Chapter Text
She was screaming. Anger flowed through her veins like molten iron. The blood of old Valyria was setting her body on fire.
She hated him. She hated him. She. Hated. Him.
Another scream left her, just to be swallowed by the sound of the wind and waves around her. She was trembling terribly, even with the heat sparking outwards from her very core. Her tears have long since dried up, leaving her eyes painfully dry and aching. The words of her father still echoed inside her mind, no matter how hard she tried to banish them. ‘My child, I just want what is best for you,’ he had said, with the kind eyes of his. If he wanted what was best for her, he would never speak of marriage again. He would not have married her best friend. He would have stopped trying for a son earlier and kept her mother alive. But now he wanted her to marry as well. She was going to be sold to the highest bidder like livestock. Some disgusting lord will put his hands on her body in search of a dragon of his own. No one wanted her for herself. They wanted the Targaryen blood; they wanted the crown. They wanted her to carry their heir. Her mother came to mind again. Pregnant so often, Rhaenyra barely remembered how she looked without a child inside her.
She tasted bile at the back of her throat. Gods, she wanted to claw at her stomach. She longed to rip her womb out. If she could not have children, then there was no reason to have her marry.
A low, sorrowful sound came from below her, sweeping away some of the darker thoughts circling her mind. Her sweet lady Syrax was looking at her with worry. “I’m sorry, my dear friend.” Rhaenyra’s voice was hoarse and grating even to her own ears. Her eyes lifted to the sky, which was turning a beautiful shade of pink as the sun dipped behind the horizon. Her heart sank; she had been in the air longer than she ought to. Her father was sure to be furious, especially after she abandoned all her duties for the day. The young dragonrider let her eyes roam around and winced. Dragonstone lay before her. She had not realized she and Syrax had gone so far out. She would not make it back to King’s Landing before nightfall. Rhaenyra looked at Dragonstone again. It was her castle. Her birthright. She hesitated. If she stayed on Dragonstone till the morrow, her father would surely start spewing flames himself and marry her to some bumbling idiot on the spot.
“Alright, Syrax, let us-“
She never got to finish her command to return to King’s Landing. A noise like a hundred thunderstorms split the air. Rhaenyra flinched; Syrax shook her head, growling in confusion. The princess’s ears were ringing painfully. “What was that?” She looked around but saw nothing, no clouds or anything else for that matter, other than the clear sky, Dragonstone, and the calm sea. Rhaenyra’s eyebrows furrowed; had she imagined the noise? But no, Syrax was observing her surroundings as well, her muscles coiled tightly. She let her eyes glide over the horizon once again. There had to be an explanation.
Then Syrax suddenly looked up. Fear sank its ugly claws into Rhaenyra as she hurried to do the same. Dragons never looked up. They simply had no reason to. Or, at least, they normally don’t. On Dragonstone, a dragon turning its eyes skywards meant only one thing. The Cannibal. Rhaenyra had never seen the beast herself, but it was one of the first things taught to the young princes and princesses of House Targaryen. If your dragon looks up while at Dragonstone, flee. No dragon in her family's possession, besides Vhagar or Vermithor, could even dream of standing a chance against the brute force the Cannibal is said to be. Violet eyes analyzed the sky above her. She had expected the massive form of the black dragon above them, maybe with its maw already open, ready to rip them in half. What greeted her was just the clear sky. “My girl, what are you seeing?” She squinted her eyes against the last rays of the sun, trying to see what her beloved dragon was observing. “Syrax,” she started, lost, “I don’t see- wait.” She cut herself off. There, above and slightly to the right of her and Syrax’s position, Rhaenyra could make out a tiny form in the sky. Not the Cannibal then, but what could it be? She adjusted her position on her lady and frowned. Whatever it was, it was approaching fast. “Up, Syrax,” she commanded gently, and the dragon obeyed without second thought. As they ascended further into the sky, the shape kept getting closer. “Is it a shooting star?” Rhaenyra wondered aloud. She had heard some old maesters talk about shooting stars straying from the sky and reaching the soil of the realm in hushed tones. If she remembered correctly, it concerned a house in Dorne. House Dayne? She did not know for sure, but if it was truly a falling star, it could at least explain the loud noise.
“We should keep some distance,” Rhaenyra murmured, “I don’t want you getting hurt.” Four powerful wingbeats later, the princess’s eyes widened in horror. That was not a star. They were now close enough that she could see vague shapes of the falling object. “Is that-“ they had almost reached it, the falling shape never slowed, and was about to pass them by. “Is that a person?” For the mere moment in which Syrax and the shape were at the same height, Rhaenyra saw it. Clothes, black as night, whipping around the body of a man. The body soared past them on its way to the water below. A heartbeat passed, then two. At the third painful beat of her heart, reality crashed down on her.
