Chapter Text
When Crown Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen had gone into labour, only seven and ten, it had been as if the Realm had held its breath. There, in the shadow of the Iron Throne where the King had been holding Court when the princess’ waters had broken mere hours before, Rhaenyra had brought forth her heir, a boy, much to the discontent of her stepmother, who birthed her own third son a mere moon later, yet no celebrations would ever reach the decadence of the tourney King Viserys had thrown for his firstborn grandson. Jacaerys Velaryon Targaryen was born after a long, exhausting labour that had left his mother pale and weak and near tears, and the first to hold the newborn prince was his grandmother, the Queen-Who-Never-Was, whose calm and regal exterior had broken upon first laying eyes on the babe’s lovely face.
“He looks just like my father,” she was heard saying, as mother and babe were moved to the royal apartments in Maegor’s Keep. Born with a crown of white-gold that would settle into the same loose curls as the Crown Princess’, it was often said that there was very little Velaryon in the young prince. With moon-pale skin and light lilac eyes, features slimmer than those of House Velaryon but not as soft as those of his mother, Jacaerys was said to have few similarities with his father, Prince Consort Laenor Velaryon. Words were spread, awed voices telling of the new Prince’s similarities to the dead Prince Justicar, who had been much loved by the people for his dutiful nature and beauty, and Jacaerys Targaryen was very much alike to his great grandfather.
Some would claim the Princess had cuckholded her husband, that she had birthed a bastard born of sin, for he looked nothing alike to his father, though it was given little thought; not all sons are their fathers come again, not even King Viserys, who looked nothing alike to the late Prince Baelon the Brave, and even the Queen Consort’s firstborn had only the Targaryen colouring with the plain features of House Hightower. The rumours, however, became common and brazen in circles of green-clad courtiers who giggled behind their hands, but with Ser Laenor and House Velaryon claiming the little prince, and the egg that hatched in his cradle, led to widespread disbelief of the claims of bastardry throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
None need know that there was some truth in the claims.
Prince Jacaerys Targaryen was widely beheld as a proper little prince as he grew, obedient and wise despite is young age, and ever curious as he sat on his Kingly grandsire’s lap, watching the going-ons of the Court, bringing joy to the ailing man with his modest little smile and pretty eyes, a soft fabric dragon in the image of Balerion in pudgy hands. “One day,” the King was heard telling the babe, having a circlet of the purest gold made to crown his silver head, “all this will be yours, Jace. You will be a good and wise King, your mother’s pride and joy.”
Pride and joy indeed; every milestone in the Prince’s growth made the Crown Princess glow with happiness, bringing to front the realization of how worn she had become since the death of Queen Aemma, and how sad she had always seemed to be. With her son in her arms, Rhaenyra never stopped smiling, reigniting the title of the Realm’s Delight as she doted on her firstborn publicly, the very image of the Mother some would say, taking to parenthood like a dragon would flight, and by the following year, the Crown Princess was once more taken to the birthing bed with her second child.
Midwives and healers murmured worriedly of the dangers of an early birth for both mother and babe, invoking the memories of the late Queen Aemma Arryn, whose struggles had become quite infamous, despite any attempts made by the new Queen Consort to silence talk of her predecessor, whom the King still loved dearly, so many years since her passing. Rhaenyra’s second labour had been long and arduous, as the greatest storm of the season swept through the coasts, each clap of thunder felt through the stones of the beautifully constructed High Tide as House Velaryon awaited, with bated breaths, for the birth of their heir. Even young Jacaerys, not yet one year, seemed to be awaiting his sibling in solemn silence, his ill-tempered little hatchling huffing puffs of smoke, tail dangerously still, not unlike a cat ready to pounce.
Prince Lucerys Velaryon was born small and fragile, almost bird-like, with weak lungs, and few had expected him to survive, likening the little babe to his ill-fated uncle, Baelon, the Heir for a Day. Not even the Hightower loyalists dared to breath a word of possible bastardry as the babe lingered between life and death. Like his brother before him, Lucerys had little outwardly in common with his father’s kin, save for the curls. With skin only a few shades darker than his mother or brother, the newborn prince’s face was every bit that of the late Arryn Queen, his eyes the same shade of blue as a clear sky in the Mountains of the Moon, and, despite the odds, Prince Lucerys had lived and grew strong, his egg hatching within a moon of his birth.
“The spitting image of my sweet Aemma,” the King had bragged to any who hear, bouncing calm Jacaerys on his knee, as Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys flaunt their newest grandson about the capital, taking Lucerys into the sea and skies to teach the babe of his Houses, and Princess Rhaenyra and her husband share the same exasperation as their sons are taken from their arms any chance the proud grandparents had.
