Chapter Text
Interlude
Morghon | Death
Fire and blood.
Blood and fire. The dragons had danced, and danced, and danced, until only ashes and Rhaenyra’s littlest children were left. A travesty to be sung of for hundreds of years to come. A toddler wearing a crown, ruling in the despondent shadow cast by the legacy of their once great house.
Fire and blood, blood and fire. Now, nightmares are what dance in the plains of Rhaenyra’s mind.
Sunfyre, a dragon of such beauty that it was once hard to imagine him used in warfare. Golden scales, so much like her own Syrax’s. Rhaenyra’s end was that of a dragon’s - eviscerated in flames. Pain so searing, and yet, it was not quite close to the grief which she had been burdened with. Learning of Lucerys’ death, finding that piece of her little coat. Her sweet Jacaerys and Joffrey. Kin turning on kin.
But, earlier than that too. A flash of iron. Her father and his mask, hiding the rot just like how in court, they kept up appearances. A farce; the Noble House Targaryen, ever-so great, ever-so closer to the Gods than men. Her boys in tears, bastards - they called us bastards, mother! Harwin’s demise. Her pregnancies - how she was scared to death of childbirth the first time, and how deep down it never got much easier, not the fourth time, nor the fifth, nor the sixth.
And earlier still. Ser Cole beating Ser Laenor’s lover to death. Alicent in Hightower green, her eyes cold and determined. How they’d been such close friends, once. Little Aegon’s birth and how - seemingly - her father was finally content. It’s a boy, your grace! And the initial betrayal, learning of that damned betrothal mere months after her dear mother’s death.
Now, the glimpses grow sporadic. Just flitters in her mind, like the last flutter of a dragon’s wings before it takes its final breath.
-
Chapter 1
Sigligon | Rebirth
A nightmare.
When Rhaenyra awoke once more, it was frigid and wet. No fire, or blood. Just sand. Sand. Sand was everywhere; in between the wet fabric of her dress, in her shoes, in her mouth. She lay on her side, as if dead, cold despite the dragon’s fire which ran through her veins.
Surely, that was all it was.
Yet, the images continued to flicker in her mind, and for the first time since birth, since hot dragon blood had flown through her arteries, Rhaenyra shivered; nights darker than darkness, intrigue and schemes and screams. And, more than anything - what made this dream so chilling - a prophetic undertone was present. This, Rhaenyra was certain of. She had resigned herself to this truth; the dream was too detailed, too vivid, too raw to be just that - a dream. She had felt an unmistakable familiarity with those she’d seen in the dream, though she knew them not. Not just familiarity, or even kinship, but love. Those young, brown-haired boys in particular, and the white-haired babes; she felt something profound when she thought of them, trying to recall the dream. Hers. Something poignant and maternal bloomed in her, which was quite impossible as Rhaenyra was just one and nine. Married, true - but to Ser Laenor, and they had not consummated their marriage.
How odd.
So, what could it mean? Dragon dreamers - they existed, or so it was said. Rhaenyra had never met one before, and anyway, she doubted even they would catch a lapse of what she had; the dream felt like a lifetime.
Evidently, whatever this trance was, a dragon-dream or not, she had been in it for a while. Herself, in this strange vortex of a dream, then unceremoniously spat out onto an unknown shore. How long, exactly, had it been? Not mere hours, surely. Days, perhaps. Weeks - it certainly felt like it could be. Though certainly there would be search parties out for her; thousands of men, hundreds of horses - she could just picture it. The last she could remember - if she concentrated very hard - was her and Ser Laenor’s despondent marriage life. Her father was growing sicker, the Queen Consort pregnant once more, and talks of how Rhaenyra herself should have been with child by now.
Her thoughts were spinning, coming to the forefront of her mind and then slipping notice once again. What was fact, and what was dreamt? A severe bout of vertigo overtook Rhaenyra, to the point where could hardly think; her thoughts were incoherent and jumbled, and she felt not like herself. The dream…
A dream so real, it felt as though she might close her eyes and find herself back there, burning.
She sputtered. The salt water had gotten into her hair and throat, which felt itchy and repugnant. Ew! How could this have happened? Had she been in a shipwreck, and was now - against all odds - washed up on the shore? Or had a wild night out at Flea Bottom, drinking a particularly strong wine from Dorne? Or had someone (on Ser Otto’s order, presumably - that old cunt) decided to get rid of her, not wanting her to take the iron throne? They were all always so jealous of me, those imbeciles.
