Chapter Text
In the great hall of the castle, all present overflow with joy and happiness, for at last, Princess Elia is to be presented to the people. Both nobles and commonfolk have gathered to behold their future queen.
The daughter that the kings have so long desired has finally arrived. Queen Loreza beams with joy upon seeing the child, while King Garín wears a permanent smile, enchanted by his firstborn—the daughter he has awaited for so long, now safe and sound in his arms. When the king lifts her so that his subjects may gaze upon her, they burst into applause and shouts of joy, for she is their princess, the future queen of Dorne. They hope she will inherit her mother's wisdom and her father's judgment.
The king then proceeds to place his only daughter in the royal cradle, which has been placed beside the throne of House Martell. It is a magnificent piece of furniture, adorned with gold and fine embroidery, where the spear and the sun stand out—symbols of House Nymeros Martell.
Thus, in the midst of this joy, the herald announces the honored guests, for foreign royalty has also come to witness the presentation of Princess Elia.
"Your Royal Majesty, King Leyton Hightower," the herald proclaims, "Accompanied by his firstborn, the heir of Oldtown, Prince Baelor."
The entire court watches with anticipation as King Leyton of Oldtown arrives. The monarch of the neighboring realms is an imposing man, tall and broad-shouldered, with golden hair and blue eyes. The wealth of the Hightowers is a well-known secret throughout the realm; it is said their fortune is so vast that they could raise a golden bridge encircling Westeros and reaching as far as the High Tower itself, should they desire.
When the king and his son reach the royal throne, both families share a smile, for their presence here today symbolizes the union of their houses. The birth of Princess Elia has allowed for the long-desired alliance between the Hightowers and the Martells—an alliance carefully planned by Leyton and Loreza, who have been close allies since their days together in the Fire War against the Targaryens.
The Martells had managed the scorpions, with Lord Harmen Uller among the greatest dragon-slayers, as Targaryens fell in flames to the ground. The Hightowers led the vanguard, buying time for the Dornish warriors. The alliance had been so formidable that the two families had driven out all invaders, protecting the South. Therefore, when Elia was born, King Leyton had written to Queen Loreza, reaffirming his request to unite their realms, and saying he would be honored to have his son betrothed to the heiress of Dorne.
Peace was settling in all the realms of Westeros. The Targaryens were all extinct, and the kingdoms were rebuilding after the devastating course of the war. Thus, it was no surprise that the two most powerful realms of the South would unite through the marriage of their heirs.
"Welcome to Dorne," Queen Loreza Martell said as she rose from her throne to shake King Leyton's hand.
"It is always a pleasure to see you again," the king replied with a smile. "This is my firstborn," he said, indicating the child.
The prince bowed to the Martell royals, who smiled warmly at him. When they had first met him, he had been no more than a babe, and now he was five years old. The boy took after his family, with the same sandy-blond hair, pale skin, and tall for his age. The only difference was his eyes—greenish-blue, a heritage of his mother's house.
"I am honored to meet you, your majesties," the boy said in a measured tone, as if he had practiced each word he was to say. It was a sight to behold—him in his green doublet, holding a small golden box in his hands.
"And we are honored to meet you," the queen replied with a sweet smile. "For whom is that gift?" she asked, pointing to the box.
"For the princess."
"Then you must deliver it," said the queen, offering her hand to the boy so that he might follow her to see her daughter.
The prince followed her to the gleaming cradle, where he beheld his future bride. She was but a babe, so small that Baelor could not help but look at her with some confusion. How could he marry her? He who had already learned to write his name and could recite the Song of the Warrior from memory. But his King wanted Oldtown to join Dorne; so the prince resigned himself to the duties imposed on him by his father and placed the gift by the cradle.
After the presentation of the Hightowers, the trumpets sounded once more. This time, no one appeared at the entrance. Instead, a flash of light shone from the castle’s main window. The light dazzled those present, and from this brilliance, the fairies appeared.