“DIVE.” The command burst from her throat and Syrax did not hesitate. Her great wings snapped to her side, and in seconds, Rhaenyra and her faithful mount were in free fall. The wind was now cutting at her face, every bit of exposed skin prickling as if a thousand tiny needles were pressed into it. The world around her blurred as Rhaenyra fought to keep her eyes open and focused. Never before had she and Syrax gone this fast. They were closing the distance to the man, but so was he to the water. If they failed to catch him, he would die; there was no way anyone would survive the force of the impact of such a fall, no matter what he landed on.
It was getting hard to breathe. Finally, after painful seconds diving through the air, they had reached him. Rhaenyra leaned back a bit and had to suppress a groan as the air slammed into her, making her rock back in the saddle, straining the leather clips keeping her seated. The man was a few meters to their right, and Rhaenyra leaned back further. “SYRAX,” she screamed over the wind, “get us over there. I need to grab him.” The dragon angled one of her wings, catching the wind under it just right, and they were shoved in the direction of the man. When they were close enough, the princess lunged forward, wildly grabbing for anything she could reach. Her hands graced the fabric of his cloak and clutched at it. Her eyes flickered downwards for the briefest second; the water was too close. They needed to pull up, now. Panicked, she violently pulled the man against her chest; her arms gripping his back with enough force that he would probably bruise because of it.
“UP, SYRAX. PULL US UP.” When the she-dragon stretched her wings again and tried to stop their descent, her passengers were slammed onto her back. Rhaenyra grunted as the weight of the man pressed down on her arm, and her head hit his shoulder. Syrax snarled under her as she struggled to slow their fall. Rhaenyra closed her eyes and sent a prayer to every god she could think of: the old, the new, the fourteen flames, the Lord of Light, anyone. Please, let us prevail. Let us not hit the water and drown. She waited for the crash, the cold, hard water to put her into shock, but nothing came. Beneath her, Syrax's muscles slowly relaxed. The roaring of the wind settled into a gentle breeze. She lifted her head and released a breath she did not know she was holding. They were leveled again, flying parallel to the water.
“Thank you,” she mumbled to her dragon, relief prominent in her voice. Syrax made a sound then, low and trusting. Rhaenyra could see that her friend was exhausted. The hours they had already been flying, and this rash, dangerous maneuver had cost her. The beat of her wings seemed to come with greater effort. “To Dragonstone, Syrax. You are far too tired to make it to King’s Landing today.” The dragon thrilled in agreement and made for her ancestral seat. As her heart calmed down, she looked at the man in front of her. Her hands were still gripping him too tightly, so she loosened her hold a bit. Now that she could get a better look at him, she frowned. He looked normal. She didn’t know what she expected, some otherworldliness perhaps. He had short dark hair and a dark beard. His skin was darker than hers, which made him look dornish or maybe like someone from the free cities. He was clad completely in black; the clothes looked well-made. A nobleman then? She shook her head; she would interrogate him the second he woke up.
A thought struck her then. What if he were dead? A wild dragon could have attacked him and then dropped him from the sky. Carefully, one hand wandered to his wrist. His skin was warm against hers, a good sign. As she pressed her fingers into his skin, she closed her eyes again, focusing only on the tips of her fingers. There! His pulse was strong and steady. She exhaled.
Syrax began her rocky descent to the Dragonmont. Horns announced her arrival and she saw dragonkeepers scurry to the platform leading into the keep. The golden lady hit the ground harder than usual, making Rhaenyra grunt as she, once again, hit the man’s shoulder face-first. It was good that he was unconscious, or she would never live down the shame. “Princess,” one of the keepers called to her as Syrax reached the platform. She could also make out Dragonstone’s castellan, Caerwin Celtigar, hurrying her way. She adjusted her hold on the unknown man, loosening the leather strips so that she might dismount. Without much grace, both of them slid down Syrax’s wing. Rhaenyra tried with great effort to somehow lift both of them up, “Gods, you are heavy.” She wheezed slightly.
Two guards relieved her of her struggle and hoisted the man up, allowing her to rise as well. “Princess, we did not expect you here.” Lord Celtigar looked from her to the unconscious form being held up by the guards. “My Lord, would you please send for Maester Gerardys to look him over. Tell the maids to prepare my rooms for me and one for my-” she stopped for a second, “my guest.” She made for the castle, Lord Celtigar and the guards behind her. “Make sure Syrax gets a goat, no, make that two, and send a raven to King’s Landing to inform my father that I am returning tomorrow.” Her commands were followed immediately. As she watched the man from the sky being dragged towards Maester Gerardys' rooms, she felt the exhaustion finally settling in. It has been a long day.
