Chapter Text
Daenerys Targaryen was born during one of the worst storms Berk had ever seen— and that was saying a lot, considering the archipelago was lashed with all kinds of terrible weather on a daily basis. The sky had been midnight-black as hail thundered on the roof while rain beat against the windows. It had been a night too foul for any man or beast to roam the streets, and thus the Targaryens could only rely on the expertise of the matriarch, Eydis, to bring their daughter into the world.
She was title-less and landless, but her family strove to live within their means. Their simple life was built on similar foundations to other Viking families; they prided loyalty, close family ties and headstrong stubbornness. Their home was plain but clean, with handmade wooden furniture and bare floors. Randolf, her father, was a carpenter by trade, so their home was always well supplied. Ingrid, her mother, and Eydis were sewing women and often worked on their craft at night by the light of the fire.
This description of their modest lifestyle is only to shine light on the family's pride and joy (besides their daughter): three jewel-toned, oblong rocks that were showcased on the mantlepiece. You might think that these were precious stones or gems, but you'd be mistaken, for these were not always inanimate objects: they were once dragon eggs. The Targaryen family lore behind the acquisition of such rare and priceless artefacts is a whole other story within itself, but each generation has been tasked to protect these eggs from harm. Of course, the people of Berk believe that they are what they appear to be: pretty rocks and nothing more. If they knew the truth, the whole village would be at the Targaryens' door in a heartbeat.
It is these eggs that shape Daenerys Targaryens' destiny. As a baby, she would gaze up at them from her mother's arms, her interest taken by their vibrant colors. Her father would hold her up and let her place her chubby hand on the rough, scaly surface of the egg. Her grandmother told her stories about dragons and their history with the Targaryen clan. Daenerys was hardly over a year old and her life was already filled with tales about the goodness of dragons, which was so very different from her peers' upbringing, where parents taught their children to fear them instead.
--
It all began on a still summer's night. There was a breath of warmth in the air— rare for Berk— and the village was quiet as the Vikings settled in for the evening, wary of the encroaching danger that could spring upon them without warning. It was on nights like these that they often gathered around the hearth and talked about anything and everything until the wee hours of the morning. On this particular night, Ingrid and Randolf were seated on the floor, several feet apart from each other as they encouraged Daenerys— who was affectionately nicknamed Dany— to walk between them. Eydis sat on the bench nearby with a rough-spun tunic and a bone needle.
Unfortunately, this kind of dry, calm evening was the perfect flying weather for dragons. Shouts of 'FIRE!' were soon heard as Vikings rushed to defend their village. Randolf and Ingrid exchanged a look— the kind that said everything even while no words were spoken— and rose to their feet. Ingrid scooped up the baby girl and passed her off to her grandmother. "Keep her safe," she instructed the older woman, only to receive a faint scoff in return.
"Don't I always?" For, even if Eydis wasn't as young as she used to be, she was still a Viking, and would protect her family until she breathed her last.
The couple ran out of the home without another word, each going a separate direction to try and prevent the harm that was done to the dragons. Randolf soon lost sight of Ingrid's silvery-blonde hair as smoke clouded his vision and made his eyes sting. He could faintly make out the blurry lines of other villagers as they bailed water on their houses or aimed spears to take down the dragons. Out of the gloom, he recognized the domineering form of Spitelout Jorgenson, who was swinging a bola above his head as he prepared to throw it.
Randolf rushed forward and grasped the other man's arm to keep him from releasing the weapon. "No, don't!" he called loudly over the sound of the battle. "Hurting them will only make it worse!"
The dark-haired man jerked in surprise and the bola fell harshly against his arm as he dropped it. "Targaryen? Are you mad? I could have knocked your head off!"
"Better mine than theirs!" he replied. "Fighting never works! Just let them go!"
Spitelout gave him a disgusted look. "Let them go?" he repeated furiously. "After everything they've stolen from us? Whose side are you on, Targaryen?"
"This isn't about sides!" Randolf argued. "They only attack us because we attack them. They do it to survive!"
"Well, so do we," Spitelout snapped. He shook off the smaller man's hold. "If you're not going to help then stay out my way."