"Your Honorable Excellencies," the herald proclaimed, "The three illustrious fairies."
So tiny did they appear, floating in the air, but when their feet touched the floor of the Great Hall, they transformed into human size. All three wore different colors, and each, in her own way, possessed a unique beauty. They were fairies of light magic. Both the nobles and the commonfolk received them with applause, for these beings had fought alongside them, ensuring the survival of humanity.
"The good fairy, Ashara," said the herald, as she was the first to make a slight bow to the royals.
She was beautiful, her colors violet and purple, with matching wings and eyes. Her hair was black, and her skin radiated light. She had dominion over plants and the earth, able to grow entire orchards in a single day. In the war, she had called upon the weirwood trees of the North. Ashara, hailing from the South, had traveled North, begging the trees to rise and fight against the Valyrians. The trees had accepted, for the Targaryen’s vile act of burning the King of the North had been so great an offense that even the trees could not tolerate it. Ashara covered them in magical resin that protected them from the fire. As a token of gratitude for her bravery, all the kings of Westeros had sworn to never fell a weirwood tree, considering it a death sentence for any who dared to do so.
"The good fairy, Willas," the herald continued.
The second fairy, Willas, was clothed in vibrant greens. He had warm brown eyes and hair. His magic was tied to the creatures of the land. He protected the animals of the forests—from deer to direwolves. His power had been crucial in the Fire War, as the animals had guided him, showing him the Targaryen strongholds. The creatures feared the dragons, for they ravaged the woods, devouring all living things in their path.
"Greet with joy, the good fairy Oberyn" the herald concluded, his tone displaying clear favoritism towards the final fairy.
The commonfolk cheered upon seeing the fairy dressed in oranges and yellows, for Oberyn was the favorite among the people of the South. A water fairy, he had saved the southerners from dying of thirst during the Fire War. Oberyn had found countless sources of water, allowing the survival of the majority of the realms. Moreover, Oberyn was the only one of the three with the power to confront the Targaryens. His magic was the antithesis of theirs, quelling fire and dragonfire alike. He had saved King Leyton Hightower when he thwarted the flames during an attack on his army.
The three fairies had been collaborators of King Garin, for the king’s mother had been a water healer from the Greenblood Lake, where Garin had met Oberyn. When the war broke out, Garin had sought his help, and Oberyn had not hesitated to join the fight against the Targaryens. From then on, King Garin managed all the resources and support for the fairies. He secured shelter for Willas' animals, had Ashara's wings wrapped in firefly silk to protect them from the Northern winter, and promised Oberyn that no fishing would ever again be allowed in Greenblood Lake, deeming it sacred to Dorne. The three fairies held King Garin in high regard, which is why they had come to offer their gifts to the heiress of the Martell throne.
After the fairies had been introduced, the three hastened to the cradle of the princess. They were enchanted by the sight of the babe, immediately taking a fondness to her. They felt that such a tiny being held a pure energy, a being of light like themselves.
Then they approached the throne and bowed to the royals, each with a smile of joy. The war had ended, and a new life began for all.
"Your Graces," they said in unison, "Each of us shall bestow a gift upon the princess, and together there shall be three."
"Your mere presence is a gift," King Garin replied, "There is no need for your presents; what you have done for us is more than enough."
All shook their heads in refusal, and Willas, the most solemn and wise of them, spoke:
"We have fought a war at your side. A gift to your only daughter is the greatest honor you could bestow upon us."
Thus, neither the king nor the queen had any further objections.
The first to bestow a gift was Ashara. The beautiful fairy approached the princess' cradle and, gazing at her with affection, gave her gift:
"Upon seeing your beauty, and witnessing how your spirit shines with a light that illuminates all around you, I have decided to bestow upon you a unique gift, something that will make you even more special. My gift to you shall be grace and charm, which shall flow from you like a gentle breeze. Those who know you will be unable to resist following, admiring, and loving you. Your subjects shall fight bravely in your battles, and your equals will support you in all your decisions, for they will see in you a heart pure, sincere, and full of goodness. No one shall resist your kindness, for your light will be such that they cannot help but love and follow you."
