when saying goodbye to an old friend before offering it to her. “You know what to do, don’t you?”
“I do.” She nodded and took Blackfyre from him, clutching it close to her heart. “You taught me well.”
“Good. Good.” Viserys swallowed hard, pulling her into a bone-crushing hug. Rhaenyra buried her small head on his shoulder, taking in the comforting scent of old books and lavender, committing it to memory. Blackfyre pulsed as a third heart between them. “You must come back safely, Rhaenyra. You must.”
Aemma sat on the bed and wrapped them in her arms, holding tight. They stayed like that for a while, unwilling to let go.
Her mother accompanied her to the beginning of the Weirwood Path, never once letting go of Rhaenyra’s hand. The sky was still painted in the faint reds and oranges of dawn, darkness lining the horizon beyond the Dragonmount. In the quietness of early morn, Dragonstone slept.
When they approached the set of heart trees that marked the beginning of Rhaenyra's journey, Aemma halted and took in a deep breath. She nudged Rhaenyra to turn and kneeled beside her.
“I have one more thing for you.” Aemma reached into her satchel and pulled out a cloth so dark it might as well have been a piece of night itself. And just as stars shone against the night, so did the fiery valyrian glyphs stitched on the hem of the hood, bright embers on a cold winter day.
Rhaenyra's gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. This was what her mother had been weaving, night after night. It was beautiful, it was magic, and it was hers.
“This is no armor, but it will protect you just as well.” Aemma placed the cloak around Rhaenyra's shoulders, tying it at the base of her neck and pulling the hood over her silver hair. “Your father and I did the best we could to prepare you for this task, but danger lurks at the edges of the Weirwood Path. We have taught you to fear the Dragonwood, and for good reason. This forest is older than this age, as old as the world, or so our lore says. It withstood the Long Night, when the sun went dark, frost covered the world and most living beings died; it withstood the wrath of five hundred dragons. It’s aware and sentient in ways we cannot understand. And it will tempt you, Rhaenyra. It will do everything it can to lead you astray, but you must not give in. Stay in the Weirwood Path, my sweet girl. Don’t remove your cloak. Remember your duty, keep moving forward, and when you are done, come back to us.”
⊱༺༒︎༻⊰
The woods were foreboding, dark and deep, the weirwood trees reaching towards each other with spindly, bloodied branches. They twined and entwined until none could tell where a tree ended and another began, creating an archway above the muddy path.
In the gap between the weirwood trees, the Dragonwood lurked, black against white. Bramble bushes edged the road, some carrying luscious crimson and dark purple berries, as big as Rhaenyra's fingers, ripe for picking; others bore strange flowers: roses as black as tar with petals lined with flaming orange, bone white carnations with spots of black, and asters that were closer to death than to life.
Now and then she heard a sharp hiss, the whistle of a forked tongue, and the slash of a poisonous tail against the tree bark. Hundreds of eyes seemed to peer at her from the shadows, full of malice and ancient hunger, trailing her steps. She quickened her pace and drew Blackfyre from its sheath.
Uncle Daemon had said it himself, hadn’t he? Very few dangers could survive a valyrian steel blade. Whatever the Dragonwood had to throw at her, she would slash, stab, and conquer it. Daemon had survived these woods for years, despite its deadliness — why couldn’t Rhaneyra try to replicate his feat, if on a smaller scale?
The colors of the early morning passed by; the freshness of dew faded into a heavy mist, a shroud of white spread across the forest’s floor. The day grew warmer, with the sun shining furiously beyond the discontent gray clouds and chasing away the mists. Rhaneyra sweat profusely under the layers of clothing, but her fear of death outweighed her need for comfort.
The sun was close to its peak when the Dragonwood revealed its claws.
As the road became more twisted and steeper, Rhaenyra reached her first goalpost: a stream of translucent turquoise waters that crossed the Weirwood Path, emerging from the Dragonwood only to disappear again into it on the other side. A small stone bridge connected the two sides.