I’ve got to get back.
The questions could come later. With considerable effort, Rhaenyra hoisted herself upwards. Her dress (it was a gorgeous dress, you should know - totally state-of-the-art) heavy, drenched in seawater, and her limbs felt as though they were made of steel.
Where was she, exactly? Her vision was a haze. All around her was blue, blue, blue. Sea that stretched out to the horizon, sand that stretched out from left to right. Behind her was a forest she did not recognize. Trees swaying. The wing strong. A warning, of a coming maelstrom.
And in her chest, a gaping void. Something was wrong, very wrong. Rhaenyra shivered (she could not seem to stop), her teeth chattering uncontrollably. Never in her life had she been this cold - hers was dragon’s blood, after all. She should be getting back to King’s Landing, that was for sure. She was also sure that King’s Landing was nowhere near wherever she was, by the look of things. Sand. Sea. Forest. Fog. And then -
“You.”
Rhaenyra blinked. How weird - she had been certain, just a few seconds ago, that she was alone on the beach. She turned to the direction of the voice, which was - now that she thought about it - familiar; high-pitched and accusatory.
“Oh.” Rhaenyra’s eyebrows knit together in immense confusion as she was suddenly face to face with her younger half-brother, Aemond.
She was at a loss for words, and grew more bemused at the sight of the child, which her brain refused to comprehend, for some reason. The brat! How’d he get here? It should have been physically impossible for him to be there, and logically. Because Aemond was… he was… A sharp pain spasmed through her mind. For a split second, she saw not the tiny boy, but a young man. Aemond One-Eye, the Kinslayer. The man wore an eyepatch. But, it was the exposed eye that caught her breath, for pure hatred gleamed within. I want Aemond Targaryen - her own voice seemed to whisper. Kinslayer, Kinslayer - it repeated.
Struck with trepidation, Rhaenyra’s heart raced. Only, just as quickly as the young man appeared, he was gone. Rhaenyra blinked again, the instinctive horror taking backstage.
Her wide eyed brother gaped back.
Two eyes.
Wet waves of white hair clung to his face. A face, which she was seeing outward emotion on for the first time. Like Rhaenyra, he seemed to be verging between fear, discomfort, and confusion.
What had happened? Was she hallucinating? Perhaps, her earlier theory of being hungover out of her mind may ring true then, but why would Aemond be with her, in that case? Rhaenyra kept staring at the boy, not quite sure as to what she should do. Was this the first time she’d ever been alone with her brother? It was likely. She had always made a point of avoiding her half siblings. How could she not, when they were her replacement, a reminder of how her father had betrayed her mother, mere weeks after she had passed?
Four stains on the Targaryen family tree tapestry. Aegon, Helaena, Aemond, Daeron. Next to, of course, an even bigger stain - a grand stain, if you will, the most irritating of all - which was offensively connected to her own father’s name; dowager queen Alicent Hightower. As if there’s anything queen-like about that bitch. Needless to say, Rhaenyra held no sympathy for them, and certainly no affection. The children who wore Hightower green, Targaryen in name alone. Praised by the court and in cohorts, obviously, with her despicable stepmother and that woman’s sire (those Hightower cunts - Daemon referred to them as).
And Aemond was, all things considered, her stepmother’s greatest joy. Far more taciturn and poised and pristine than any seven-year-old (was he seven? Or was it six?) should be, prince or not. Seven-year-olds should not be so attuned to the ambitions of adults, and instead should be playing outside, or inside, or whatever it was that young children do. Rhaenyra had thought of him as a little freak for that reason - the brat was clearly a green through and through, being bred as a pawn that Otto Hightower could easily utilize, unlike his older brother who was evidently a boisterous sort of brat (or so she had concluded on the rare occasions that she did see her “family”). Rhaenyra saw these manipulations, clear as the skies above the clouds of King’s Landing. Greener than grass. The brat didn’t even didn’t even have a dragon, and Rhaenyra doubted that he ever would; the glorious beasts probably sensed of what unfortunate sort he was.
Now, though (besides the tremor of hazard Rhaenyra had inexplicably felt) a pang of tentative guilt found its way to her stomach. The boy was caught so off-guard - gleaming, fear-stricken eyes - that he looked more like a lost kitten than conspiring usurper.
“Aemond?”
Rhaenyra’s voice was hoarse, as if she had not spoken in years. Clearing her throat, she regarded the boy. Like her, he was shivering, his clothes just as drenched.
