Work Text:
The wind tugged at the tightly woven braids of Rhaena Targaryen’s hair, as the dragon cut its wake through the clouds over Dragonstone, carving a path through the heavens. Arrax was just a little thing, a babe as far as the fully grown dragons were concerned, but the saddle was big enough for two, and if her extra weight was anything to him, then he did not show it. She wrapped her arms around Lucerys’ stomach, her chin rested upon his shoulder, as he pulled and tugged at the reins, calling out commands in the tongue of Old Valyria. As the dragon wheeled them around the top of the awe-inspiring Dragonmont, an imposing black scar against the morning sky, she let out a whooping call of pure delight. The sun filtered itself through the dense canopy above their heads, and bathed them in a golden glow, shimmering against the tightly woven scales of Arrax’s armour. Her voice was whipped away by the wind, so her cries of delight were lost to the air, but she did not mind. To ride a dragon was a majestic thing, even if it was not her own.
With a final command, Lucerys guided them to land upon a stony promontory that jutted out into thin air, seemingly a hundred miles above the highest walls of the castle below. The ledge was large enough for Arrax to land upon, but no other dragon. Even Vermax and Moondancer were too big, now, and whilst Tyraxes would have space, he was not yet able to fly so high. There was no path to this part of the mountain, where the shingles and rubble would cascade into empty air, so here they were all alone.
Her Lucerys dismounted first, landing upon the black stone with a dusty thud. He offered her a hand, which she gladly took, allowing his strong arms to guide her to the safety of the ground below. They sat upon their edge, their legs dangling away into nothingness, and stared out over the golden lights of the sun above, shimmering its majesty down upon the dark walls of Dragonstone. Out upon the shimmering sea sat an army of ships, though from here they seemed little more than trinkets, sat upon the placid waters of a bathtub, awaiting the broiling turmoil that was to come. From their flapping banners danced a hundred sigils, though they were too far to make them out. Every now and again, she would catch the light blue and silver of Driftmark, the home of her mother and her grandsire. The land that would one day be ruled by her Luke.
She entangled their hands together as they sat, wordless, staring out into the open air. From here, one could see as far as Massey’s Hook, the headland which made one half of Blackwater Bay. Beyond it lay the Stormlands, the domain of House Baratheon, whose ancestor had fought by the side of the Conqueror, and whose fealty Luke would hope to win. At the thought of it, she squeezed his hand, a gentle motion, and one that he returned. “You worry for me.” Gods, when had his voice grown so deep? When had he become a man grown? She had not seen it, and yet now he was leaving to win allies, the envoy of a queen, a dragonrider ready to fly away to war. “You need not do so.”
Her head turned sideways, and she found him looking at him, dark eyes hooded by a fringe of curls. “If I did not worry for you then I would have far too much time to think on other things, my prince. Let me worry, and you can repay these dues when I have my dragon, and it is you awaiting my return.” Her nimble fingers rose, and gently pushed aside the mess of curls across his handsome face. It was little use, for they just fell back in place, an untameable mess that would ever mar his features, she feared. Instead, her hand moved to gently cup his cheek, fingers dancing against the pale flesh, before dropping away. “One day, you shall rule from High Tide, and I shall fly over each of the Seven Kingdoms. When I return, I shall tell you of the delicate majesty of the Eyrie, perched within the clouds, or the sombre beauty of Winterfell, framed in settled snow.” She inched closer, so as to rest her head upon his shoulder, a dream unfolding before the both of them. “Yet I shall always return for you, my Lord of Velaryon.”
She felt Lucerys’ warmth, a soul aflame with love and kindness, a deep well of all the things that a man should be. “And I shall always await your return, my Lady of Targaryen.” Their time together turned back to silence. There was naught uncomfortable about it, for their affection need not be expressed in words, and moments like these were the sort that she wished could last a lifetime. It was the silence of lost lovers, awaiting their fated reunion. She closed her eyes, and imagined Lucerys upon the Driftwood Throne, a man in his twenties, handsome and bold, with her stood by his side, the sounds of their children’s footsteps echoing through the halls of his castle. He would be a good father, she thought, attentive and devoted to his children, and to his lady wife.