Randolf knew as well as anyone how stubborn the Jorgensons could be and Spitelout was probably not the best person to sway, but Spitelout was the first Viking he'd come across tonight. If he could change the most stubborn mind, then the rest would fall into place. Besides, Targaryens could be just as persistent when they needed to be, and he knew that this was a worthy mission. He reached up to grab the other man's arm again. "Would you listen, for once? Just because we're Vikings doesn't mean—"
Spitelout cut him off, speaking with a contemptuous tone: "you're no Viking, Targaryen," he began as he roughly pulled his arm away for a second time. "You're hardly even a man."
He gave Randolf a firm shove, sending him easily to the ground. Randolf felt his palms sting and his body shudder as he made contact with the hard-packed dirt. Spitelout strode off without a backward glance as he swung his bola over his head once more. Rather than feeling defeated from his lack of success, Randolf's resolve only strengthened. He stood and brushed his hands clean before he plunged back into the smoke-filled chaos.
--
Later that night, the fog hung thickly in the air as the fires continued to rage on. Ingrid's voice was scratchy and raw from inhaling smoke and speaking loudly above the noise of battle. However, she considered it a night well spent even as her efforts proved futile once again. There were very few dragons left and the Vikings had become exhausted after fighting all night, so she decided that it would be safe enough for them if she returned home.
The Targaryen's house was built on the outskirts of the village as they were seen as outsiders, but the benefit was that their home was usually left untouched by the raids. The dragons themselves even seemed to leave their house alone purposefully, as if they knew the family was an ally. As she walked up the empty village road, the thick black smoke billowed around her, disappearing into the inky sky. Its acrid scent remained, burning her nose with its sting. Homes stood half-destroyed on either side of the street, some blackened and charred while others had gaping holes in their roofs. Debris littered the road ahead of her, from splintered wood to dulled swords that Vikings had thrown to the side.
A strong breeze blew against her back, helping to speed her on her way. With any luck, it would clear the air before the day was out. But, despite the hope that the wind brought, Ingrid felt a shiver run down her spine. She knew it wasn't from the chill as her heavy cloak protected her from the cold. No— it was a sense of foreboding, for a gust of wind in the wrong direction could also cause the fire to spread.
Her heart pounded in her chest as she passed the last of the buildings in the main part of town, a sense of impending dread gripping her. She quickened her pace, her legs carrying her faster than she thought possible. Fear made the blood roar in her ears as her unease grew stronger with every step. It will be fine, she told herself sternly. We've done this hundreds of times before, and nothing has ever gone wrong.
However, no matter how she tried to convince herself that her return would be as uneventful as every dragon raid, she couldn't rid herself of the rising panic. With every stride, her concern for her mother and daughter grew stronger.
Her stomach turned at the sight of the orange tinge up on the hill: a sure sign of fire. She began to sprint towards her home, only to stop short in horror while she was still some distance away. The familiar thatched roof was engulfed in flames as it glowed ominously against the dark night. Tears welled up in her eyes and a strangled sob escaped her throat. Dany was just a baby, and her mother— oh, her mother!
Steeling herself against her motherly instinct to grieve in despair, she charged toward the burning house instead, refusing to give up on the belief that something could be done. The heat became more intense as she neared, blistering her skin as she approached the entrance. Unfortunately, the door was engulfed in flames which prevented her from getting inside.
Seeing no way to get to her family, Ingrid allowed herself to drop to her knees and bury her face in her hands. A shout drew her from her hopeless thoughts— Randolf had returned and had caught sight of their house. Ingrid looked up with tears streaming down her face as her husband collapsed beside her. The flames roared and crackled, casting an eerie glow on their anguished faces. The heat was intense, blistering their skin even from a distance. Ingrid reached out to hold Randolf's trembling hand, seeking solace and strength in their shared despair.
"We have to do something," Randolf said, his voice choked with emotion and raw from hours of talking. "We can't just stand here."
Ingrid nodded, her eyes fixed on the blaze that was consuming their home. "But how? We can't get inside. Dany and my mother. . ." She stifled a sob, unable to finish the sentence.
Her husband tightened his fingers around hers, grief-stricken and furious that he wasn't able to provide a solution. He couldn't protect his own family against devastation. Spitelout was right— he was no man.