When Ashara finished speaking, a violet glow, like stardust, illuminated the cradle and fell upon Princess Elia.
The second fairy to bestow his gift was Willas, who, upon approaching the cradle, gently touched the princess' hands.
"Gentle princess, the gift I grant you is that of intelligence and wisdom, so that when you take the reins of your realm, your decisions may always be just and true. May your bright mind guide your people with cunning and discernment, leading all towards prosperity and peace."
Again, as Willas finished his words, magical green sparks appeared, enveloping Elia Martell.
The third and final fairy, Oberyn, approached the cradle of the princess. Oberyn felt happiness to see the child so healthy and beautiful, untouched by the ravages of war.
"Sweet princess," said Oberyn, and he was ready to take the small hand to bestow his gift when a deafening wind blew open the doors of the royal palace.
The banners of the houses of the realm flapped violently in the fierce wind. The windows creaked under the pressure of the current, and suddenly a lightning bolt illuminated the hall with a blinding flash, making all those present jump. The torches wavered, their flames dimming, plunging the room into an eerie twilight. Then, a red flame emerged at the center of the hall, floating above the ground, defying all logic. A murmur of astonishment spread through the hall, and fear reflected in the faces of those present, paralyzing the air with its tension.
From the red flame appeared a dark figure, a shadow seven feet tall, the fire slowly dissipating to reveal the imposing form of Rhaegar Targaryen. Immediately, a black raven soared through the air and landed on the scepter held by the dark being.
Two years had passed since the war ended, and the body of Rhaegar, the last of the Targaryens, had disappeared. Despite the kings’ efforts to search for him, his whereabouts had remained unknown. Willas and Ashara, fauna and flora fairies, had consulted with all the living creatures of the woods, but none had answered. Wherever his body had gone, it must have been a place devoid of life. To see him now, standing before the kings, was almost unthinkable. With the wounds that had been inflicted upon him, everyone had believed him dead.
But there he was. His appearance was different. Once, his human form had been beautiful, the last of the dragons, a man who dazzled with his grace, but now his skin seemed gray, as if he barely had any life left. His eyes, once a shade of purple, were now two black pits with almost no color. And the most striking of all: the black horns that twisted from his head, and the wings, incomplete and scarred, as though once they had been vast but now were marred by the ravages of past battles. Rhaegar Targaryen, the Valyrian who had bewitched mortals with his beauty, now appeared as a demon, a specter of darkness.
“Rhaegar!” muttered Ashara and Willas in unison, their voices trembling, reflecting the horror and disbelief that they felt.
“What are you doing here?” said Oberyn with fury, his brow furrowed and his eyes burning with contempt. Of all the Targaryens, the one he hated most was the one standing before him. The war had been the fault of this demon; so many lives had been lost because of that lunatic.
“How are you alive?” asked King Garin, his face flushed red, fury evident as he gazed upon the creature before him. “King Robert struck you with his hammer. Before he died, he swore he saw you bleed out.”
“A man cannot kill a Valyrian,” the specter answered coldly.
“You’re not alive, not fully…”—whispered Willas, his eyes wide with disbelief. He was a fae of the fauna, yet he could feel the magic of life in every being, and Rhaegar's magic was nothing more than a void, as if an abyss resided within him. “You’re on the brink of death. Your magic is fading. King Robert nearly killed you. You had to return to your animal form to survive, but you’re so weak you can’t fully return to your human shape, hence the horns and wings.”
Rhaegar let out a growl at the truth laid bare, and the torches in the hall flared up in response, their flames dancing as fear rippled through the room.
“The magic of Valyria is fading,” Rhaegar said, his eyes blazing with rage, as if recalling some ancient pain. “You killed them all!” he shouted, his voice trembling with fury.