The story of their grandmother and grandsire was not unknown to her. Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea-Snake, had journeyed the oceans of the world, travelling from his seat at Driftmark to the far-flung lands of the east, passing beneath the Shadow itself. Yet he had been won from the seas by the beauty of Rhaenys Targaryen, his dragonriding princess, born to be queen, as fierce and formidable as any man. Perhaps history was repeating itself, through her and Luke, though she was no dragonrider. Not yet, at least.
“I shall be away a matter of days,” he eventually spoke, words cutting through their blissful silence, and she blinked herself out of the dream, “enough time to win the support of Lord Borros, and then I shall return.” His voice broke, and he hesitated, a few moments passed, but she knew he was not done. “When I return, and Jace comes back from the North, I shall marry you, and he shall marry Baela. I am of an age, and grandsire has asked for it to be done, to secure the futures of our houses. We shall be husband and wife.” Her heart sung at the thought of it. For her to be his, and he to be hers. It was the dream of their youth, and within a moon’s turn it was to be a reality. The smile that broke upon her face was as genuine as a maiden’s virtue, and she would not be able to wipe it away for days after, she thought. “Does that scare you, my prince?”
“No-” Lucerys exhaled through his nose, and then looked away, a queer shade falling across his features, “perhaps some. I had feared I do not deserve Driftmark, and I fear also that I do not deserve you.” She took him then, gripping his face, some force in her fingers, turning his eyes back to hers, his dark and hers lilac. “You do not deserve me, and yet you have me all the same, and ever will. I love you, Lucerys, and you would be better spending your time feeling fortunate for that truth, instead of doubting that you deserve it.” Their lips met, a tender display of affection, away from watchful eyes and prying stares. Here, upon their ledge, high in the heavens, they were free to be so genuine with one another, instead of hiding their feelings behind furtive glances. His lips were sweet and soft, and she enjoyed the feel of them against hers, of her fingers running through the waves of his hair, of his own dancing upon the curves of her waist. Behind them, Arrax cooed and mewled contentedly.
When she pulled her lips away, his own followed eagerly, and she laughed, and he laughed too, a smile breaking across his handsome face. Their foreheads met, pressed together, and they revelled in the warmth of the other. “It is I who do not deserve you, my sweet prince,” her words were soft and breathless, barely audible over the wind roiling around their ledge, “let us not deserve each other together, and we can be happy.”
The memory of that moment twisted around Princess Rhaena’s mind, as she stood upon the highest battlement of Dragonstone, her eyes raised to the heavens, to the peak of the Dragonmont, towards a ledge she could not see, tears streaming in rivers down her cheeks. His words danced upon the wind, taunting voices that would ever be out of reach, professions of love that she would never yet hear again. Her hand reached out, as if to move the curled fronds of his fringe away from his dark eyes, yet they met nothing but air. She remembered laughter spent and tears shed, for a mother and a father, for a sister they had never known, and now for a husband she would never have.
A guttural scream escaped her, rising as high as their home in the clouds, to be heard from here to Driftmark, where they had been supposed to raise their children. Syrax joined her in her grief, followed by Tyraxes and Caraxes, a chorus of dragons howling as if they were wolves, mourning the death of their brother and their son. She fell to her knees, her hand grasping for anything to hold herself away from the pit of oblivion that opened beneath her. It found the cold stone of the parapet, gritty and biting to the touch, but at least it provided her some feeling. For just a moment, she thought she felt the brush of his fingers against hers, the whisper of a life never lived, but it was a trick of the wind. His was a touch that she would never feel again. His was a voice that would ever be out of reach.
Her breaths coming in rasping heaves, she forced herself back to her feet, as the rivulets of salty tears cut raw lines across her cheeks, open wounds that may never heal. The clouds broiled in a grey storm, biting winds cutting through the army of ships, and whipping up waves to break against the stony shore. She looked up to the sky, where dragons would dance, where she had last laid eyes upon her life’s love. “I will await your return to me, my Lord of Velaryon,” her voice came in a caustic croak, whipped away by the cruel wind. Perhaps that was why she heard no answer. Perhaps.