Chapter Text
Fire can kill a dragon.
Rhaenyra knew this first-hand, for it was fire that killed her.
She paid little heed to the teachings of the Seven, but surely, the lingering between the realms of death and life was not part of them. The haunting madness that came with regret, of a death too soon, too violent.
Those she left behind.
Aegon, her sweet son. The only one left. If she had a body – wherever she was – surely she would weep at the thought of what he saw when Sunfyre burned her alive. As if she hadn’t already wept and raged in this void when she realized what had become of her, that she was gone, and alone.
There was simply nothing. Not dark, not light. Pure emptiness unlike of which she had ever experienced, the embodiment of the hole Lucerys’ death had left behind. And she was nothing, for no flesh or bone or even the wisp of a ghost sustained her.
She didn’t know what was worse.
If this was death, at first she had dared to dream that her children would be there. She had tried to shout, to search for any sign – Joffrey, Lucerys, Jacaerys – any of them. But all she had for company was her thoughts.
And thoughts, with nothing else to distract from, could be far more dangerous than anything else.
She couldn’t tell how long she remained like this. Consumed by the regrets – the what ifs, the should haves. But after what could have been centuries, or even just seconds, she found herself.
Her body. Hands, arms, feet – that dug into shell-laden sand along an ocean shore that stretched beyond what her eyes could see. She touched her face but felt nothing except the pressure of contact. No warmth.
“Princess Rhaenyra?”
Rhaenyra spun around. A girl she did not recognize stood behind her. She was young – painfully young, or at the very least small for her age, which couldn’t be more than seven-and-ten. But the wide violet eyes and silver braided hair gave nod to her Valyrian blood. Her gown was dark, severe, yet it did little to age her, instead highlighting her gaunt cheeks.
This girl had to be Targaryen. But it was no one she knew.
As the silence stretched on between them, the girl smiled. “You must be… confused,” she began, slowly, as if speaking to a frightened child – and Rhaenyra almost scoffed despite it all, how someone so young would feel the need to tread so lightly around her words. But there was no denying that she was correct.
Despite feeling no spit in her mouth or her throat, Rhaenyra swallowed and straightened her shoulders. “Where am I?” she demanded, suspicion prickling at her spine – if it were actually there, “Tell me who you are.”
The girl wasn’t cowed by her authority. Rather, her smile strengthened, and her eyes sparkled. It struck a chord in Rhaenyra, something she hadn’t felt in years: kinship.
“My name is Daenerys Stormborn,” the girl answered, “Queen of the Andals, the Roynar, and the First Men. Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Shackles. Mother of Dragons. Or…” Her smile shrank a fraction, some of the light dimmed in her eyes. “I was. A lifetime ago.”
Rhaenyra stared. This girl – a child, barely – was the queen of the Seven Kingdoms? Her chest was tight, her eyes burning. “I had thought…” Words failed her for a moment. “With my death, hope for a queen to rule the Seven Kingdoms died with me.”
Then, the chilling claws of reality sank into her.
“You… were.”
The girl – Daenerys – nodded, her gaze sad. “We would not be speaking were my life not ended.”
It made sense, in the back of her mind. Yet still, Rhaenyra couldn’t shrug off the tinge of loss. A girl so young, to be made queen, only to have it snatched from her. She had lived twice the life of this child-queen.
Pushing it all back down, away from her forethoughts, Rhaenyra frowned. “Why are we speaking?” She gestured around, for while the ocean gave off the aching hints of familiarity, it was neither Dragonstone nor the beaches of Kings Landing. Not as she remembered it. “I am not permitted to speak to my sons, but a stranger—”
“Great-granddaughter,” Daenerys corrected mildly.
“A stranger,” Rhaenyra repeated, firmer, “manifests in front of me and speaks to me as if we are both flesh and blood again. For what purpose? To what end, other than to further torment me when I am sent back into the void once more?”
