Work Text:
After she turned one-and-ten, Rhaenyra knew three things to be true. Even though she was a girl, and girls were not expected to be intelligent —or brave, or strong, or anything a man could be—, she understood things that she didn’t think half the men around her thought she would. She kept quiet, mostly ; it was not expected of her to understand such matters. But she did know how to listen.
So Rhaenyra did, and she learned.
First, she learned that her blood came from old Valyria and her pride from dragons, fire and blood, and that because of it Targaryens were said to be closer to gods than to men. The people feared their dragons and their fire ; they feared and loved the Targaryens for what they were, fire made flesh, tyrants, conquerors, deities, monsters made of silver hair and bright blue eyes, holy blood and fire running in their veins like the sun pours its burning rays to warm the frozen hearts of men. They were fire and blood ; and the blood of the dragons ran thick.
The second thing she learned, although it pained her so, was that she was a girl, and that no girl would ever be heir to the Iron Throne. Princess Rhaenys was to be a queen, a Targaryen queen, silver hair and bright blue eyes and flames on a throne made of iron, but now she was only the queen who never was ; people said so, Rhaenyra heard, she listened. Father’s cousin held a sadness to her chest like a mother nurturing a weak child, a sadness easily witnessed if one would look close enough. But no one looked, no one listened : it was not expected of a woman to be sad. It was the way of things ; an order that could never be changed. So Rhaenyra learned pretty quickly she would never be enough for her father, because the king yearned for a boy, a male that could ensure his descendants would remain kings ; boys not old enough to know the feel of a real blade between their hands. Boys who sat upon thrones made weak, often cruel kings. Boys, men : all of them bleeding and dying for years to come on the sharp blades of the Iron Throne.
The third thing Rhaenyra learned was that she owned half of her uncle’s soul : burning traces as black as Balerion carved upon the pale skin of her chest. A bright red dragon just underneath her left breast. When it first appeared, it had hurt like nothing Rhaenyra has ever felt, and she’d screamed ; her mother was at her side in an instant, worried eyes taking in the mark that was engraved on her own daughter’s skin as she frantically tried to cover it with her hand — as if the mark could disappear if she pressed her skin against Rhaenyra’s hard enough. Aemma had told her daughter it was a blessing from the Valyrian gods, but she didn’t look pleased ; so Rhaenyra thought about it as a curse, nails sinking into the skin that burned a bright red, a red as thick as the blood of the dragons, just underneath her left breast. Rhaenyra wanted to rip it off. At the time, she didn’t know what it meant.
A blessing. Not a curse ; never a curse.
That night, her mother had sternly told her not to speak of the mark to anyone. Of course, Rhaenyra had already heard about tales of soulmates from old Valyria, tales of charming princes and pretty princesses, tales of handsome knights and perfects maidens, tales told so that people would believe love was something beautiful instead of wicked : songs of hope and dreams instead of tales of perditions and despairs.
She’d heard by now that love was a cruel thing, and that all tales were lies.
The old Valyrian gods marked their chosen pairs, souls birthed from a single breath, twin flames born from a single star. They marked their chosen pairs with marks of ink : black, merciless ink that could not be erased, because a single kiss from the gods had made one soul bloom in two different bodies ; lonely souls yearning to be whole again. She even heard that sometimes soulmates who did not meet their other part could die, and she had been terrified of such a fate.
Rhaenyra didn’t know that the marks of the old gods were not always a cruel and wretched thing. She didn’t know, so she kept her mark hidden as if it were a disgraceful scarring upon her soul, kept it quiet like the secret beat of her heart — the other beat of it. But she knew her father knew of her secret heartbeat, for sometimes he watched her with a carefully guarded expression that faded each time into sadness. Rhaenyra didn’t understand, at first ; but her father looks stopped at a point, so she never really thought about it more than that.
Then, her uncle came back from the deserted lands of the Vale ; no place for a dragon, he told her, desolate lands full of sheep and winds and dusts, lonely lands with no fire, no blood, no glory. Not made for dragons, he told her. Not made for us. Daemon, the Rogue Prince, the red dragon with scales simmering onto her skin, curling together underneath her left breast where her heart beats its secret beat — his. Burning and angry where he stands into the throne room. He’s fire, blood, and glory. White strands of hair, gold melted with silver, green-blue eyes bright like glowing embers. Wrathful.
« An entire year, » he spits, and Rhaenyra’s father pins him down from where he stands with a hard stare.
Daemon doesn’t cower — a prince and a king standing face to face, dragons encircling each other before the firestorm. Harsh eyes and sharp words, the thundering growl of Caraxes vibrating in the air like a low rumble of thunder in the distant sky that never stops.
« You kept that from me for an entire year. My right. My soul. »
Father flinches subtly, and Daemon begins to walk in circles again. Rhaenyra presses closer to the door ; she sees, she listens. She did that a hundred times before, snicking out of her room even though she’s forbidden to do so. But no one ever stops her ; she’s a girl, and girls are supposed to obey. No one knows the little princess does not. No one would ever know : she does not matter. Not the heir ; not a boy. A little she-dragon.
« Daemon, calm yourself, » Father says, voice unwavering even though Rhaenyra can see the way his hands clench nervously on the sharp blades of the throne.
There’re no guards present in the throne room this time ; they always were, before, and Rhaenyra wonders if perhaps it is something forbidden for men to hear. Only dragons, the blood of Valyria. Makes sense ; it’s Rhaenyra’s right to be here, blood of Valyria, fire of the old gods.