His shout caused Elia to cry out from her cradle, drawing the attention of her parents.Yet it mattered not to the evil Targaryen, who continued to berate the kings.
“You killed my father, my brothers, even my mother and my sister within her womb,” accused the specter.
So great was Rhaegar’s fury that shadows erupted around him, casting a demon-like aura around his form.
Seeing this malice, King Garin rose from his throne, drawing his sword. Queen Loreza rushed toward her daughter’s cradle, pulling Elia into her arms, and the infant stopped crying as soon as she felt the touch of her mother.
“You killed them!” retorted the King, his voice rising with anger. “You killed your own when you started the war! You stole the wife of King Robert and made her bear a monster. The dragon’s offspring tore her womb apart, made her bleed to death. And for what? The pup was an abomination—no more than a beast. It had a dragon’s head and a baby’s body. A freak.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be like that!” the last Targaryen exclaimed, his voice filled with sorrow and rage. “I thought the song of Ice and Fire was about us. I believed it meant that Northerners could conceive with Valyrians.”
“Well, you were wrong,” said the queen with bitterness, clutching her daughter fiercely. She remembered the mangled womb of the girl—the creature had torn its way out of her body. And the child, had it lived, would have been less than an animal. The queen recalled the tears of young Eddard Stark as he held his sister’s lifeless body. She should have known—Valyrians could not bear children with humans. It was common knowledge.
The only way they could conceive was if a Valyrian renounced their magic and became human. Though the queen had heard rumors that some Valyrians could have children if the woman had Valyrian blood in her ancestors—Valyrians who had become human. But Valyrians rarely renounced their magic. They loved fire and blood too much to become human. And Lyanna Stark had no Valyrian blood. Why she had accepted it was a mystery—it was almost suicidal. Rhaegar must have enchanted her.
“I thought she was the chosen one,” said the malignant presence.
“And you led her to her death,” retorted King Leyton, stepping forward and pushing his heir behind him with a hand. “When the Starks came to claim your father, you let Aerys burn them alive.”
“I wasn’t there,” Rhaegar answered coldly.
“But you knew what he would do,” said the King of Oldtown. “Then you transformed into a dragon and burned Storm’s End. You’re a murderer, a spawn of evil.”
King Garin took a step forward, his sword raised high.
“You say we killed your mother and your brother,” the man said. “But your mother died while fleeing. Your sister died in her womb because there was no one to help her. When we found her, your mother’s womb was destroyed, and your sister was a dead dragon in a pool of blood.”
There was no one who hated Valyrians more than Garin. He had always known they were demons, blights upon the land. The other kings had believed they could offer them gifts for their boons—fire and protection—but Garin had always known they brought only destruction. Wherever the Valyrians went, all died. It had happened in Essos, and Westeros was about to suffer the same fate.
“Your brothers died for their crimes, they came in search of blood and died in the flames for their ambition,” Garin continued, “Your father thought he was powerful enough to proclaim himself King of Westeros, he underestimated us, he thought we would serve them on our knees like the Tyrells and so he died in his own act of madness.”
“You killed them all,” Rhaegar accused again.
“We killed invaders, beings of darkness who claimed to be gods among men,” said King Garin, “And we should have done it long ago. Many lives could have been saved had we acted sooner.”
“There is no one left,” the dragon said. “All of mine are dead. Only I remain, and it’s all your fault, decrepit kings.”
“Your kind died by your own hand,” the queen replied, still holding her daughter close, trying to distance herself from the monster before her. “You killed them when you committed your atrocities. You are the last dragon, and you will die alone. I hope it is a painful death, that you scream, and remember the lives you took.”
Rhaegar’s eyes reddened for a moment. The blackness shifted to purple, and his scepter flared, while the flames of the torches spread as if ready to attack.
Oberyn stepped forward, extending his hand, and water surged from the walls, dousing the flames.
“Traitor,” Rhaegar growled at the water fae.