“What… What is this?” Aemond spoke coarsely, his lip quivering and betraying any facade he might have tried to push to the surface. “Where are we?”
A pause. “I don’t know.”
She was too tired not to be honest. The heir stared at him again, wondering whether she should try to reassure him, or comfort him. Part of her was yelling at herself to do so - he must be even more terrified than me. And the way he looked at her with upset, unsettled blue eyes tore at something in her heart, and refused to let her do nothing. The other part of Rhaenyra, though, warned her against such an action. Sure, he was only a child, but he was also that rotten Alicent’s child, and the hallucination (or dream, or nightmare - defining whatever had happened was difficult) she’d had was making her wary of the boy, against logic.
The former instinct won. Even though thoughts of King’s Landing and Alicent plagued her (as well as the queer vision of the one-eyed man, which caused a sense of guttural fear), these said thoughts were elusive. They perplexed her, and Rhaenyra Targaryen did not like being perplexed. But this was more than a matter of pride or her temperament; she felt herself slipping from sanity the more she tried recalling the dream. She knew she had to ground herself somehow, feel something real, else she’d go mad. Besides, the poor thing looked to be on the verge of tears (if he even knew how to cry, that was).
Slowly, she lifted her feet to the ground. Her shoes - not at all suited for walks on the beach - sunk into the sand. She reached a hand out to Aemond, not without awkwardness.
Somehow, the simple action felt heavy. Rhaenyra had a foreboding sense that the significance of acknowledging and helping her brother meant more. It meant something, something that she was missing; something she had forgotten or could not ever comprehend in the first place. And only the Gods of Old Valyria may tell me - Rhaenyra now believed - why else would I be given such a dream? Perhaps, even now she was dreaming. The thought crossed her mind as she watched the waves crash against the shore, perennially, and wondered once again - and still without a hint of avail - how she had ended up here and why. The sea, a domain unfamiliar to Rhaenyra, who was of fire and blood.
But, as her brother eyed her hand with suspicion, this theory grew less believable. And as he extended his tiny, trembling hand towards her - and as she clasped it and felt that he was even colder than she, so small and vulnerable - Rhaenyra’s mind cleared. Her thoughts were more lucid than it had been this entire afternoon (or she supposed that was the time, by position of the sun), and a sense of determination began to burn within her, anew.
She would discover how she and Aemond had been spat out by the sea. She find a way to reach the Old Gods, pray to them properly with all the reverence should could muster, and beg for answers. That would be later, though. First things first, they had to go find King’s Landing.
With Rhaenyra still holding Aemond’s hand in hers, the half-siblings prodded on. They must’ve looked quite ridiculous, as both were dressed as a prince and princess should be; ornamental garb. Him in a velvet green coat with ivory buttons, her in a dress of red and black scales. Evidently, she’d been wearing a fair amount of jewelry to complete the ensemble, it must’ve been lost in the sea; only her left earring remained. Both she and Aemond would probably contract a plethora of illnesses afterwards, judging by how soaked their garments were.
“So…” Rhaenyra began, feeling as though she’d regained enough vigor to speak. “Are you hurt?”
Startled, the boy released her hand. The heir ignored this. It was a good thing, in a sense, that he too had regained enough strength to be back to acting like a prick. Saved her the from guilt. Aemond shook his head. “No.”
How did one communicate with young children? To what extent did they understand? Rhaenyra huffed. “And do you, by any chance, recall how we ended up on this beach? Mine own memory is failing me, I fear.”
“No.”
Worth a shot - Rhaenyra supposed, noticing how reticent the boy’s responses were. She decided to press him further. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
Aemond’s face was scrunched in concentration for a minute, and she wondered whether he would speak at all, when he murmured. “Supper.” He hesitated a bit, then continued. “Hm… Father saying that you ought to be with child, by now. Or something…”
Seemed his memory was better than hers. Now that the words were said, Rhaenyra’s own recollections improved. What her half-brother spoke of was true indeed; there’d been a “family” dinner, where Alicent, as always, brought up the topic of Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor’s “fruitless” marriage.
“And… and colliding.”
Lost in such thoughts, Rhaenyra barely heard Aemond’s words. His voice was quieter than ever, his face turned away from hers. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”
“Colliding.”
