Chapter Text
The blood on her cheek had dried now, latching onto her smooth skin and pale hair. When she moved her jaw, the crimson cracked, falling to the ground of the fields in which they were celebrating her half-brother’s second nameday.
As she strode between the men, many a Lord turned to look at her.
Jason Lannister’s grass green-eyes displayed disgust; she had no doubt it was fuelled by both her filth and defiance. Neither of which he wanted in a wife.
Good. She did not desire a muted lion for a husband, especially not one who would never dare to get a claw dirty.
Another man she passed was Ser Harwin Strong, whose glance was of a strange combination of indulgence, endearment and amusement.
She always had liked him more than the rest.
When her eyes roamed ahead, to where her father and pregnant friend sat, the babe they intended to supplant her with in their arms, she saw only frustration in his eyes.
It would not be long before his love for her was taken. After all, his love for Queen Aemma had been shoved aside for the sake of a male heir.
So, Rhaenyra had no doubt that she would be sacrificed too, should it be necessary.
To her surprise, no fear clutched at her chest as she approached her ire-filled father. She had no capacity for it, not right now.
For the first time, she had awoken the dragon within her. And now, Rhaenyra felt unrepentant, untouchable; she had been set alight and now none could stop the oncoming inferno.
And if they dared to, well, the dagger at her side and blood on her face displayed to all exactly where it would get them.
She opened her mouth, of what she was going to say she did not know, only for fire to light up the space between herself and the head table.
In shock, the Princess retreated backwards, half believing that she herself had truly become a dragon and spewed fire.
In between the flames, she could see that the King and Queen had fallen from their chairs, their little Prince wailing on the ground.
When the fires parted, however, it was clear that Rhaenyra had not somehow adopted more dragon-like characteristics, but it was something else entirely.
In the place of the flames was a pantheon of people, all the image of the Targaryens - pale skin, platinum hair, eyes varying from a light lilac to near black.
But there was something… other about them.
It was said that Targaryens were more alike to Gods than humans, but Rhaenyra now knew that was not entirely true. No, her father and brother certainly lacked the glow that the people before them did, and the urge that they provoked - to grovel, to plead, to worship.
The Princess did none of those things, but the King of Westeros acted otherwise.
A man of history and religion opposed to politics and warfare, he trembled in recognition at the sight of them.
“Aegarax,” her father gasped out. It was the name of a God of Old Valyria, the one who had created the first dragon. Other names then followed, tumbling from his lips in reverence.
It was a matter of seconds before all those in attendance were on their knees before the Gods.
The Princess thought to kneel as well, lest she be struck down for the disrespect, but was soon stopped.
“Dragons do not kneel,” Aegarax said, and it felt like his eyes were upon her. “I am here for a purpose, descendants.”
Her father, who had risen from the ground, bowed his head towards the Gods. “You need only speak your purpose, and I shall see it through.”
At his side, Alicent remained kneeling.
It gave Rhaenyra a sense of pleasure to know that her betraying friend… no, betraying sister, for that it was she had been to her, did not truly count herself as a Targaryen. Nor could her little son stand alone.
Aegarax hummed at her father’s words, before informing him. “You bring about the death of the House of the Dragon.”
All about the field, Rhaenyra could feel people’s breaths catch in their throats. Her own did, too.
The death of the House of the Dragon? Did that mean that she would perish? Would his children from Alicent be a threat as she believed they would?
“N-no,” her father stammered out. “I-I would never, I am strengthening our house, I-“
“Not even two decades from now, that boy will have his dragon burn your heir to death after claiming the throne for himself,” the God interrupted, sending all eyes flying over to the still crying two year old Prince, “while her son watches. Before that, the boy’s side of the war will kill her three eldest sons.”
Rhaenyra felt sick looking at her best friend and her child.
He would burn her in front of her own son? Her little boy? A child that she had not even had, but knew she would defend to her last breath? And her three other boys, who she knew she would love equally?
Had Aegon not been but a babe, the knife at her side might have found a home in something more human for the first time.
“The death of Queen Rhaenyra results in the end of the dragon age,” the God continued on, glancing at the Princess from the corner of his eye, before gesturing for another God to come forth. “Before the next century is at its middle, dragons are all but extinct.”
Rhaenyra wondered if it was sorrow or shock that brought her father to his knees at that moment.
The Princess refused to fall alongside him, standing tall in the face of the truth of her and her family’s deaths.
That was, until the Goddess that Aegarax had gestured to come forth got to the front of the line.
It was Meleys, Goddess of Love and Fertility. And in her hands, she held a babe.
Aegarax took the child from her, a pale-haired, dark purple eyed babe. The boy cried out, screamed his pain to the heavens. Then, the God handed him to Rhaenyra, and he was quiet.
Looking down at the child, she could not help but see another in his face. In his sharp nose, in his sharp jaw and the watchful sense of his eyes.
Aegarax gestured to the child. “This boy is from that future. He is Prince Aegon Targaryen, third of his name, and the son of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen and Prince Daemon Targaryen.”