“The only traitor is you and your kind,” Oberyn shot back. “The Valyrians are abominations, fae who betrayed the magic of light, mixed with the witches of Asshai, bred with them, and became monsters. Fae are born of the gods’ magic, not flesh. We were created to help humanity, but you corrupted yourselves and tainted the fire fae. That is why you transform into monsters—into dragons who thirst only for fire and blood.”
“We did it to become strong,” Rhaegar snarled. “More powerful than the gods themselves. The Valyrians were born to rule the world, not to serve men.”
"The Valyrians died in perdition," said Willas, his eyes shining. "The gods punished their audacity, drowning them and eradicating them from the face of the earth. The Targaryens survived by the mercy Daenerys the Dreamer begged for, but instead of changing and aiding humanity, you mated among yourselves and grew ever more monstrous."
Ashara, the most compassionate among the fae, took a few steps closer to Rhaegar, extending her hands. "Do you not understand, Rhaegar?" she said softly. "You come from the fae, and though you have committed an injury, you should seek the gods' forgiveness. Go far away, dwell in strange lands, feed yourself without greed, help those in need, sow no more evil. Your loneliness is the result of your own actions."
"No!" Rhaegar shouted. "I will not accept that fate! I did what I had to do to ensure the survival of my own. We are children of the gods, born to dwell in the heavens, not to beg..."
"I will kill you first!" King Garin interrupted with a loud voice, raising his bright sword. "Once you are dead, we will all be at peace."
At the mention of conflict, Rhaegar unfurled his black wings in all their glory, his hands transforming into claws, and his eyes turning a reddish violet. He was but a step away from fully transforming, when suddenly, the princess cried out loudly.
And it was as if something dimmed within the Targaryen, for his form became almost human once more, save for his horns, which remained visible. All else had hidden itself.
Rhaegar Targaryen, the last of the Valyrians, the last of the ancient fire fae who had been punished by the gods, stood stupefied, gazing at the babe in the Queen of Dorne's arms.
"She has Valyrian magic," he whispered.
"What?" asked Ashara, for she and the other fae were the only ones who could hear such a low voice. "What did you say?"
"The princess has flashes of Valyrian magic," he said aloud with a grin that stretched from ear to ear. Had it been a few years ago, his smile might have made him appear handsome, but now, in his state, it looked macabre. "Do you not know?"
"Lie!" Garin denied, furrowing his brow. "What lies are you speaking?"
"No lie, Your Grace" Rhaegar contradicted. "Your daughter has flashes of Valyrian magic, I can feel it. It is in her blood and in her soul, it shines like no other human's has."
"It is a deceit," Oberyn denied. "She has flashes of water magic. Her grandmother was a healer from Greenblood. She has no Valyrian blood."
Rhaegar snorted.
"How could a water fae recognize flashes of Valyrian magic in humans? You cannot. Only Valyrians can see it."
“There is no damn Valyrian in my bloodline,” Garin spat with hate.
“Not in yours,” Rhaegar replied, “but in hers, yes.” He nodded toward the queen, who held the princess in her arms.
“It cannot be,” whispered the queen. “I have no magic, neither my father, nor anyone in my line.”
Rhaegar’s eyes darkened, the purple hue deepening. “Yes, you have no Valyrian magic, but she does. Sometimes children do not inherit it; at times, the inheritance occurs in great-grandchildren.”
“Ellaria,” the queen murmured with fear.
Rhaegar laughed bitterly as he realized the truth.
“Her real name was Daenerys”, he said with a smile on his lips, “Your great-grandmother was no common woman, as Mors Martell claimed. She was my grandfather’s sister. She loved that Dornishman so much that she renounced her Valyrian heritage, became human, married him, and gave him children. You should have known when you saw her platinum hair and violet eyes.”
“Her eyes were blue,” Loreza contradicted.
“Sometimes purple appears blue. Or whatever. She inherited the spark of magic. Neither her children nor you received it, but your daughter did. Probably because of the water magic your husband possesses.”