She plopped down under a Heart Tree, her hood slipping from the top of her head until it clung to her silver tresses by a hairsbreadth. Under the ever-bleeding, ever-watchful eyes of the trees, she devoured the lunch her mother had prepared, licking the breadcrumbs off her fingers. The gnarly branches swayed under a cool, gentle breeze, the contented sigh of a bygone winter god. It enveloped her body with the loving care of an affectionate mother, its sweet whispering chasing away the fear, the uncertainty, the concern.
Her eyelids were heavy; her breath came and went slowly, sedately.
Sleep, sweet girl, the Dragonwood whispered with Aemma's sweet voice. Sleep, my little hatchling. Only then you can wake.
Rhaenyra's eyes closed; her whole being cocooned in comforting warmth. She let go of the material realm, arm dropping to her side and fingers brushing Blackfyre's bejeweled hilt.
The illusion broke, chased away as the dagger's rubies flared. Rhaenyra gasped awake, pushing herself off the ground with a startled cry, vision swirling in a sea of red. She rushed towards the stream and splashed water on her face, trying to wash away Dragonwood's influence.
She saw herself reflected in the turquoise waters. Her braided hair was a tangled web, her amethyst eyes ablaze; her lips were painted red with blood, a single drop dripping from its corner, down her chin. Rhaenyra tried to wipe it away but found her face to be dry and her reflection a lie.
In her blind rush to rest, Rhaenyra had inadvertently exposed herself to a terrible danger. Cheeks burning with shame, she pulled her hood over head, filled the leather canteen with water and hurried ahead, unwilling to look back.
Plenty of streams and creeks crossed her path as she traversed the hills, but she didn’t allow herself to linger. After its unsuccessful attack, the Dragonwood had remained quiet, retreating to a faint presence at the edge of her awareness, waiting for any cracks in her armor.
The vegetation soon grew scarcer, the forest giving way to jagged hills and valleys that cut so deep into the black rock they obscured the sun most of the day, keeping the Weirwood Path in perpetual twilight. The Heart Trees stood stark white against the blackness of the weathered basalt, unperturbed by the change in the terrain. In the distance, hewn into the mountain itself, immense twin dragons roaring in triumph framed the exit of the valley.
Once she’d conquered the Weirwood Path, the terrain lost its jagged edges, giving wait to a depression between the hills that was large, smooth, circular, and unnatural. At the very center of the depression was an elevated altar, as circular as the land around it, with three colums in the shape of dragons placed along its circumference to form a triangle.
Blackfyre clattered on the rocky soil; Rhaenyra fell to her knees and wept. She had made it to the Altar of the Living Flames, the latest Targaryen in their long, entwined line to do so. The Dragonwood had tried and failed to take her.
Yet still, the Rite remained.
⊱༺༒︎༻⊰
After composing herself, Rhaenyra ascended the steps leading up to the altar. Glyphs covered the entire construction in geometric patterns, revolving around a triangular gap carved in the stone.
She kneeled at its center and brought Blackfyre’s sharp blade to her palm. With a shuddering breath, Rhaenyra cut into the pale, unblemished skin of her hand, and allowed the blood to flow down to the triangular gap.
One drop of blood was for Balerion, God of Fire and Brimstone.
Two were for Vhagar, Goddess of Ash and Bloodshed.
Three were for Meraxes, Goddess of Wind and Shadow.
She closed her hand and pulled it away, bringing it close to her heart.
One breath, two breaths, three breaths. An eternity passed between a moment and the next, between hope and despair.
A surge of fresh blood burst from the gap and overflowed, gurgling like a thirsty beast as it filled the carvings on the stone. The three stone dragons roared with crimson fire and the bloodied glyphs lit up, encircling Rhaenyra in flames.
She sang.
There was no translation for what the lyrics meant — all people who might have known its original meaning were long gone. Rhaenyra's lungs burned and she tasted copper and ash every time she opened her mouth, but the flames could do her no harm. They licked at her cloak and hood, but just as mortals were doomed to never escape death, so was fire to never catch a shadow.
The song was the beginning and the end, life and death, time and eternity, creation and destruction, ice and fire. It was a carefully constructed symphony between opposites, a paradox that had no right to exist and yet did anyway. One could easily get lost in it, carried away by the relentless current of magic that had been written into the beat and tune of the music itself.