--
Hours later, the sky became lighter as the sun began its ascent in the heavens. Birds started chirping and animals snuffled in the tall grass. Somewhere, a rooster crowed. Daily life resumed for the Vikings of Berk as they began to make repairs on their homes and replenish their missing supplies. Casual conversations took place in the streets as they talked about what an aggressive raid the previous night's battle had been.
For Randolf and Ingrid, however, it seemed as though life had stopped completely. They hadn't moved from the charred remains of their home despite the ache in their knees from kneeling for hours. They were unbothered by the dew that dampened their clothes or the eventual pangs of hunger they felt. They could only hold each other tightly, mourning for what they had lost. No one in the village would care about their daughter or Eydis; they'd only be too pleased that there were two less Targaryens to worry about.
Too distraught by their misfortune, Ingrid and Randolf missed the sound of a baby's cry that pierced the air. When it sounded for a second time, Ingrid's head jerked up as she stared at the house with disbelief in her red-rimmed eyes. The third time, she shook her husband roughly.
"R-Randolf?" she rasped out, hardly able to believe what she was hearing. "Did you hear that?"
Her husband opened his eyes slowly and squinted against the light. "Hear what?"
"It-it sounded like a baby!"
He sighed and squeezed her hand comfortingly. "My love, I'm afraid that—" Randolf stopped abruptly when the baby wailed again. He shot into a standing position, stumbling after sitting for so long. "Stay here," he told his wife firmly.
As quickly as he could, he picked his way around the ash and rubble of their home. Thankfully, the baby continued to cry, so he followed the sounds of her tears towards where the living room had once been. There, in the middle of the splintered floorboards, was Daenerys— and she was very much alive.
Her face was screwed up as she wept and her tears had made tracks down her soot-stained face. The rest of her was no cleaner and her silvery-blonde hair was closer to the color of ash. Randolf stared at his daughter with wide-eyed awe, wondering how on earth this miracle could have happened.
Then, a loud squawk interrupted her sob. Randolf peered cautiously around the baby to a sight that made his mouth drop open with shock: two tiny dragons were nestled against her back, while the third lifted its head up in her lap. One was red and black, the second was gold and white, and the third was green and bronze. . . the exact same shades as the dragon eggs that had been passed down between Targaryens for generations.
Shaking himself from his stupor, he scooped up his baby to marvel at how perfectly whole she was; there was not a blemish on her skin except for the cinders that coated it. The dragons squawked in protest and flapped their little wings as they crowded around his ankles, their small mouths biting at his boots. Clearly, they did not like the little girl being taken away from them.
Randolf slowly made his way back to his wife, who was now standing with her hands clasped in front of her hopefully. He handed his daughter over to her and Ingrid let out a loud sob as she cradled the child close to her chest. Dany seemed to recognize that it was her mother who was holding her and hugged her as best she could in return. Seeing that the girl wasn't in danger, the dragons settled but still kept a watchful eye on her.
"I don't understand how this is possible," her father murmured. "We watched the house. . ."
Ingrid kept her arms around her baby as she replied, "I've only ever heard stories, but dragon lore has been rich throughout my family. It is believed that a Targaryens were once bestowed with a great gift that has been lost to time: the blood of the dragon. They were said to be able to walk through fire without being harmed. Aegon, one of the first Targaryens to settle in Berk, was known as 'the Unburnt.'"
Their eyes met over their daughter's head. As the dragons flapped around their feet, they knew what they had to do to keep their secret safe. They would move away, far from Berk and its dragon-hating residents, deep in the forest where they could live in peace without being ridiculed or fear for their dragons' lives.
As time passed, the Targaryens' mission to administer peace between dragons and Vikings became twisted. Stories were told of specters with ghostly white hair and purple eyes who would hunt humans for sport. There were tales of demons who could walk through fire unscathed as they waged holy war against Vikings with dragons by their sides. Children begged to hear about the legends of beings who possessed an otherworldly grace as they moved silently and swiftly to blend seamlessly into the darkness. Audiences gasped in horror as they listened to people who, when their eyes glowed in the night, caused a chilling sight that struck fear into the hearts of those who encountered them.
The true tale of Daenerys Stormborn and how she brought three dragons into the world became lost in myth and mystery. No one knows quite what happened on that fateful night— no one except the Targaryens.