Chapter Text
Rhaenyra’s fingers shook as she gripped the leather reigns of her dragons saddle. Her sons were dead. Daemon was nowhere to be found— dead, likely. And her usurper of a half-brother was sitting on her throne.
Seven Hells.
Was sitting on some throne really worth all of this suffering? All of this death and destruction? Could it have been avoided if she had simply allowed Aegon to be King?
Rhaenyra closed her eyes.
They told her to flee. To escape— fly back to Dragonstone to what little of her loyal House remained. Perhaps rekindle to Essos, start anew. But how could she start anew?
How could she…
Syrax let out a shrill noise from her snout, soaring higher into the clouds. She could feel the emotions turmoiling inside of her rider— and it knocked Rhaenyra out of her spiraling thoughts.
“Gīda, riña.” She soothed. (Steady, Girl)
If only she could run her hand over Syrax’s warm, golden scales. Her thoughts mellowed, so much so, she almost ignored the sudden change in temperature. From cool, to almost too warm.
Yet the sudden chill of distress from Syrax across their bond was too much to ignore. Rhaenyra’s brows furrowed as her dragon broke from the clouds and into the clear sky.
Her eyes adjusted.
This was not Dragonstone. Nor were there any oceans in sight.
Rheanyra squinted.
This was the Riverlands. The humidity in the air was the biggest giveaway. It had always annoyed her when she was a child. She remembered her mother distinctively chastising her over her childish dislike for it.
And there were common folk all huddled together. A tournament?
Syrax roared as she steered her closer to the ground— which indeed garnered a reaction from the crowd. Sudden terror, if the screams were anything to go by. Was it Syrax they were afraid of? Anyone would be a fool not to tremble at the sight of her dragon. But Rhaenyra had not been blind to the picture the common folk had painted of her either.
Maegor with teats, they had called her. Rhaenyra the Cruel…
She shook her head, then lifted her chin. Nought did not matter. She would gather the information she needed. Then head back to Dragonstone to figure out her next steps.
Syrax landed in the middle of the jousting arena. And it took Rhaenyra no time to climb off her she-dragon, her feet landing on the mudded grounds with a gracefulness all dragon riders possessed.
Her eyes landed on two men in armor. Well forged, expensive pieces. But she was exceptionally drawn to the dragons on them. Targaryens?
No— there would be no Targaryens in the Riverlands. And no bastards would dare use such sigil.
“Well? Do you show no respect to your Queen?” Rhaenyra inclined her head, her eyes staring at the knights who continued to stand there and not bend a knee to their Queen.
Had Aegon’s influence reached the Riverlands? Doubtful… but she could not be too sure.
-
Baelor had barely deflected a measly strike from Ser Willem Wylde when he heard it.
A roar so deep, it shook his bones.
The fighting ceased instantly. Even his nephew, Aerion, paused his pursuit towards the Hedge Knight.
The clouds broke, and a beast thought long gone soared through the sky— and straight towards them.
A dragon. A beautiful, golden beast. Seven Hells, Baelor felt the air leave his lungs. He could not move, frozen in his spot like half of his House. It was the panic of the common folk, that made his feet work. Barely making it out of the dragon’s way as it landed.
He lifted his gaze once more.
On top of the magnificent creature, sat a woman. With pale skin and silver hair. She made her way off the dragon with such effortless skill— even Baelor could hear his youngest brother inhale from yards away.
Her eyes landed on him. Unlike his brothers, especially Maekars muted purple eyes, hers was such a bright violet. It had him blinking to do a double take.
Beautiful.
“Well?” She spoke. Even her voice carried.
“Do you show no respect to your Queen?”
Queen? Baelor paused. This was not his mother. Clearly not— he took a step forward. And the dragon bared its teeth warningly.
His eyes landed on her clothes again. This style— it was not of this time. Older. Clearly. The jewelry… they had stopped making some of the designs years ago after Aegons rule. It had been the Kings demand, knowing that his mother had favored such craftsmanship.
His mother.
Rhaenyra the Cruel some had called her. Queen for a year, the history books had read.
Could this had been? No— it couldn’t be?
The woman before him tsk’d. Eyes narrowing at her request being clearly ignored. “Well?”
And Baelor could not find any words. For once, Baelor ‘Breakspear’ Targaryen, was speechless.