Lost in the trance, Rhaenyra didn’t hear a roar cutting through the air, nor the beating of mighty wings as it subjugated the wind itself to its whims.
She only noticed the dragon when her chaotic world drowned beneath its shadow, when it landed on the open space beyond the altar. It was a beast out of the cautionary tales the people of Dragonstone were so fond of, its scales glinting the same bright scarlet of the corpse flowers growing at the edge of the Dragonwood. The dragon was long, lean, and sinuous, moving with the self-possessed grace of a skilled swordsman.
Perhaps she should have been afraid — dragons were fire, blood, and destruction forged into the shape of demons of old, fashioned to wage war in a crueler world. Entire civilizations had burned to charred bones under their infernal breath. Their hunger was legendary, unending; they devoured whatever they wanted and asked for no permission except that of their own conscience.
But Rhaenyra was the song, and the song was her. She had Blackfyre in her hand, her mother’s cloak on her shoulders; she was fire and shadow and magic, all human inhibitions and emotions lost in the conflagration speeding through her veins. At that moment, she was more dragon than girl — what had she to to fear of her own kind?
She offered the dragon her hand.
The Dragon whipped its tail and after a heartbeat of cautious hesitation, approached the ring of flame. It settled there, where it curled into itself and lowered its head, a puff of content steam rising from its nostrils.
They stayed like that, the girl and the dragon, until the music drew to a close, the flames died, and the Dragonmount slumbered once more.
⊱༺༒︎༻⊰
When Rhaenyra returned home the night of her first Rite, a smile of proud accomplishment stamped on her face, she expected a jubilant welcome. She imagined Aemma and Viserys by the hearth, hands and foreheads touching as they held the prayer beads and a delicious, still-steaming dinner awaiting on the table.
Why then had her parent’s expression turned to ash when they saw Rhaenyra pass through the doors? Why had mother’s hands trembled as she moved to hug Rhaenyra, refusing to meet her eyes?
What had they seen in Rhaenyra that warranted such a reaction?
She didn’t know, nor were they forthcoming with details.
⊱༺༒︎༻⊰
Time was a river meandering through the rises and falls of mortal lives, shaping the landscape as it went. At times it was slow, serene, content to just amble through the gullies and canyons; at others it was an unforgiving force, moving ever forward with no regard for anyone, dragging all down under whether they wanted or not.
With time, the Maester's assessment of Viserys's injury proved prophetic: his leg healed enough so he could stand, but the muscles of his back and lower body had grown weak with disuse. Her parents moved to a bedroom downstair to make it easier for him to move around the house.
Rhaenyra continued to fulfill the practical duties of the Lore Keeper, but the Dragonwood didn’t feel as menacing as before. Something had changed after the first ritual, and whenever Rhaneyra passed by, the eyes in the darkness hurried away. Perhaps they recognised that her blood was tied to the Dragonmount, her voice lulling it into to slumber.
The red dragon was never too far. There were times when she couldn’t see him, but his presence was a constant through the stone and the flame, a lifeline she desperately clung to when the song threatened to consume her whole.
Uncle Daemon didn’t come into their lives again. Sometimes, when traversing the Weirwood Path, Rhaenyra would shout his name, hoping he was close enough to hear it, but silence was her only answer. That didn’t stop her from sitting by her window and staring at the edges of the Dragonwood, wishing for a glimpse of silver starlight.
Aemma fell pregnant at the end of the year Rhaenyra turned seventeen. She and Viserys were happy with the development and eager to welcome a new member into their small family, but Rhaenyra had long passed the age of wishing for siblings. She’d grown too jaded over the years, too hurt by the many pregnancies cut short and the tiny lives lost in the cradle. Still, Rhaenyra hoped her brother or sister would be born healthy, hale, and that they would survive.
Rhaenyra never imagined it was her mother who would worry her most.
Aemma — proud and strong and dignified Aemma — didn’t take to the pregnancy easily. She had grown feeble, her complexion pale as she spent days inside without a hint of sunlight. The baby seemed to be seeping the life out of her in a way none had before and it terrified Rhaenyra.
