Chapter Text
Dracarys.
Loud screams could be heard rising from the city but all Rhaenyra could hear was a single ringing Dracarys, so powerful in its delivery that it drowned out everything. Filled with retribution and promise. It was a force to be reckoned with. Flame in her heart and on her lips. Blood on her mind. Fire and blood. No more just words.
Flying over the burning city on dragon back she felt so immersed in her grief and rage that her feelings of confusion rested detached at the back of her head. She couldn't figure out why or how she had come to burning king's landing, why all she could really feel was pain, such deep abiding pain that her heart ached with it.
Despite the chaos of the city below, there was a stillness in her like her mind could not feel too much, already filled to the brim with such agonising pain she could not even comprehend it. Even losing her mother had not hurt her as much as this heart numbing pain. She wanted to move her head, to look down at the city but it was as if she was stuck, even though she moved, she didn't really move.
In this moment it was as though she were just viewing the scene, a passive observer to her own ruin. Sharing her mind not just with herbut also a dragon. A dragon she had never met before, so unlike her golden lady, who she could still feel at the back of her head in this hellscape, wrought in similar agony. Where was she and why was she on a dragon so dark and wild, one she couldn't even recognise and that too without a proper saddle. Holding onto its ridges and back with a strong grip from her calloused hands and thighs. It was all that kept her in the air, on its back.
True anger and confusion struck her when she moved to burning the red keep, anger of the body she resided in and confusion in her own heart over her actions. Fire burning around her, fire burning inside her. Rhaenyra could feel herself scream though no screams left her body, her mind trying to simultaneously mend and tear itself apart. It was in the midst of this god-awful scene that a cramp stuck her stomach so painful that it jolted her from the nightmare she was stuck in, her mind waking itself suddenly to such intense pain.
Her chamber was never more chaotic, people rushing in and out, a true mirror to her mind. Beyond the chamber, loud thunder reverberated through their frames, a storm in full motion. Bright flashes of light intermingling with the dark night. Through the haze, a facsimile of a smile crossed her lips as she thought of the wicked irony of this night. A storm to herald the birth of her heir, coming too soon but no less awaited.
Violence. Anger. Rage. Love. Pain.
Her world was consumed with this pain, both in her soul and body. Words both in coarse foreign tongues and the lilting tones of high Valyrian rang in her ears mixed in with some common tongue. In her vision, eyes an inhuman blue, flesh nearly rotting. Armies of dead, so unfathomably large, stretching over pale white snow, their march unstoppable. How? When? All she could do was scream as her world narrowed down to the pain.
Lightning flashed through the dark room followed by loud shrieking thunder, echoing her screams. It was as if even the sky could feel her pain, breaking out into roaring rain and dark dark clouds that blanketed the castle as Rhaenyra struggled with herself. A piercing roar could be heard carried on the wind, in beat with the princess, as if even her dragon could feel her pain.
She needed it to leave her, whatever it was. This foreign entity, this girl of contrasts, a living amalgamation of ice and fire. Her blood sang to Rhaenyra’s own, an echo of a long-forgotten promise, a prophecy, the blood of her blood, haunting her now.
She was a dragon princess in both image and voice as she raged across the room “Get it out! Get it out of me!”
Lady Massey had never witnessed anything more violent. The people had always spoken of Targaryens as if they were closer to gods than men with their dragon blood and in this moment, she could feel it. It was as if the princess was a dragon herself. If she could breathe fire even the stone castle would be on fire, her screams faintly echoed by roars.
When she and the other ladies had all rushed to the princess' chambers in fright as her screams echoed through the castle, they had not expected to witness a childbirth. It was too early, the old maester agreed, and yet it was happening now and they needed to stop dilly dallying in conjectures. She and the others quickly got to task, carrying great pails of water and clean fabric, trying to get the anguishing princess comfortable. Their task was harder still for the princess kept resisting them. There appeared to be no recognition in her eyes, only pure anguish as she tried to push them away.
No no no no her litany of denials were intermingled with shrieks of pure torment. What truly scared her was when she would slip into foreign tongues, words she never heard before, high Valyrian or perhaps something else, some so sweet and others so coarse. Even her voice would be different. Time ceased to exist as they tirelessly worked to comfort the princess, to ease her pain as she laboured.
Stuck between awakening and nightmares, her world narrowed down to aching agony. Her attendants were saying something, and she could feel one of them trying to lift her up, but it was as if everything came to her through a thin film of gause. Lost in the translation. Her mind was consumed by her nightmares, phantom screams, a crescendo in her ears, words of languages she had never heard before and her. Always her. She didn't know who or why, she could never see who she was, but she knew it was not her. No, it was someone else. She was someone Rhaenyra could never be, with her deep deep rage and such contrasting kindness.
Her hair, a silver cascade streaming into her sight, bells twinkling with every movement of her body. Her flesh, invulnerable to even the hottest flames. As comfortable on dragons as on horses. Dragons. So many, three beautiful young dragons, all around her. Their lithe bodies always flying over her.
One so dark it was as if it were Balerion reborn, its shadow blotting out the entire sky, its roars just as fierce. The winged shadow, lined with crimson, the living symbol of house Targaryen.
Another, a shade of green and bronze so sumptuous, she was in awe to witness it as it flew over the bay, wild and free on this foreign land.
