Chapter Text
The glorious reign of
Daenerys of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name,
—the Stormborn,
Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men,
Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,
Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea,
Chainbreaker and Mother of Dragons —
began in 304 AC,
upon the defeat of the Others and the End of the Long Night.
—Maester Samwell Tarly’s The Dragons Reborn, “Preface”
“She is coming, Your Grace,” Arya says, eyes closed, a pleased smile playing on her lips.
Her voice is low, but nevertheless, it is heard, and the hall falls quiet.
Tyrion moves forward in his seat, and the lords and ladies of the court cease all conversation. Missandei, who stands on her Queen’s right side, like always, is looking at Arya in unbridled excitement.
All eyes are now on the Queen.
“Are you certain?” asks Daenerys, her own eyes trained on the Northerner’s face; there is no hiding the hope clearly written in them, despite the cloak of stoicism she wears.
Arya opens her eyes, then, and slate-greys meet the violet stare of the Dragon Queen. “I am,” she affirms. “Nymeria’s children had seen Rhaegal flying over Maidenpool. She’ll arrive soon.”
Daenerys nods once, her lips quirking up.
“That’s good,” Missandei says. “I was beginning to worry.”
“You know the worry is unwarranted,” Arya tells her, eyebrows raised. “That girl could gut a grown man with a finger.”
“I know that, but it is something I cannot prevent,” Missandei defends. “I have been worrying about her since she was a babe, and knowing what she can do now will not stop me from doing so.”
“Apparently so.”
“And why is she coming from Maidenpool, anyway? That’s way up north, and she was supposed to be coming from the seas.”
“Her blood’s a mix of stallion and dragon—no one can ever say what she’s thinking most of the time.”
“Yes, and add to that the stubbornness cultivated into fruition by a certain Wolf’s guidance,” Missandei shoots back, “and we have in our hands a truly unpredictable monarch.”
“Are you two done talking about the heir-apparent in front of her mother and her court, or should we give you a few more minutes?” Tyrion pipes up, teasingly. Said court is not hiding their amusement at the usual bickering of the Queen’s handmaiden and the Wolf Knight, whose bluntness with words directly contrasts with the sharpness of her blade. The Queen herself is openly smiling now, for she has always found the banter refreshing—the game of thrones is often filled with double-meanings and implications, and so she sees the candidness as rare and of great import.
Arya just grins rakishly, shrugging. “No, we’re done.”
Tyrion shakes his head, smirking at her. “Missandei did raise a valid point, though. Whatever would our young dragon be doing up there?”
“Well,” the Queen says, “we should perhaps ask my daughter ourselves. Alexandria does tend to be a bit dramatic.”
And just then, they hear the sound of dragon wings flapping, and outside, the shouting begins.
“The princess has landed! The princess has returned!”
Daenerys turns her gaze to the doors.
“Hail, the Commander of the Blood! Hail, the Young Dragon!”
Alongside her mother, the Dragon Queen Daenerys, and the bastard legitimate son of Prince Rhaegar, Prince Jahaerys Targaryen [formerly Lord Commander Jon Snow of the Night’s Watch, then Lord Jon of House Stark], Princess Alexandria Targaryen was hailed a saviour of the Seven Kingdoms. Alexandria was the youngest Dragonrider ever recorded in history; she was only nine when she rode Rhaegal and poured forth destruction upon the hordes of Walkers in the Wight War, thinning out the undead armies in a storm of fire.
Together, the last three children of Valyria brought upon Westeros peace, uniting it once again under the banner of the three-headed dragon, with a strength and magnificence the realm has not seen since Aegon the Conqueror’s rule.
It is young Alexandria, though, who truly captured the hearts of the people. It is her name that they continue to chant with admiration and respect. For though they are devoted, wholly and truly, to the Queen Daenerys, they have not witnessed her rise into greatness. She came on the lands of Westeros having already achieved immense power and influence from across the Narrow Sea. Alexandria, however, was a child —and they saw this child lay waste to their enemies. They saw this child grow up to become even stronger, become greater.
And so to her they pinned the hopes and the love they once gifted to her late uncle Prince Rhaegar. To her they gave the name he once held —“The Young Dragon,” they called him then, and they call her now. She does not look like him, no —she is dark where he was light, her hair a stallion’s brown and his spun white-gold, her eyes the color of the forest and his of the famed Valyrian lilac —but there is no question that she is of Targaryen blood. She has a dragon’s grace and ferocity, and she has the air of power only the true Dragonlords ever possessed.
She also has the same mastery of the sword Rhaegar had —she received instruction from Ser Barristan Selmy himself, and was also taught the Water Dance of Braavos by the Wolf Knight, Arya Stark. She has exhibited his intellect and gift for politics and diplomacy, as well, having been tutored by Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen.
The people of the realm have no doubt in their minds that Alexandria’s future reign will be even more prosperous and glorious than her mother’s before her, and that she will usher in the New Golden Age.
—Maester Samwell Tarly’s The Dragons Reborn, “The Young Dragon”
“Alexandria of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, the Great Unifier of Khalasars and the Commander of the Blood, the Stallion Who Mounts the World.”
The doors to the Great Hall open, and the princess walks in. Her wild brown curls are kept in intricate braids, the designs of which are unseen anywhere else in Westeros, and her face is covered with black war paint, making her forest-green eyes even more brilliant. She is wearing a suit of leathers and furs, and from her shoulder guard flows a red sash that reaches to the ground, and she has both her sword and her arakh.
She strides confidently to the front of the hall, every step echoing in the quiet; the nobles are staring at her with bated breaths, all intrigued and watchful.
She stops right before the steps leading up the throne, and drops on her knee, head bowed. “Greetings to Your Grace.” Her voice, though not loud, carried strongly across the room, each syllable imbued with the dignity of the dragons of old.
A beat, and then the Queen commands, “Rise, my daughter.”
In one fluid movement, the princess does as she’s told. The queen stands and descends from her throne until she is but a foot away from her child. She remains a step higher; the young dragon has grown some more, making her tower several inches over the queen, and this is the only way Daenerys can remain taller than her. It makes the Dragon Queen both proud and wistful; her daughter is growing up much too fast, and she would have liked for time to stop and let her spend a few more innocent years with her babe.
Alas, it is not to be so, and thus all that is left for the Queen to do is reach out, tip the princess’s chin with a finger, and say, “Welcome home, Alexandria.”
In 295 AC, months after the death of the good Khal Drogo, Daenerys Stormborn, rightful queen of Westeros, gave birth to a daughter.
It was a surprise, for she was expecting a son, the Stallion Who Will Mount the World.
However, the child —though lacking of the classic Targaryen features —was everything the Khaleesi wanted.
The Khaleesi named her daughter Alexandria, derived from a word in an old language used in ancient lands beyond even Asshai-by-the-Shadow that means “Defender of Men.”
For there was no doubt in Daenerys’s mind that Alexandria would be “the princess who rides as swift as the wind, and the thunder of her hooves will be heard across the world, and her enemies will cower before her, and they will weep tears of blood.”
—Maester Samwell Tarly’s The Dragons Reborn, “Birth of the Princess”