Surprise flickered across Daenerys’ face, and for a fleeting second, Rhaenyra feared that the void was something of the gods’ own punishment against her. But the expression passed, and Daenerys stepped closer.
“Princess Rhaenyra,” Daenerys started, looking into her eyes with earnest, “What would you do if given a second chance?”
Rhaenyra stepped back. “A… a second chance?” she parroted back, disbelieving, trying to smother the budding hope in her chest, “I don’t—how?”
“I do not know much myself,” Daenerys said, “The magic of it eludes me. But I have done it twice now to understand the rules and restrictions placed upon me.”
Twice? Rhaenyra thought, half horrified, half wondered.
Daenerys closed the distance between them, placing her small and youthful hands atop hers. Despite how soft her face was around the edges, her palms were calloused. Life had not treated her as a queen expected. “I was given three chances,” she went on, “Three chances to change fate. But twice, I failed, and ended up back here. So, I thought… perhaps I needed to go back further than my own mistakes?”
Hands twitching as she fought the urge to pull away, Rhaenyra cracked a wry smile. “Ah. I cannot imagine the histories painted me kindly, then?”
“Not entirely,” Daenerys admitted with a wince, “But to me – to even my brother, I suspect – the downfall of our house could be pointed to the Dance.”
“The… Dance?”
“Oh. You would not know.” Daenerys smiled faintly. “They called your war with Aegon the Elder the ‘Dance of the Dragons.’”
A flowery name for the worst – and last – years of her life. Faces flickered in her mind: Lucerys, Jacaerys, Viserys, Joffrey, Syrax. Rhaenyra pushed away the bitter thoughts. “You say the downfall of our house – what happened? After everything?” Her entire body tensed. “My son—”
Sadness flickered across Daenerys’ face. “I cannot tell you. Too much knowledge of the future could be dangerous, alter the future too much.” She worried at her bottom lip. “But… know that your son lived a long life.”
Relief could have made Rhaenyra crumple. One of them survived. One of her boys lived. Not knowing his fate had been one of the core pieces of her growing maddness in this void. The weight – present for so long she finally could feel it again – lifted off of her ever-so-slightly.
Yet before she could ask more – if he had children, who he married, was he happy – Daenerys was quick to shake her head. “I’m afraid that is all I can tell you. I’m sorry.”
“If you wished to give me another chance,” Rhaenyra whispered, “Why not arm me with whatever knowledge you can grant to me?”
“Because none of what happens to your son will matter,” Daenerys retorted, then winced again. This time, when Rhaenyra did try to pull away, she squeezed her hands tight around hers. “You must listen, Rhaenyra. I will explain the rules to you. But I must impose one of my own, before I grant you this chance.”
A sense of unease crept its way up Rhaenyra’s back. The longer she stood on this shore, she became more and more aware of herself. She could feel the grit of the sand beneath her feet, the bite of Daenerys’ nails into her palms.
Whatever magic this girl was gifted with was powerful, if it could make the dead feel alive again.
But those rules she kept alluding to, as if there was some force that would watch her, scrutinizing her choices, was what made Rhaenyra hesitate.
And then there was the rule Daenerys wanted to impose.
“Tell me,” Rhaenyra said at last, “And I shall consider it.”
Daenerys stared at her for a long time. Her gaze was searching, wide violet eyes skittering back and forth across her face, and whatever she saw must have satisified her to some extent, as her grip on her hands relaxed.
“In this second chance,” Daenerys said, slowly, “You must not marry Daemon.”
That was not the stipulation Rhaenyra expected.
In fact, this mention of Daemon – her uncle, her second husband – was the first time she had spared a thought of him since her death. Their relationship wasn’t the same, near the end, even after he had pledged loyalty to her at Harrenhal. And when he had gone to face Aemmond on Vhaegar, at the Gods Eye, she had known, in her heart, that it would be the last time she would ever see him.
And she hadn’t wept. Not then, and not since.
She regarded Daenerys for a moment, brows furrowing. “Why?”