Colliding - What could that mean? The boy’s voice was too haunted for Rhaenyra to simply dismiss the statement, more so because of her own nightmares earlier. And the word itself shouldn't have had a place in a seven-year old’s vocabulary. Rhaenyra felt unnerved again, and felt a shiver down her spine; not from the cold, but from cowardice, this time around. The heir stopped in her steps, and so did Aemond.
“Could you tell me more?” Rhaenyra put her hands on her knees, trying to appear at his height. She’d seen adults do that to seem gentler to kids, and hoped it would have that effect.
“I… I’m not quite sure.” Aemond spoke so timidly and quickly - his words were difficult to discern. His tone gave Rhaenyra the impression that he was deeply afraid of something, though was it of her, their predicament, or another, third thing? Clearly, it was hard for him to stop now that he started, and the words poured out. “There, on the beach. I don’t think I was quite sleeping. There were dragons, angry stupid smallfolk, and Aegon - but he was older, I think - and mother and you. And me, on… on a dragon. There was another dragon, and it bit mine. A big one. And I fell into the sea. We collided.”
Rhaenyra’s chest tightened.
His face was whiter than snow. His words were as jumbled as her thoughts. She debated whether to tell the boy of her own, uncannily similar visions. A sign from the Old Gods - that must be what this was.
“I’m sorry.” The boy sputtered out. Rhaenyra wasn’t sure what exactly he was apologizing for, but didn’t particularly care. Somehow, taking care of him was her job now, and she’d do it - albeit unhappily.
“Listen, Aemond,” it felt weird, acknowledging him directly, but it was a start. She felt like she had to, despite any reservations she may have. They seemed to be in the same boat, for once. “Don’t apologize. I’m not going to dismiss your dream - you are a Targaryen, after all.” Rhaenyra frowned for a second. She wasn’t pleased about reminding him of this, as she’d always seen Alicent’s children as Hightowers. Yet, objectively, it was the truth, and her feelings weren’t the most important thing at the moment. “Something peculiar - weird, I mean - is going on. We’ve got to be careful, until we get back to King’s Landing and find out what it is, alright?”
“Alright.” Said the boy, quiet and curt. Whatever urgency had overtaken him, it vanished into his usual indifference. Rhaenyra hoped she convinced him that they’d figure things out, and - with another look at him - started walking again.
They walked in silence.
Rhaenyra’s sliver of strength - having been gained at the beginning the walk from the beach - was exhausted quickly (walking through the woods was something she never did, especially not in such attire, and even more especially not when her attire was drenched, and she was oddly cold). Would it have been better to stay at the beach? If they walked as far out as they could, would they reach King’s Landing eventually? It was too much of a gamble - finding food and shelter was considerably harder on the sands.
Still, despite the exhaustion, the heir tried her best to gain some semblance of where they could be. She looked at the trees, hoping her limited knowledge of regional botánica could come into use, but no - the trees looked the same to Rhaenyra as they did anywhere else. Green, with hints of orange. The very first signs of autumn.
A beautiful forest, she supposed. Of course, the greenery wasn’t meticulously planned out as the gardens in court were, yet every shrub and plant complimented each other perfectly. So much green, a color she’d grown to dislike due to how it reminded her of the Hightower cunts, but these hues achieved the opposite, calming her down ever-so slightly. The princess didn’t frequent anywhere outside of King’s Landing very much, and certainly had not been in a forest outside of royal hunts. Those barely counted, anyway, as she spent most of her time in a carriage or in a tent during those. That one time with Ser Cole was the closest she’d been to truly being alone in a forest, and it was still so different to her current plight; she had Ser Cole, one of the most trained knights in Westeros, and they were on horses. Most importantly, they had the knowledge that camp was close, and they could return at her very whim.
Now, a different tale spun itself. She and Aemond were as wet to the bone as they had been down at the beach, and she could see the boy’s ears and nose grow pink from the weather. Gods, Alicent is so blaming me when we return to King’s Landing, if we ever even do.
Speaking of the devil, her little brother was struggling as much as Rhaenyra in their impromptu hike. He was more justified in not being physically adept, however, as he was only seven. And, there was their exhaustion after The fact that the pair of siblings made it as far as they had was a testament to the flat ground and lack of any hills or otherwise elevation. Rhaenyra’s shoes would probably rip into two if that was so.
“Rhaenyra. Look.”
She turned her gaze to the direction in which Aemond was facing. A small stream meandered through the rocks, hidden by shrubbery by both sides. Rhaenyra’s shoulders dropped. “Oh, good.”