She held her mother's hair as she hurled her meals on a wood bucket every morning. She helped her wash and move around when she grew too large to do it by herself, her natural equilibrium failing her.
“Must I leave you like this, mama?” Rhaenyra kneeled beside her mother's bed and held her hands. Time hadn’t been understanding of Aemma's condition, the Rite falling as her mother’s pregnancy ended. The baby could come at any moment now. “It doesn’t feel right. Perhaps we could postpone the Rite —”
“I understand your concern, my girl,” Aemma replied with a tired smile, placing a hand on Rhaenyra’s cheek. “But you know it can’t be. Your duty cannot be forsworn or eschewed, lest a calamity befalls our home. And you are the only one who can fulfill it, Rhaenyra.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Not at all.” Aemma patted the top of Rhaenyra's head. “No duty as heavy as yours should ever feel comfortable. Now go. The sooner you leave, the sooner you return. And do not run, Rhaenyra!”
Rhaenyra didn’t run — Aemma didn’t need the added stress of figuring out a rescue operation for her daughter on top of a looming labor — but she did walk faster than usual. The Rite was a balm to her frazzled nerves, allowing her mind the respite it desperately yearned for.
Only halfway through the song she realised there was something missing, something important. Rhaenyra couldn’t feel her red dragon’s presence anywhere close. It unnerved her and even in its absence, its memory kept her from losing herself to the music.
She finished singing, wrapped her hand in gauze, and headed back towards the Path. As she passed under the twin dragons, she stopped and turned back, searching the clifftops and the sky for a red shadow. For a while Rhaenyra stood there, caught between tremulous expectation and profound anxiety, waiting for an omen of normalcy that didn’t come.
On her way down the Weirwood Path, with the sun dipping below the horizon and the world immersed in the red, orange, and black hues of twilight, she overheard the cry of a great dragon, the sound so sad and distraught it nearly broke her heart.
⊱༺༒︎༻⊰
By the time Rhaenyra arrived at Dragonstone, the pitch-black darkness of a starless night had long devoured all light of day, encasing the village in a monochromatic half-gloom. There was no moon or stars up in the sky, leaving the solitary orange glow of candles and lamps to illuminate the sleeping streets.
She had neither a candle nor a lamp to light her path, but that hardly made any difference. When one grew so accustomed to the preternatural darkness of the Dragonwood as to traverse it unperturbed, everything else seemed bright and familiar by comparison. Rhaenyra needed no light to find her way back home.
Would her mother be up, insisting on going around cooking, cleaning, organizing, and reorganizing the nursery as if she wasn’t on the cusp of giving birth? Would her father have convinced Aemma to stop being stubborn and to rest, Gods’s sake, as existence itself wouldn’t fall apart if she was a little more selfish? Viserys would be waiting for Rhaenyra by the hearth to reclaim Blackfyre, as he had done all these years.
The Targaryen’s house appeared in the distance. Rhaenyra sped up her pace, eager to return to Aemma’s side, even if just to press a goodnight kiss on her forehead.
She pushed the door open, careful not to make a sound, and as she prepared to call her father in a soft murmur, the pungent scent of blood slashed open her soul.
Rhaenyra choked, her legs going weak beneath her, and she grasped the doorknob for balance. Her vision swam in a sea of vermillion, her mouth filling with the metallic, bitter taste of copper and rust. She was choking, drowning, and suffocating all at once, her breath carrying the polished obsidian shards of a shattering world to her lungs.
She didn’t know how to speak anymore; didn’t how to say the very first word she had spoken in this world. Rhaenyra’s mind was broken, fractured, wrecked into pieces of barely coherent thoughts by the black hammer of fear. She couldn’t say when her body decided to move, nor how she made it a single step without tripping and falling.
All Rhaenyra knew was that she stood on the threshold of her parents’s bedroom gazing upon her mother’s butchered body. Aemma was tied to the bedposts, the skin around her wrists red and bleeding, eyes open wide in terror, as was her womb. Mellos stood on the sidelines arranging his embalming tools on the nightstand.
Viserys wept beside Aemma’s corpse, a small bundle in his arms.