« How many ? » uncle Daemon asks between clenched teeth.
He turns, only slightly ; his eyes glint like steel, a cold fury that Rhaenyra has rarely seen in her uncle, but never fails to send chills up her spine.
« What ? »
« How many years did you think you could keep this secret from me, brother ? » Uncle Daemon turns around, lifts his head ; Rhaenyra can't see his face anymore, this cold and hard face that always fascinated her. « Did you think I would not notice the pull in my heart ? The yearning of my soul ? »
Father shifts into his iron seat.
« Rhaenyra is only twelve, Daemon, » he answers. Voice firm, fingers trembling ; drops of blood on his fingertips. « I cannot give her to you when she is still so young ; she doesn’t need to know right away. We’ll wait a few years. When she’s old enough— »
« She’s mine. » Daemon spits the words out like dragon-fire on his tongue. Distantly, Caraxes growls. The winds chant. Fire and blood, fire and blood. « Mine to protect. Mine to love. My soul. I will not have her kept away from me. »
Father’s face twist into an angry scowl. The lights flicker ; the glimmers of the lamps falter, a slight wobble, a trembling of flames under a wild wind.
« Did you think I would give her to you ? » Father bellows, lights flickering, dragon-breath, and he’s more angry than ever now : more angry than she’s ever seen him. « My little girl who has not yet reached her twelfth name day ? To you, with your wicked ways, and your drinking, and your whores ? Did you ? She’s my only daughter, and I am the king : if I forbid you to be in her presence, you’ll obey me. »
Rhaenyra feels her heart lurching inside of her chest, a painful twist, an anger that is not her own simmering right under the flesh that burns hot with dragon’s blood. Uncle’s anger burns in her veins and on the skin underneath her left breast. Broken beat, secret beat, the cursed scarring of the old gods.
« You cannot. » Daemon is growling, every inch of him dragon-like, scales and fire and blood. « The old gods gave her to me. You, even you, brother, » spits the word, poison, dragon-fire, « don’t have the power to keep her away from me. »
Mine, mine, mine, his blood chants. Hers, too. It is a silent cry, this loneliness he holds close to his heart ; she hears it all the same.
« Do you know what the Lords here say about you ? »
Father’s hand is bleeding, now ; drip, drip, drip, steady drops of old, holy blood onto merciless iron.
« I don’t give a horse shit what this little, weak lordlings say about me. »
« Lord Flea Bottom, » Father answers imperiously. « I don’t want my daughter to be tainted by your— your depravity. You bring shame upon me, and I will not have you bring shame upon her. »
Rhaenyra’s breath gets caught in her throat. Daemon turns towards her, as if he heard — her faltering or the broken beat of her heart, or the secret that lies underneath the scarring of her skin. Red dragon, red like blood ; the grit of his teeth hardens the line of his jaw. Fire and blood, fire and blood, mine, mine, mine. Half of my soul.
« Shame ? » he snarls, dragon-like, eye blazing, glowing embers and forest fire. « You dare say that I will bring shame upon her ? She’s half of my soul ! »
Daemon has a hand on the pommel of his sword ; Rhaenyra knows Dark Sister can cut through flesh and bones like flesh and bones are made of dust and air. Hundreds of men, thousands of men, slaughtered, dead, blood spilled ; she drinks it, drop by drop, fire and blood, black soaking red. Rhaenyra doesn’t think ; she jumps. Out of her hiding place, her feet carry her through the room as if she’s flying on Syrax’s back. Her soul settles inside of her veins, sings, spitfire on her soul, dragon flames searing words of ancient ire, blood on iron, red and black, drip, drip, drip. Each step, she feels as if she’ll soar through the skies. Dragon breath, dragon wings, sunlight dappled in across red and golden scales entangled.
Uncle Daemon is fully turned towards her now, a word on his lips whispered like a half-broken, silent prayer. Half of his soul. Fire and blood, fire and blood. Yours, yours, yours. She slips into his arms ; he holds her to him, lifting her ; she’s small, a little doll dangling from a cliff, and she feels as if she’ll shatter entirely like fragile porcelain if her skin ever leaves his. Rhaenyra presses closer, closer, closer still, wants to crawl and live into his very soul, and Daemon snarls and growls and his hands clutch at her little, slender hips, sink into her like dragon claws. Her nails crush against his neck ; gold melted with silver hides the outside world from her, like heavy mist clinging to the highest mountains. She breathes him in ; blood, iron, breath of fire and burnt wood. Dragon.
They were made for each other, after all. Twin flames, blessing of the gods. Valyrian blood and fire made flesh.
« Daemon, release the princess immediately ! »
Father’s voice is loud, but all Rhaenyra hears is the beat of Daemon’s heart, not broken, not secret, a blessing and a curse and a scar she hopes will never fade away. Amidst strands of gold and silver, pale as moonlight, guards are standing with their swords drawn. Daemon spits something at them in the old Valyrian tongue — touch her and I’ll tear your head off of your shoulders ; she growls, too, clings closer to her uncle, half of his soul chanting and strengthening in her veins, spreading there like dragon-fire.
Burns, hurts ; Rhaenyra never wants to let go.
« Enough ! »
There’s silence in the room. Her father has ordered something, and the knights obey ; sounds of iron sheathed, but all she hears is the roaring of his blood in her blood, the beat of his heart in her heart. From afar, Caraxes shrieks. It’s a terrifying sound.
Fire and blood, fire and blood. Mine, mine, mine. Half of my soul.