Smart boy - she wanted to say, but decided against it. He had that mother of his to tell him all that, after all. For a while longer, the white-haired siblings walked on, not exchanging any other words, but once more invigorated with the hope that the stream would at some point lead them to a settlement of some sort.
Not for too long, though. Both were completely worn after some time, and decided to rest for the night.
They settled at a small clearing in the woods, on the banks of the stream, which had widened out as the two walked along it from a spring to the width of a few steps. They couldn’t eat, for they had no food and Rhaenyra couldn’t shoot anything down; she didn’t have any weapons or tools, and wasn't exceptionally skilled at hunting anyway. Wondering why she hadn’t done so before, Rhaenyra undid the top layer of her dress’ overcoat, and laid it down on the grass.
“Come here, valonqar.” She gestured to Aemond, using the Valyrian word for brother. An indication of her acceptance, as well as a test of sorts; petty as she was, Rhaenyra wished to know whether Alicent deemed it necessary for her spawn to be taught High Valyrian, and how seriously said spawn took said lessons. Aemond in particular did not even have the excuse of needing so he could command his dragon, as he had none. “Nyke jābor daor emagon ao zīragon isse se bantis. Ziry iksos sepār syt mēre bantis.”
Silent as always (as Rhaenyra was by now used to - or was he only silent around her, reciprocating her reputation for being hostile towards him and his siblings?) Aemond obeyed his half-sister, also taking off the velvet overcoat he was in (she should’ve made him do so earlier, that thing was nowhere near being dry) and laying down next to her. Rhaenyra moved closer to him, enveloping the kid in her warmth, which was returning now that she had removed her overcoat. The boy didn’t protest. He must’ve been freezing, indeed.
For a while, the two siblings simply lay there, not speaking. Aemond was as still as stone, as if the world would end if he moved even an inch. His eyes were closed. Rhaenyra, though very tired, was too tense to sleep. Instead, she took the time to observe her brother, being so close to him that she could see the freckles on his nose. She noted how he wasn’t as unpleasant to be around as she had expected - perhaps, that was only due to the nature of the situation - he was even sort of adorable, quieter than what she’d seen of Aegon or some other children at court, on occasion. The way he held onto his composure, every bit of a princeling. She also noted the resemblance between herself and him; they were only half-siblings, but unlike Aegon who took on his mother’s face, Aemond looked very similar to Rhaenyra, as ironic as it was. More similar than he did to his mother, she realized with a start; they shared the same nose, the same eyes, same face shape.
She once again felt the abnormality of the situation and once more she wished she had answers. Her brother, to whom she had never spoken to one-on-one, was now cuddled beside her as if she was his mother.
Eventually, though, Aemond broke the silence with a sentence spoken in perfect High Valyrian. “Nyke gaomagon yzaldrīzes valyrīha, ao gīmigon.”
Rhaenyra let out a tired laugh “Alright then, I see you didn’t neglect your Valyrian lessons.”
He paused. After a bit, he turned his face towards her. “Neglect?”
“To ignore, that means.” Rhaenyra supplied, remembering that she was dealing with a kid. Aemond nodded, quick to catch on.
“Of course. Maester says my High Valyrian is even better than my common. It’s brother that neglects his High Valyrian lessons.” And Mother expects me to be better. And I am - was left unsaid.
“That’s very good of you, valonqar.” Rhaenyra added, finding the obvious pride in his voice adorable.
The tension between them subsided by a notch. This wasn’t too hard - he was even speaking a bit more. Maybe, when they got back to King’s Landing, she’d put a bit more effort into getting to know her siblings. Someone had to make sure they weren’t total Hightowers, and practice their High Valyrian with. Utterly spent, Rhaenyra closed her eyes. Fire and blood entered her mind again, those same images that she wished she could forget; dragons falling from the sky, colliding, and herself burning, and the acute sense that she was losing someone very dear to her. She pulled Aemond tighter, and drifted into an uneasy sleep.
-
When Rhaenyra next opened her eyes, she was still in the woods. It was still dark, and she still had the sensation that something was not quite right.
“Aemond, is that you?” She yawned, her field of vision bleary. But, then, in a swift motion, someone held her from behind. Strong, aggressive hands yanked her upwards.
Rhaenyra’s eyes widened.
In front of her stood two men; one restrained her brother, clasping a beefy hand over his mouth, and the other held a knife. There was a third man too, the one holding Rhaenyra. The man holding the knife gestured to her brother and spoke;
“If you yell, he dies.”