Chapter Text
The wind moved along the towers of King’s Landing and pressed softly against the windows of Daena’s chamber. Inside, the hearth burned bright. Firelight painted the walls orange and threw the shadows of mother and children long against the stone.
Daemon lay on his stomach before the fire, chin propped in his hands, heels kicking idly against the rug. Beside him, his twin sister Maenyra sat cross-legged, back straight, pale curls falling loose down her back. She listened as though the world might hinge on the next word.
Lately, their mother had been telling more stories.
As Daena grew weaker, she insisted on keeping them close. There was less time with their half-siblings now, less time in the yard. A single look from Daena the Defiant was enough to silence complaints.
She sat in a high-backed chair near the fire, a goblet of watered wine resting untouched at her side. Her face had grown gaunt in recent weeks, but the glint in her eyes remained unchanged.
“You asked about the dragons,” she said.
“About the war,” Daemon corrected at once, fingers tracing the embroidery at the hem of her skirt.
“The Dance,” Maenyra added softly.
Daena smiled faintly. “Yes. The Dance of the Dragons.”
Daemon’s eyes gleamed. “Who won?”
Daena studied him for a long moment, licking her lips in thought as she shifted in her chair.
“No one,” she said at last.
He frowned. “That’s not possible. The maester says all wars have a winner and a loser.”
“Your maester forgets,” Daena replied calmly, “that when dragons fight dragons, there are no winners.”
Maenyra leaned forward slightly. “What do you mean, Mother?”
Daena lifted her goblet and took a small sip, her gaze drifting to the fire beyond her children.
“When I was your age, my father told me of his mother and her history. There was a king named Viserys — your great-great-grandfather. He loved peace and feasts and the sound of laughter in his halls. He named his daughter Rhaenyra his heir.”
Maenyra’s eyes widened at the name. She turned to Daemon with a smile.
“Nyra, just like you,” he said.
Maenyra lifted her chin, pleased despite herself.
“Yes,” Daena said gently. “Rhaenyra was the mother of my father, King Aegon the Third.”
Daemon’s grin widened. “You could be queen.”
"That would never happen Dae!" Maenyra enunciated with a whisper. She tried to ignore him, though she sat a little straighter.
“But the king later had sons,” Daena continued. “When he died, the realm split. Some said the crown belonged to his daughter. Others claimed it belonged to his son.”
“Why not both?” Daemon demanded.
“Because there is only one throne,” Daena said quietly.
The fire crackled.
“And they fought?” Maenyra asked.
“They did.”
“With dragons?” Daemon’s voice turned reverent.
“With dragons.”
Daena let the silence settle before continuing.
“The sky burned. Brother fought sister. Uncle fought nephew. Cousin fought cousin. The air above King’s Landing filled with flame.”
Maenyra’s hands clenched in her skirts.
“And the dragons?” she asked. “Is that when we lost them?”
“Most of them.”
Daemon pushed himself upright. “How?”
“They tore each other apart. Dragons fell — and we were what remained.” The words landed simply. Heavily.
“Who was right?” Maenyra asked.
Daena stared into the fire. “That depends on whom you ask.”
“That’s not fair,” Daemon muttered.
“No,” she agreed softly. “It wasn’t.”
Maenyra tilted her head. “Did the king not choose Rhaenyra as heir?”
“He did.”
“Then why did they not listen?” Maenyra whined
Daena’s expression dimmed. “Because men are rarely content to be denied.”
Daemon scoffed. “I would listen.”
Daena arched a brow. “Would you?”
He hesitated. “If it were just.”
“And who decides what is just?” she asked gently, reaching down to stroke his hair.
Neither child answered. Behind them, a log shifted sharply in the hearth.
“Did the queen win?” Maenyra asked.
“For a time,” Daena said.
“And then?”
“She died.”
Daemon inhaled sharply. Maenyra swallowed.
“Did her children rule?”
“Two of them did. My father — and later his brother.”
“Then she won,” Daemon insisted.
Daena’s expression was unreadable. “She lost everything first.”
Silence settled over the room.
Maenyra looked down at her hands and scooted closer to her mother. “Why would a family do that?” she asked quietly.
Daena leaned forward and lifted Maenyra’s chin, forcing her to meet her gaze.
“Because pride is a dangerous thing in houses that ride dragons.”
“Dragons make us strong,” Daemon said.
“Yes,” Daena replied softly. “And they made us dangerous. We have no dragons now — but we still have our pride.”
Maenyra’s voice grew small. “But they were family? Did they not love each other?”
“I believe they did. At least for a time.”
“Then why fight?”
“Because love does not always weigh as heavily as ambition.”
Daemon shook his head fiercely. “I would not fight you, Nyra.”
Maenyra looked at him. “And I would never fight you, Dae. Never.”
“Never,” he repeated.
He crawled closer and threw an arm around her shoulders. He smiled up at their mother.
“We are not them,” he declared.
Maenyra leaned into him. “No.”
Daena’s heart tightened. She rested a hand on each child, her thumb tracing the lines of their hair.
“You are dragons,” she said quietly. “And dragons burn hot — and sometimes forget whom they can hurt.”
Maenyra looked up confused at the story their mother told. “Is that what we are meant to do? Burn as our family did?”
“No,” Daena said at once.
“Then why tell us this?” Daemon asked.
“So you remember,” Daena said with a tired sigh, leaning back in her chair.
“Remember what?”
“That it was not an enemy that ended the dragons,” The fire shifted again, casting their shadows long behind them. “It was themselves.”
Daemon’s arm tightened around Maenyra. “We would not,” he insisted.
Maenyra nodded fiercely. “We would never.”
Daena smiled, though something in her eyes dimmed. “I pray you are right… my little dragons.”
Outside, the wind moved along the towers. Inside, two children sat close together in the firelight, certain of their unity. And Daena watched them — and hoped history would grant her the mercy of forgetting their names.