“No!” Loreza cried, holding her daughter tighter. “I refuse to believe it. She is innocent, she has no evil in her blood.”
“She has part of me,” Rhaegar said firmly. “Therefore, it is by my side that she belongs. I shall claim her as payment for what was done to my kin. When she comes of age, she will be mine, and she shall bear my children.”
“My daughter will never be yours!” Garin Wyl declared, his sword still raised. “I will die before that happens. I swear I will end your life, a man will kill you, and then you will see that you were never a god, but a mere fool clinging to false prophecies.”
The crow gave a terrible screech, offended by the king’s words against his master. It circled the room before landing on Rhaegar’s left shoulder.
“Then, in exchange for such an oath,” Rhaegar said, his gaze locked on King Martell, “I shall give you another. Listen well, all of you, for I shall not repeat my words.”
The entire hall watched the evil figure before them. With his baculum, he struck the floor, and shadows crept closer to him.
“I swear by my name and my kin, the princess will indeed grow, gifted with grace and wisdom. She will be loved by all who meet her, for there will be none like her,” his voice boomed, strong enough for even the farthest man from the throne to hear clearly. “But when she reaches her seventeenth name day, before the sun sets, she shall prick her finger on a spindle and fall into a deep slumber. On the seventh night, I shall awaken her with a kiss, and in that act, she shall forget all those she has ever known, and I shall be her only master.”
The shadows danced around the Targaryen, and his crow seemed to smile in joy at the suffering of those present.
“No!” cried the queen at the fate with which the demon cursed her daughter.
“‘Arrest him, halt that monster!’ commanded King Garin, raising his sword as he approached to end the condemned Targaryen.
As the king and his knights drew closer with their lances and weapons ready to strike the malevolent one, red flames enveloped Rhaegar, and a distant thunderclap sounded. His eyes turned a blood-red, his black wings spread wide, and for a moment, his appearance was no longer human, but that of a humanoid dragon. It was not his full dragon form, for had he transformed completely, he would have crushed those around him, but the image was so monstrous that the knights froze, paralyzed by the horrific visage of the killer.
“Back!” Rhaegar commanded in High Valyrian, the infernal language of the damned fae. “I shall return,” were his last words, and he vanished as he had arrived—in a red fire. The echo of his laughter shattered the silence in the great hall.
The faces of the kings were etched with torment, tears welled in the queen’s eyes. The king still held his sword high, as if fearing the demon would return soon.
“Do not despair, your Graces,” Ashara said, attempting to rekindle the flame of hope after Rhaegar's bitter words. “Oberyn still has a gift for the princess.”
“Then, can he undo that horrible curse?” the king asked, lowering his sword, his face pale with fear at the curse laid by the Targaryen.
“No, I fear it is not possible, your Grace,” Willas replied, his expression sorrowful. “Even in his weakness, Rhaegar’s powers are strong. His fury, resentment, and loneliness fuel him. Of all of them, he was the one who delved deepest into the dark arts, seeking to fulfill his self-made prophecies.”
“But he may help in some way,” Ashara insisted, pushing Oberyn forward. “You are the strongest of us.You must help her, please” she whispered to her companion.
Oberyn gathered his courage and looked at the baby in the queen’s arms. Loreza inclined her daughter toward the fae. Elia was awake, her large brown eyes fixed on the fae with fascination. The princess was untouched by the chaos around her.
“Sweet little princess,” Oberyn said, his voice gentle yet resolute, “If by this ill-fated curse, a spindle shall pierce your finger, let there be a ray of hope. Thus, the gift I bestow is that your sleep shall be eternal, and from that enchanted slumber, you shall only awaken with the warmth of the first kiss of true love, a love pure, without selfishness or malice.”
His words echoed through the hall, kindling the spark of hope among those present. The baby continued to stare at the water fae, and suddenly, the little princess smiled. The fae had never seen such light and purity in any being. Elia Martell would live a happy life, no matter how much the malevolent one sought to interfere. He would protect her, whatever the cost…