A bastard, the Queen Consort all-but claims when she catches sight of the tight curls that crown the babe’s head, as black as pitch with a single patch of pale gold at his temple. “Do keep trying, Ser Laenor, soon or late, you may get one who looks like you.”
Jealousy, many reported, had been a factor in Queen Alicent’s snide words, for no matter how silver-haired or purple-eyed, all of the Hightower Queen’s brood had plain faces, and had not hatched cradle eggs, while her husband the King would pay his youngest four children no mind when he would shower all his attention on his heir and her sons. Very few Targaryens hatched eggs in their cradles, yet both of the Crown Princess’ children had, proving, without a doubt, that both Velaryon boys had dragonblood.
“Worry not, Stepmother,” the Crown Princess had said with all the gentle poise of royalty, a dragon hatchling on each shoulder and little Prince Lucerys cradled in her arms as Jacaerys, in Ser Laenor’s grasp and barely a year his brother’s senior, cooed and babbles with his little brother, “not all Targaryens mount a dragon, even those of pure blood.”
With two Targaryen heirs to her claim, and years of dutifully maneuvered achievements to better her seat on Dragonstone, proving herself capable of ruling, very few gave much thought in the claim of the Queen’s eldest son, even those who did not like the thought of a woman of the Throne were mollified knowing that she would be followed by Prince Jacaerys, who was very much his mother’s son as he grew, poised and kind and intelligent, with a King’s disposition. Eight years Jace’s senior, Prince Aegon quickly became known as a lackadaisical study in any lesson he was pointed to, churlish and uncharismatic in comparison to even his elder half-sister who, by the same age, had thrown herself into her duties as Heir to the Iron Throne with a natural ease, and the Realm’s view on the King’s eldest son only worsened with age, especially when they could also look to little Prince Jacaerys, the very image of a Targaryen King and his mother’s pride.
(Jacaerys was her pride, Lucerys her joy, and some years later, Rhaenyra’s third son, one born of love rather than duty, would bring her peace.)
By 117AC, Queen Alicent and her sons had all-but fallen from the Court’s favour, Prince Aegon as a letch and a drunkard even so young, while Prince Aemond had made quite the name for himself when he had been burned trying to steal Vermax from his nephew’s cradle, both Princes jealous and prone to violent fits of temper, while the youngest, Prince Daeron, was barely a consideration, forgotten by his parents and ignored as nothing more than a playmate for Prince Jacaerys and Prince Lucerys. Only the Queen’s closest loyalists remained in her circle, but even they had been forced to acknowledge that Alicent Hightower had overreached when, upon hearing of the successful birth of her stepdaughter’s third son, she had ordered the babe, still covered in birthing fluid, brought to her immediately. The entire Court bore witness to what would come to be called the Bloody Walk as Princess Rhaenyra, still bleeding and leaning on her husband, but carrying the regal, dangerous air of a dragon, refused to be separated from her newborn babe.
Prince Jaehaerys Velaryon, like his brothers, had the Valyrian beauty, but unlike Jace and Luce, his father’s complexion. His snow-white curls were looser than those of Prince Lucerys’, and tighter than Prince Jacaerys’, while his eyes, a deep indigo, looked to be as dark as the night’s sky. “The eyes of the Old King!” King Viserys had proclaimed, naming his daughter’s third child for his predecessor as his second wife struggled for words in the face of the Blacks’ smug smiles, her own words coming back to haunt her as Lady Laena Velaryon, the wife of Prince Daemon and mother of his daughters, proclaimed young Jaehaerys as her younger brother’s mirror image.
“He has your nose, sweet niece,” Prince Daemon had said teasingly, allowing young Jacaerys to poke curiously at Darksister’s sheath as the Crown Princess huffs about another child being stolen by a cooing relative, his wife refusing to hand the newborn Prince to her parents, before he plants an absent kiss to Jace’s brow, and Rhaenyra softens.
(History would come to claim the Bloody Walk as the first blood drawn in the war of attrition for the Iron Throne, but it was not truly until a night on Driftmark that war was declared.)
Seated in the white sands of High Tide, the moon far overhead, Rhaenyra is listening to the peaceful crash of waves as she pets a gentle, soothing hand through Laenor’s snowy locs, refusing to allow her husband out of her sight and sharing in his grief for the loss of her dearest Laena, taken by the birthing bed like so many before her. It feels like a cruel jest, the wild, adventurous woman that was Laena Velaryon, rider of the mighty Vhagar and a storm herself, taken by something as common as childbirth when she had been so full of life mere days before. She had left her daughters without a mother, younger even than Rhaenyra herself had been when her own mother had passed, only five, the same age as her sweet, shy Luce, and so painfully small and angry.