Rhaenyra’s eyes snapped up from the babe she had cradled safely within her arms to the God before her.
Daemon. Her Daemon. The Daemon who had mocked her brother’s death yet had been her support pillar at her mother’s funeral. A man who was unpredictable yet powerful, hateful and giving.
A man who embodied the dragon of House Targaryen just as much as she did.
Gods, they had a child. They had children who died. They-
She held the child to her chest tighter.
This child was hers, and she would not be taken from him again, no matter if she was not the version of his mother he was born from.
The boy had her eyes.
“Let the child be a reminder of our warnings; let him be the light that guides you to a future in which the power of the Gods of Old Valyria is not a thing of the past,” Meleys said, moving away from Rhaenyra, “or else you shall find our punishments far more dire this time.”
Her father hung his head forward, muttering promises to obey. And then, as soon as they had arrived, the Gods had disappeared into fire and smoke.
Rhaenyra would have been tempted to believe nothing had ever happened, if not for the child in her arms that reached one small hand up towards the blood drying on her cheek and smiled.
He was certainly a child of dragons.
When she finally managed to tear her eyes from her son, whom she had barely even realised she had been smiling at, she was greeted with the sight of the high table.
Alicent looked terrified, clutching her own Aegon to her chest, eyes darting about for any threat to the boy destined to kill his sister. Meanwhile, her father could not seem to bear to look at his wife, nor his children nor grandchild, his face frozen in fear, confusion and panic.
The expression upon Otto Hightower’s face, however, was the one that caused Rhaenyra the most concern.
Though his own shock was not entirely gone, his calculating eye was set firmly upon her and her son, brain no doubt already formulating ways to deal with the latest threat to his grandson’s ascension.
They were a dragon and hatchling alone amongst a sea of enemies - they needed to get out, and soon.
Without realising, she had begun to back away from them, the child - her son - alerting her to her tightening hold by letting out a fierce cry.
“I am sorry, hatchling,” she soothed, but he had drawn attention to them.
“Princess,” the Hand of the King began. “Do not panic, you do not have to care for this babe. You can hand him to another.”
He wanted to take her son from her.
He wanted to part her from her dragon.
He-
“Rhaenyra,” it was her father’s voice, panicked. “Where are you going?”
“I-I just need some air,” the Princess explained, eyes scanning the crowd for an ally, and landing on Ser Luthor Largent. He had been one of the Gold Cloaks under her uncle, arguably the most loyal of them all. “I’ll take Ser Luthor with me.”
Before any could protest, the Princess was moving swiftly away into the woods, her future child clutched to her chest and the Gold Cloak on her tail.
Syrax was within these woods, chained away. As soon she mounted the dragon and flew away, the whole party would know of it. After all, it was impossible not to hear the dragon’s call. From there, she would need armour for her and some form of protection for her Aegon - they would be flying into an active war zone after all.
It was the only place she knew they would be safe.
Then, a different thought gave her pause.
What would her two year old even eat?
“Err Ser Luthor,” the Princess began, the duo a safe distance away from the others. “Do you have any nieces or nephews? Or had any younger siblings?”
Her uncle’s Gold Cloak looked somewhat amused as he replied, “I have many younger sisters, Your Highness.”
“And what do they… eat?”
The guard looked to her child, a lively, healthy young boy who looked to be the same age as his nephew.
“Same as us,” the guard shrugged, “just smaller. You have to make sure the food is cut up into small pieces in order to not cause a choking hazard. But, generally, they eat as we do but in smaller amounts.”
Okay, normal food she could manage.
Now, all she needed was to get to her dragon and shake the guard.
Indeed, she made quick work of moving through the woods towards Syrax, far more careful than normal in stepping over branches and rocks that obscured her way.
Ser Luthor followed her dutifully, before she came to a halt in front of a towering golden dragon - though not so large as the likes of Ceraxes and Vhagar, but Rhaenyra was determined that her dragon would grow further.
With a grimace, her body prepared to fight, the Princess said, “this is where I leave you, Ser Luthor.”
The knight looked uncomfortable as he took moved into a fighting stance and took out his sword. As he did so, Rhaenyra pulled the dagger from her calf, but, to her surprise, he threw his sword at her feet.
“You shall have to hit me with the pommel, Princess,” he told her, “or else I shall be punished.”
Cautiously, the Princess found a relatively comfy looking piece of grass to set her literally Gods-given son upon, before she took the knight’s sword cautiously from the ground.
He offered her a lopsided grin. “Give Daemon my regards.”
With a quick glance towards her Aegon, whose eyes were closing with the need to sleep, Rhaenyra offered no hesitation. She struck Ser Luthor hard around the head with the pummel of his sword, and watched as he fell to the ground, crimson coating his clear, tan skin.
Then she took her silver haired, black-purple eyed babe into her arms and moved towards Syrax.
“He is the blood of my blood,” she told the golden dragon, allowing the beast to sniff the boy. After regarding the child for a moment, Syrax tipped her head back and let out a mighty roar of acceptance.
So, Rhaenyra and Aegon mounted the Golden Queen, and ascended into the sky.