It seemed that was not the question Daenerys expected from her. Those violet eyes were wide again. Then, worrying her lip once more, she visibly turned the words over in her mind. “From his blood, the next line of Targaryen kings stemmed,” she said at last, “And all I can tell you is that there was never a prospherous reign after King Jaeherys ever again.”
The answer was simple, yet it told so much. Rhaenyra went silent, thoughts brewing into a storm. She had nothing but time in this void, time to pick apart her choices and wonder what could have gone differently. But if the reigns of her son and his sons after her were turmultuous – assuring her, with some smug satisfaction, that her half-brother had not lived long after her – then Daenerys had merit in her demand.
Daemon and the heartache he inflicted upon her later in life could be lived without. But their children, her sons…
With a pang, Rhaenyra lamented that she never knew what sort of man Aegon grew up to be. Jace was proving to be strong, much like his father in both prowess and heart. Whereas Luke was a sweet boy still when she lost him. And Joffrey… brave and foolish in equal measure, enough for it to be his undoing.
It seemed even in that life and the next, she would never know what sort of men her Aegon and Viserys would become. Yet it would mean seeing Lucerys again. Jacaerys, Joffrey – and Harwin.
“Rhaenyra?” Daenerys inquired gently, and only then did she realize how long she was silent for.
“I…” Rhaenyra exhaled. “If it means I will be given another chance…” She thought of Aegon, of Viserys – of little Visenya, who never got to take her first breath or open her eyes – and steeled herself. “Very well. I shall not marry Daemon.”
Relieved, Daenerys squeezed her hands. “Good. Now I shall impart on you the rules.
“The first being that you cannot speak of events yet to pass for those that have not witnessed it themselves."
Rhaenyra mouthed the words, brows furrowing deeper, and started, “’Those that have not…?’ You mean I cannot warn my father of what is to come?”
“Would that it be so simple,” Daenerys replied with the wryest of smiles, “The second being that once a choice is made, there is no reversing it. No undoing what has been changed.”
Such a rule made the most sense. Rhaenyra recalled how Daenerys implied she had two second chances before gifting her final one to her. Fate would not be so generous to her.
“And finally,” Daenerys went on, “The ties of fate will not be permanently changed without life or death.”
“What does that mean?”
“Fate will only change if those who lived die – or those who died, live.”
“Easy enough, I suppose.”
“Not necessarily.” Again, Daenerys gave a wry smile. “Fate can be tricky. It does not like when you try to alter it. Killing someone who would be better off dead is easier said than done. And making sure one lives who would normally die…” One of her hands fell from hers and pressed on her own stomach.
“But what I know for certain,” the girl continued after a beat, “is that if you live past the day – the moment – you were meant to die, then fate and history will change forever.”
Rhaenyra could feel a clamminess in her palms. Her own death, then. If she managed to live past her death – just shy a year after her father’s death – then she would succeed.
“And after that?” Rhaenyra asked, quietly.
“Then fate will have to write your story anew,” Daenerys replied, “And hopefully, it will be a much happier one.”
Rhaenyra parted her lips, wanting to ask more, to perhaps learn what sort of mistakes this girl made during her two attempts. But then Daenerys pulled away and moved back a pace.
“My apologies,” Daenerys murmured, “Returning is going to hurt.”
Before Rhaenyra could even blink, she erupted into flames. She screamed, the sound tearing from her throat as the heat of dragon fire covered her completely. Her flesh boiled, blistering, blackening, then sloughing off in chunks, exposing muscle and bone. The fire scorched the inside of her mouth, ripping away any further screams she could make and blackening her tongue, melting her throat together.
She tried to close her eyes, but the flames had melted them open. It was unbearable, enduring this pain again, and as her eyeballs popped in her skull, her knees crumpled, the charring muscles and sinew of her legs snapping apart.
The last of the afterlife she saw was Daenerys, her once youthful and sweet expression blank as the flames of her death danced in her eyes.
Rhaenyra jolted upright in bed with a shrill scream.