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After her supper and a scalding bath, Rhaenyra made for the room in the guest wing where a maid had informed her the man was seen to. She was tired, her steps slow, her posture a bit slouched. She would never allow herself to appear like this in the Red Keep, but Dragonstone was different. It was hers. Everyone who worked here belonged to her household. She could allow herself to look as she felt. She entered the room without knocking, and her eyes immediately zeroed in on the form on the bed. Gerardys was hovering next to him, but had turned his head in her direction the second she arrived. “Princess,” he bowed. “Maester, is he well?” Rhaenyra walked up to the bed and stopped next to the maester. “He should be, your grace. I have found no injuries on his person. His heartbeat and breathing are steady. There is nothing stopping him from waking.” She nodded. “Princess, if I may ask-“ a soft groan interrupted the Maesters inquiry, and Rhaenyra straightened. The unknown man on the bed moved; his right arm twitched as his eyes fluttered open.
Rhaenyra suppressed a gasp as she was greeted with two different eye colors; one a deep, warm brown, the other a light lavender. He had Valyrian blood in him. A shudder raced down the princess's spine. House Targaryen did not have as many members as it used to, a few years past. The main line consisted only of her, her father, uncle Daemon, and little Aegon and Helaena. She had seen plenty of people from Lys before, but the people who carry the blood of the dragon always had something distinct about them. She could not explain it, but his eyes did not look like those of a man from Lys. He looked like he belonged in her family. A proper dragonlord. “Maekar?” The voice that left his mouth was deep and soft. Her head tilted slightly. Maekar, what a curious name. It sounded Targaryen enough. “He is not here.” At the sound of her voice, his eyes snapped to her. Rhaenyra could see the confusion in them. He did not look like he was fully present, his mismatched eyes slightly glassy. “Please send for him,” he mumbled, “He must be terribly cross with me. I do not wish for this to stand between us.”
The man made to get up, causing Gerardys to move. “No. You should rest some more.” The stranger's eyes moved to him next. “Who are you?” Distrust entered his eyes, and he moved up further. “I am Maester Gerardys,” he bowed briefly, “Maester of Dragonstone.”
“Dragonstone? How long was I-“ the man broke off, clutching at the back of his head, face pulled into a grimace. “Does a headache ail you? I will fetch something to help linder it.” Gerardys made for the door, but stopped before it. “Princess, I will send one of the guards inside-“
“There is no need, Maester.” She cut him off, still not taking her eyes off the anomaly in front of her. “I will be just fine with them outside of the door.” The Maester looked hesitant for a moment, but relented and stepped outside. Alone with the stranger, Rhaenyra regarded him with mounting curiosity. “What is your name?” She asked. Still clutching his head, he turned his eyes to her again. There was still confusion in them, but she could see the intelligence lurking in their depths. It was silent for a second, both of them regarding each other, before he broke it, “Baelor.” She flinched slightly at the name. Baelor. The tiny bundle that was her brother Bealon flashed before her eyes. Another Targaryen name, how curious. “Who are you, my Lady?” She was pulled from her musing by Baelor’s voice. “Princess Rhaenyra,” at her words, he sat up straight. “Blackfyre?” She frowned at this. Her father’s sword? “No, Rhaenyra of House Targaryen.”
“That is not possible,” he denied instantly. She blinked at him. The audacity of this man to deny her her own name. “Listen-“
“Where is Maekar?” His eyes flew around the room, taking everything in: Tapestries, the door, the windows, her, the furniture, the medicine next to his bed, her again. “Where is my brother. If I am truly at Dragonstone, surely he would not simply leave.” A twinge of annoyance sparked in her. This man was talking nonsense. “I do not know this Maekar you speak of.” She tilted her head up a little, trying to look more intimidating, “And watch how you speak to me. You are speaking to a princess of the blood.” She tried to channel her best Daemon impression. His eyes locked onto her again. Going down her body slowly. It did not feel like the look of the men at court, or the likes of Jason Lannister. This felt like she was being compared to something else; every strand of hair, every piece of jewelry, was analyzed. His face went blank.
“Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.” It was not a question, but a fact. “Princess of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne.” She stared, baffled. His eyes had regained some sharpness as they spoke, and he was now looking at her as if he recognized her. How very strange. “Your Grace, I must apologize for my behavior.” He bowed as best as his position allowed. “I seem to have a considerable hole in my memories.” She had to admit, the apology caught her off guard. Not many men apologize to her these days. Before she could reply, the door opened, and Maester Gerardys stepped inside. “I have brought some herbs for your head. You should rest some more.” He humbly bowed and went to work, grinding the Herbs into a paste. “I will leave you for now, Baelor.” She put as much authority into her voice as she could muster at the moment. “Rest, regain your strength. We will speak on the morrow when we break our fast together.”
“Of course, Princess.” He bowed again, the perfect picture of politeness. She did not trust it one bit. She turned and left the room without another word. But this Baelor would not leave her mind for the rest of the evening.
Somewhere in the Stormlands, a vicious storm was sweeping the land, and a single Lightning bolt struck the ground. It was the only Lightning which would reach the ground that day, witnessed by none. On the ground, where the heat had scorched the grass, Maekar Targaryen opened his eyes.