“Father?” Rhaenyra called in a strangled murmur, a voice that was not her own, but not so much as a muscle of her father's body moved.
Maester Mellos noticed her arrival, set aside his tools, and stared at her with the mournful gaze of someone who had struggled through a long, exhausting battle, and lost.
“Miss Targaryen,” he said carefully, “I'm so deeply sorry for your loss. I did my best to save them but—”
“What do you mean by them?” Rhaenyra took a step forward, crossing the threshold.
“I— well, miss, the baby wasn’t in the appropriate position for birth and so—”
“I don’t require a lecture on breech births, Maester Mellos. I am asking you what happened to my mother and my sibling.”
“There were… complications.” Mellos looked left and right, a prey backed against a corner by a predator looking for an escape. “We had to perform a more invasive procedure to take out the baby. Your brother… His lungs collapsed hours later.”
She was no human anymore but rather a despair so deep it eclipsed it all and the crushing guilt of not having been here when her mother needed her most; she was sorrow for the sibling she had never had the chance to meet; she was the beginnings of a vengeful wildfire at this brutal injustice.
“A more invasive procedure,” Rhaenyra repeated, confusion burned away in the flames of rage, “that demanded my mother be tied to the bed? That terrified her such that she died in utter fear?”
“Miss, it was the only way—”
“To save the child! I heard it well. But not the only way to save my mother, was it?” She looked at Viserys, nostrils flaring. “You agreed to this… abomination, papa?”
Viserys stilled, his sobs quietening at the sound of his daughter’s wrath. He didn’t move; she wasn’t sure he was breathing.
“Papa, please,” Rhaenyra implored, bones rattling like the earth before a volcanic eruption, tears sliding down her cheeks. “You knew her history with pregnancies. You knew how this one took its toll on her. Tell me you didn’t.”
He brought the baby — her brother, Baelon, unmoving, unbreathing, gone too soon — closer to his chest. Viserys refused to look her in the eye.
“It was necessary, Rhaenyra,” he whispered at last, somber as a graveyard.
“Necessary? How? Why? You and mother never tried for another child for years because of her troubles with them, yet now it was necessary? Why? What changed?”
Viserys remained silent, nor did he need to volunteer an answer. Deep in her bleeding heart, Rhaenyra already knew.
It was she who had changed. It was Rhaenyra who had taken up the Lore Keeper's duties; it was Rhaenyra who had all the freedom to come and go and who was now tied to the Dragonmount. But hadn’t she done all that was asked of her without complaint and with all due diligence? Hadn’t she devoted her heart and soul to her duty?
“Why did you need another child, father?” Her voice shattered into a thousand pieces. “Am I not enough?”
Viserys flinched and finally gathered enough courage to face her, death keeping its court in the violet halls of his eyes. “You don’t understand, Rhaenyra. It’s bigger than you. It’s bigger than me, too.”
“Then explain to me!” She erupted with a scream, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. “Don’t leave me in the dark! Say something!”
Her father lowered his head in shame.
"Look at me, father," she demanded, clenching her fists hard enough to draw blood. "Look at me, damn you!"
But he didn’t, because if he looked at her now, if he saw the anger and the despair in her eyes, he wouldn’t be strong enough to keep his precious secrets. The secrets of her house, of her family — secrets that were hers by right and that Viserys yet denied her. And for what?
She wondered if Daemon had been in the same position years before, so much of an outsider in his own home that life as a living ghost seemed the kinder option.
“I will never forgive you,” she spat, turned on her heels, and slammed the door shut.
⊱༺༒︎༻⊰
Rhaenyra dreamed she was flying.
She was high above the clouds, far beyond the tallest of the world's bones, drifting through an unending sea of glimmering stars. The earth down below was minuscule under her feet, great cities turned as small and insignificant as insects in the vastness of the open sky.
The world seemed so calm from up here, so content. Why were they allowed to live peacefully, without knowing grief and rage and hatred, while she lost a brother and a mother and a father in one fell stroke?
She wanted to set everything on fire, herself included.
Rhaenyra dreamed she was a god.
She was absolute power, boundless in her might, with no beginning and no end. Civilizations crumbled to dust and ash under the uncontrollable conflagration of her rage. Nothing was sacred; nothing was spared. She took what she wanted and what was within her reach just because she could.