The true masterpiece was the cream and gold dragon, its wings pure fire, the wildest of the three and perhaps even the youngest as it zipped into the sea in search of food.
Always with her as she traversed this world, commanding forces and fleets as well as any general. Directing the armies to battle in foreign tongues, assured in her sovereignty as she lay wastes to armies clad in golden armour . A single glare capable of instilling more fear in her adversaries than any might. A queen with an army, a seat and yet no crown.
Shunned. Rejected. Isolated. Spurned.
Surrounded by people not her own and yet feeling complete.
High Valyrian. Bastardised Valyrian. Dothraki. Old Ghiscari. The Common Tongue. All in her ears.
Standing amongst her own people and feeling alienated. Her spirit, nearly unbreakable. Her soul, worn but never tarnished.
You saw my child fall from the sky. They took Missandei.
Loss, such deep unbearable loss. So deep it constricted her very airway, choking her with her worthlessness and incompetence in being unable to protect her people. Again. Always the last one left as she is forced to watch all her loved ones die. Forced to grapple with their loss. Their deaths are just another name in a list a mile long, haunting her every step. If I look back I am lost. But hadn't she been lost this whole time. No matter where or when she was, she was always lost. Rhaenyra could no longer tell the difference between her own losses and this parasite’s.
The princess was rapidly losing energy, her body sweaty as she pushed. Touching the princess was like touching a hot furnace, her flesh was nearly scalding. All around her chaos ensued as people ran around trying to procure clean clothes and warm water, the water in the room all tinged red with blood. But the princess seemed to register none of it, so lost was she in her agony.
Some of the ladies tried to hold the princess still, her writhing body susceptible to harm as she fought the internal battle. Instead, it backfired as the moment they tried to hold her hands, their hold not even harsh, the princess began her struggles anew, fighting off their hands.
Get off, get off, get off, I am scared, please no no no. Not anymore. Please.
Rhaenyra was scared. So so scared. Feeling faint hands on herself summoned some deep-seated fear in her, so deep she hadn't even known it existed and yet as soon as it rose in her, she was filled with only one thought, she needed to get them off of her. Right this second. She couldn't. Her mother. No, no, this wasn't the same. No, she was Rhaenyra Targaryen. Not Aemma Arryn. Nor Daenerys Stormborn.
Elinda could take this no more, biting her lip hard she tried to stop her tears. She would not cry, she would not. They needed her levelheaded and strong. The princess was in pain. This was normal, everyone had said so. She tried to rationalise it, childbed was their duty, but this scared her. To witness something so violent and painful. She never wished to go through this.
It was as if a battle was being fought inside her. For control, for possession. Rhaneyra could feel the foreign force trying to merge with her, the force so strong it took everything in her to resist. And to push. To push with all her might as her attendants urged her too. Her body demanded for her to resist, to oust this force. It felt as if it was being torn in two.
The room lit up in a flash with lightning, the thunder beckoning the violent storm, the air cold and humid from the rain, dark except from the candles, a storm being wrought both outside the castle walls and inside it. A battle being fought, the adversary her own self.
All around her, there was howling winds and shattering rain, growling dragons echoed by thunders, the sky flashing with lightning and dragon fire, but in the end it was all encompassed in a single storm, and she was the cause of it all just as well as she had put Rhaenyra in the eye of it.
And then as if some struggle had finally been won, the princess gave a final push. Her back nearly bent with the effort as the babe's head was finally visible. One of the ladies quickly pulled the babe out, helping the princess, who was still lost in her trance, her breath heaving. She could feel the princess' body rapidly cooling to a much tolerable heat as the babe was slowly lifted away from her body, so warm, so bloody.
A shrill cry rang out in the room followed by multiple dragon roars so loud the castle shook with the intensity of it. All sound was drowned by this display of vigour. And amongst it all, the storm, as if in subservience to the dragons, or the babe, finally cleared, its last thunder ringing out around them. To be a witness to this occasion, this fierce battle that even generals at war would faint at the sight of. Her eyes were blessed, not able to look away from the miracle.
The babe, the new heir, was a girl. Her hair spun silver, her skin so pale it was almost translucent. Blessed with the Targaryen looks, she was perhaps one of the most beautiful babes to have ever graced the world. The realm's delight finally had her heir in a child perhaps even more delightful than her. Though her eyes were closed, still crying loudly, Elinda could imagine them purple just like ser Laenor or mayhap even the king. There was finally a stillness to the room broken only by the cries of the babe still adjusting to the real world.
Alas the peace was not to be, for as they were situating the now almost faint princess more comfortably, she suddenly rose to consciousness. There was lethargy still present in her mein but her eyes shone with manic light. She had thought there was no more to give but with another great heaving push, the princess gave birth to another babe, this one the complete opposite of his sister. She had never before seen a black-haired Targaryen, his dark head so distinct she felt one of the strong sisters gasp in the background.
It was hard to situate both the babies with each other, one with skin pale as milk the other with much darker skin though nowhere near as dark as Ser Laenor. One with brilliant amethyst eyes while the other was blessed with shimmering purple. The most prominent feature that set them apart was their hair. While one had hair as pale as the moon, the other was blessed with hair as dark as the night. The moon and the night sky, their arrival heralding the end of the worst storm of the season.
The storm was finally over.