Little Rhaena wanted a chance to present herself to her mother’s mount, to try and bond with the massive she-dragon, so old and large that her body was starting to cave in on itself, but Rhaenyra knows that Daemon had denied his youngest daughter. She was far too young to bond with such an ancient dragon, and would have to wait; it was not uncommon, after all, for a dragon egg not to hatch, but, after the terrifying fate of Princess Aerea, it had become law amongst House Targaryen that a potential dragonrider, should their egg not hatch, could not attempt to claim a dragon until they were, at least, four and ten, especially one as old as Vhagar, as to lessen the chance of an older dragon overriding the will of their new riders or misunderstanding the emotions they would feel through the bond.
Rhaena had plenty of time to grow.
Having four cradle eggs hatch in the same generation had been unheard of in history following the Doom of Old Valyria as it was. Vermax, Arrax, Tyraxes, and Moondancer all hatching within a period of five years was generally seen as an exception, and not the norm by dragonkeepers and historians, and it was no great shame for an egg not to hatch. As Rhaena’s had yet to go cold or fossilize, there was still a chance it could hatch in the future. Only the Crown may permit one to attempt to mount a dragon, but as Princess of Dragonstone, Rhaenyra had control over the hatchery and the eggs.
Rhaenyra would personally see her uncle’s daughter, Laena’s daughter, a Targaryen and her son’s sister, bonding with a dragon. When she and Laenor had been struggling in the first year of their marriage, weighed down by grief and expectations, it had been Daemon and Laena who had come to their aide and invited them to join them in their manse and celebrate both couple’s marriages. Rhaenyra had never before expected she would be desperate to have children, and she blamed not Laenor for being unable to bed her while still grieving the man he loved, for struggling to find pleasure when his heart yearned for another.
They had managed it twice after Jace, with sweet Luce, and brave Jai, but not without the aide of loyal Ser Harwin joining them in bed, and they had both loved the knight, still did, even after his death. It had been Daemon who sired Jacaerys, when a stressed and desperate Rhaenyra had fallen into bed with her uncle and good-sister, and when he had been born, every inch a Targaryen, it was like the cousin Rhaenyra loved returned from the war raging in his head and his dark pit of grief, and with a desire for vengeance, but now, with the loss of his sister, the Crown Princess worried Laenor would start sinking again.
“Princess,” Ser Daemion Velaryon, her husband’s cousin and sworn sword, murmured as he approaches the peaceful cove, nodding in greeting to her Kingsguard, Ser Steffon Darklyn. “Prince Daemon has arrived.”
Rhaenyra doesn’t remove her hand from Laenor’s pale hair. “Send him over,” she says softly, though she makes no move to stand and receive him as Daemion bows, keeping Laenor close, as if he would drift away with a waves should she let go of him.
“Niece,” Daemon greets in soft, lilting Valyrian, face blank in ways that was common amongst their House, but Rhaenyra can read the sad exhaustion in his violet eyes. “Little Brother.”
“Uncle,” Rhaenyra pats the sand next to her in invitation, “how are the children?”
“Put to bed,” Daemon grunts. “The boys are frightened by Vaemond’s words. My girls are grieving their mother, but they’re all young.” He sighs heavily, running a hand down his handsome face. Five years her father’s junior, Daemon could pass as the King’s son, with how illness had aged him well beyond his years. “They look so much like Laena, I – I don’t know how to do this without her. I do not know how to be a father without Laena at my side.”
“Come back with us,” Rhaenyra offers immediately, without hesitation. “Return to Dragonstone with us, bring Baela and Rhaena, and help us show the Realm what true Targaryens should be. We will raise our children as siblings, as they are meant to be, together.” She leans towards the older Targaryen, pressing their shoulders together in silent support. “I am surrounded by enemies in the Red Keep, the Greens fill it with vipers faster than I can sway them against the Hightowers, and threaten our children in their own home. Come home with us, be our third head; Laenor and I – we need you, we need our blood, just as you and the girls do.”
“We cannot do it without you, Daemon,” Laenor speaks finally, for the first time since learning of Laena’s passing, voice rough with misuse and a bone-deep wariness.
Before Daemon even has the chance to respond, an earth-shaking roar rents the air, deep and mournful and angry, as a massive shape blots out the moon. Vhagar is flying, massive, war-battered wings beating the air with an unexpected clumsiness, as if the massive she-dragon were a puppet being strung along by an unexperienced hand.
Rhaenyra had seen Vhagar in flight many a time, but never before had she seen the old she-dragon so graceless, so unnatural, despite her advancing age and failing body.