The ashes tasted sweet on her tongue.
Rhaenyra dreamed she was burning.
Blood boiled in her veins, opening steaming cracks on her pale skin. She breathed in ash and exhaled sulfur, lungs drowning in lava. Her hair had turned to diamonds under the pressure, the crystalline tresses reflecting all colors of the rainbow and the ones in between.
She saw too much and understood too little, seeing the world through a kaleidoscope of strange and familiar colors, her vision shrinking and enlarging with every blink of her eyes. Her nails dug holes into the stone floor whereupon she lay as her body arched, searching for cold air, but the wind did nothing but fan the flames.
Her head lolled to the side and in the delirious haze of a feverish mind, she saw something approach. At first it was blurry, indistinct but bright, the impression of a thought before it could take shape. Once it drew closer, its contours sharpened into the form of a person, a man of otherworldly beauty crowned with starlight and haloed in fire.
“Uncle,” Rhaenyra uttered from charred lips, reaching with a trembling arm towards him. “Uncle.”
Daemon kneeled beside her, gaze inspecting the length of her body before settling on her face.
“Are you in pain, niece?”
Rhaenyra opened her mouth to answer, but the words turned to ash. Was she in pain? She couldn’t say for sure. She felt too much, heard too much, saw too much; if she felt any pain, it was lost amidst the maelstrom of chaos and emotion devouring her body and mind.
His lips twitched with the hint of a smile. Icicle-cool fingers caressed her cracked cheek, hissing and releasing a puff of steam where they touched. Rhaenyra gasped in pleased surprise, leaning into his soothing touch, desperate for more. She shivered, waves of pleasure spreading down her body as his other hand cupped the back of her head, lifting her back off the ground.
“I can help you.” His thumb moved down her cheekbones, brushing her parted lips, nudging them open. “Will you let me, little dragon?”
“Yes.” The answer came easily, equal parts desperation and desire. She would have given him everything she had at that moment, body and soul, had Daemon asked.
“Good,” he said and brought his lips down to hers.
His kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t the soft caress of a lover’s kiss, the tender rain of winter's first downpour. It was a summer storm, wild and ferocious, beating down on the sweltering dark stone of their home. She didn’t mind; she didn’t care. Rhaenyra moaned against his mouth, the heady chill descending her spine, down her limbs, stitching the cracks closed.
She opened her mouth to allow him better access, wrapping her arms on the back of his neck, holding him as if her life depended on it. Daemon’s hands snaked around her waist, pulling her small frame against his lean, sculpted body, and Rhaenyra almost wept when skin met skin. He was cold, so deliciously cold. She was a parched wanderer lost in the desert who had found water at last.
Rhaenyra pressed their bodies closer together, removing all distance between them. Her hands ventured below his shirt, exploring the nooks and crannies of his muscled back. Daemon responded in kind, caressing her belly, tracing the curve of her hardened nipples with his thumb. Their tongues and teeth clashed — they were hungry, starving, intent on devouring each other whole and leaving nothing behind.
Her cunt ached, clenching with need as every fantasy she kept between herself, her sheets, and the dark came to life. She bulked forwards, eager for more contact, for more of him. Rhaenyra sunk her nails into Daemon’s shoulders, leaving a trail of fresh blood as they carved a path on the white skin of his back.
He sucked in a sharp breath, breaking the kiss. His hand flew to her neck, fingers digging into the hollow of her throat, tilting her head up. His swollen lips hovered over hers, amethyst eyes polished with a dangerous edge.
“Careful, little dragon. You don’t know what you are playing with.”
Rhaenyra burst with blithe laughter, high on heat and cold and pleasure. Shoulders still shaking with mirth, she caught the tip of his lower lip between her teeth, cupping his cheek with her small hand and glancing up at him in a bold challenge.
“Then show me, uncle.”
He complied.
⊱༺༒︎༻⊰
Rhaenyra woke up in her room, sweat dripping all over her naked, feverish body.
The taste of ash and blood and sulfur was fresh on her tongue and her swollen lips.