Vhagar circles High Tide, once, twice, thrice, almost clipping her wings on the tall spires, still bellowing her anger and grief, before banking aggressively back towards the stretch of beach where, only earlier that day, she had been deep in grief over the loss of her rider to her own flames. The plan had been to lead her back to Dragonstone after the funeral, to let her nest in the Dragonmont and recover in peace, where none could take advantage of the ancient war-dragon’s fragile state and cause her more pain.
Someone had mounted her, forcing a bond into an open wound, when Vhagar could be more easily manipulated. Someone had bastardized a dragon bond, when the dragon had still been in mourning, like the symbol of their House was an object, and not an extension of their blood.
“Who dares,” Daemon hisses furiously, gaze filled with unblinking dragonfire.
“Father would never have permitted anyone to attempt to claim Vhagar in the dead of night,” Rhaenyra says darkly, letting both men help her to her feet, skirts heavy with salt water and sand.
Laenor’s tight expression is as tumultuous as the sea. “My sister has only just been laid to rest.”
“Ser Daemion,” Rhaenyra orders, “run ahead and alert the guards, the King and Princess Rhaenys must be notified of this crime. We will follow. Ser Adrian,” one of her own personal swords, a red-haired Redfort and the brother of Lady Jeyne Arryn’s companions, bows when she calls him forward, “go check on the children.”
“Rhaena knows better than to try such a thing,” Daemon growls.
“Yes, Your Grace,” both knights say loyally, before setting off quickly on their given tasks, urged forward by the furious roaring of dragons responding to their riders’ rage.
Someone had dared break a royal law, during a royal funeral; dragons were not objects to be stolen, but the very reason for House Targaryen’s power. They could not simply let anyone claim them, should they possess even the smallest drop of dragonblood. Old Valyria had been in a constant state of war, dragonriding families all vying for control, but now only House Targaryen mounted their mighty beasts, and to have that power split away from their control was a dangerous thing, and had to be carefully monitored. Dragonlords wed dragonlords, and girls who bonded with a dragon were to be wed to a male dragonrider only, to keep their magic and mount in the family; Princess Rhaenys had been an exception, having been third in line for the Throne when she had bonded with Meleys, and it had been Prince Aemon himself who had ensured there would be dragon eggs for Laena and Laenor. Rhaenyra herself had been betrothed at birth to a brother who had not lived to see their second year, before being promised to Laenor himself, who’s dragon had only just bonded with Aegon that year, and should Helaena come to form a bond as well, she would likely be betrothed to either her eldest half-brother, or, should Rhaenyra have her way, Jacaerys.
“There’s a tunnel that will get us into the Keep quicker,” Laenor says in a rush as they hurry down the beach, gently taking Rhaenyra by the elbow to guide her on another route, his grief overwhelmed by the rage he felt, and ocean eyes churning with a dangerous storm.
The sight the three dragonriders come upon is one of horror. Blood stains sand and stone, the sobs and cries of children ringing like the bells of war, and the air is heavy with the taste of iron. Young, brash Baela clutches an arm protectively to her chest, her little wrist twisted painfully and her thick curls escaping her braids, darkened by dust, as she stands protectively in front of her twin sister despite her cries of terror. Shy, soft-spoken Rhaena is dishevelled, blood on her lips and smeared from her crooked nose, splattered in her white locs, and lips twisted in a snarl so unlike her, highlighting a missing tooth and the dragonfire in her tear-filled periwinkle eyes.
Ser Daemion, the very knight Rhaenyra had sent onwards before them, looms over the headless body of Ser Criston Cole, blood painting his enraged expression and dripping from his blade in slow globules. Rhaenyra’s second half-brother in his other hand, pinned by his collar, red covering his own hands and beading in a gash on his temple, while his green gaze is alight with a bone-chilling bloodthirst.
Lucerys is screaming, tiny body hunched over a still figure, his black curls flattened on one side and damp, and when he turns at their arrival, his sweet face in twisted with grief, blue eyes filled with tears, and button nose crooked and smeared with the heavy blood that paints his teeth. “Muña,” her sweet boy sobs, thin shoulders shaking, “muña – Jace – he -”
Rhaenyra wails.
Sprawled in the dirt, limbs splayed like a broken, abandoned toy, crimson pillowing gentle waves of white gold, lays the Crown Princess’ eldest son, part of his beautiful face a spectacle of gore, crashed like an overripe fruit. Blood soaks the soil, stone echoing their agony, as Rhaenyra Targaryen crumbles, shattering, and desperately gathering her firstborn into her arms as if he were a babe still, and not a boy of six, blind to the blood and brain that clings to her. She begs, she pleads, offering her own life, if only her son would be returned to her, but her Jace’s delicate body draws no breath nor shows sign of life.
Jacaerys Targaryen’s blood stains the earth, and all that remains of Rhaenyra is the rage of a mother and the fury of a dragon.
Blood had been spilt, and it would be met with fire.