Chapter Text
It was said that when Princess Rhaenyra first held her daughter, the most pitiful of cries came from her. Happy tears had streaked her pale cheeks as she held you close against her chest, a sigh of relief leaving her. You had left the womb early, born without a breath leaving your lungs for a full minute. In the end, a heavenly miracle had allowed your survival.
Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor Velaryon had been blessed with a daughter, while many doubted your legitimacy, no one could doubt the love Laenor had held for you.
You were always dressed in rich silks, soft blue hues to match your house. Your bedroom was filled with all sorts of trinkets gifted to you by your father.
You were adored. By your parents, by your grandparents, and by the people of Kings Landing.
"(Name) is my heart living outside of my body," Princess Rhaenyra would often say, and this sentiment would stand true for her sons once they came along.
It would be agreed by many that Princess (Name) Velaryon was her father's shadow, however.
Ser Laenor, while many doubted you were of his blood, favored you greatly.
"My little Velaryon princess," he would call you.
Once your hatchling took to wing, you fly alongside your father and Seasmoke, often going from Kings Landing to Driftmark.
You enjoyed Driftmark, you had admitted to your mother, much more than Dragonstone or Kings Landing. You were a Velaryon, and the Velaryon's belonged to sea and salt.
"We gather today to mourn the loss of Lady Laena, the beloved daughter of Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys."
Though, arriving at Driftmark for such a dire occasion was rather... difficult.
You peered up at your father, your hand holding his own gently. Laenor sways uneasily, the honey wine taking hold of his senses. Your mother had insisted that he stay by your side during the funeral proceedings, the glare coming from Lord Vaemond making her irritated as things went on. You were also tasked with keeping an eye on Jacaerys and Lucerys, to make sure they said nothing of Ser Harwin.
He had been lost to the fire of Harrenhall, and Jace had wanted to attend his funeral instead.
Saying such things aloud was dangerous.
"We return her to the sea, and bid her the most sorrowful goodbye."
Lady Laena's casket was dropped into the sea of Driftmark, the carefully crafted wood filled with pearls and silver hits the water and falls to the bottom of the waterbed.
You wrap your arms around your father's waist in an attempt to offer him some semblance of comfort, and his body goes flax. Laenor eventually leaves your side, opting to drown himself in more wine. Your brothers are sitting by the two young girls, Rhaena and Baela, the motherless twins.
You seek out your mother, your hand tugging at her sleeve as she talks with some lady from a noble house you couldn't be bothered to remember.
"Father left, and I do not know where he is..." You look around those who still lingered, not seeing your father among them. "And that man over there keeps staring at me, I feel uneasy, Mother."
Lady Laena's husband, you would come to learn. Prince Daemon Targaryen was your great-uncle.
"He has not seen you since you were a babe," your mother explains, rubbing comforting circles into your hand with her thumb. "You've grown quite a bit since then."
You decide you'll pray for his loss.
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You wake up to little hands shaking you roughly, your dark eyes open only to see your younger brothers and the twins staring at you.
"Someone's stolen Vhagar," Rhaena, the younger twin, chokes out in between sobs.
Wrapping yourself in a night robe to protect you from the cold air of Driftmark, you head with your brothers and the girls to where the dragons are nestled. A small cave just below the main entrance to Driftmark, the lack of guards is already sending a chill down your spine. Your own mount, Grey Ghost, swishes his tail back and forth, the long appendage hitting the wall of rocks roughly.
"Lykirī, Grey Ghost," you coo, stroking the snout of your anxious dragon. His ice-blue eyes are wide, his nostrils flare, and anxiety-riddled chitters leave his throat as you try to calm him down. He sensed something was off, and you soon realize why.
The ground shakes as Vhagar lands, her ginormous body like a mountain falling from the sky.
Whoever had claimed Vhagar would be known soon.
You take a glance back at Jace, Luke, Rhaena, and Baela, deciding that it was time to be the older sister in charge.
You climb atop your mount, taking hold of his reins as you steer him out of the cave and onto the beach of Driftmark, away from whoever would be coming from Vhagar's side. He was anxious, and he would not hesitate to spit fire at whoever came towards you.
"Stay here, and do not do anything foolish. I need to take Grey Ghost out of here..."
Once outside, Grey Ghost cries out as you hop off his back.
"It's okay, I'll be back..."
When you arrive back at the children, it looks as though the seven hells had been released.
Jace and Aemond are scrabbling on the ground, sand and dirt flying in the air. Luke has a bloody nose, and you notice the blade in his small hand just a second too late.
"Luke!" You run after your younger brother, your hand trying to capture his own, but you are too late. The blade cuts across Aemond's face, blood seeping from his eye. You finally get a hold of Lucerys' hand, and you yank it back. The blade then ends up cutting through your robe from the awkward angle, your lower arm and wrist becoming its final victim.
The final thing you hear before a guard runs to Aemond's side is the deafening roar of Vhagar.
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The aftermath had been a disaster.
Aemond's detached eye laid in a bloody puddle in a bowl, the maester had taken a needle to his eye to stitch it together. The blood flow was heavy, and a cloth had to keep going towards the irritated wound to wipe it away.
You grip at your bloody wrist, the hot liquid drips to the ground in an angry flow.
Nothing good would come from this.
"What's happened?" Rhaenyra rushes to you and Lucerys, examining his bloody nose.
"Jace wanted to see who had claimed Vhagar, and when I came back... I was too late, I apologize!" You cry, feeling the guilt drip through your entire being. It was objectively your fault, you realize. You should have kept them in bed, not gone with them.
"What happened to your arm? Did he do this?" Your mother yanks up the sleeve of your night robe, the blood flowing freely now that your hand is no longer gripping it. Rhaenyra flinched at the sight of your wound, her eyes narrowing dangerously. "It was my fault! I tried to grab the blade from Luke, but it cut me."
Make peace, that was what your mother had always told you.
Yet it seemed Rhaenyra herself was not as forgiving as she wanted you to be.
The night ends with a fiery argument between Rhaenyra and Alicent, both trying their best to defend their children.
Jacaerys holds onto your arm, trying to help you keep the bleeding to a minimum until you can get treated by a maester.
"You will demand no such thing. Do you really think I'd send my daughter to ward? She is my heir, not some noblewoman!"
"You have no leave to deny me, not after you have taken my son's eye!"
The King slams his cane against the stone floor, exasperated by the arguing between your mother and the queen.
"Enough! Princess (Name) will not be separated from her mother and brothers, as she was a delicate child," your grandsire says loudly. Rhaenyra smiles smugly, reaching over to embrace you. "However, an arrangement will be made for her engagement."
The smile on Rhaenyra's face fades just as quickly as it came.
"Father-"
"We have suggested that Princess (Name) and Prince Aegon be wed once of age," Viserys says, glancing towards his eldest son.
In truth, Alicent had proposed several times.
Aegon liked you, perhaps a bit too much. You didn't treat him like a pest, and you were kind to him, even when he didn't deserve it.
"No." Rhaenyra seethes, shaking her head, her white braid swishing viciously at what her father was insinuating. "I refuse."
"You will not have a say in this matter. In place of Aemond's eye and spilled blood, Aegon and (Name) will be betrothed. This matter is finished."
When a king speaks, all in the realm hear it.
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When returning to Dragonstone, your arm stitched together and wrapped in bandages, you rode upon the back of your dragon at the behest of your mother. She wanted you home as quickly as possible, and while Grey Ghost was often anxious and shy, he was a quick dragon. Daemon and his young daughters would also be arriving on Caraxes.
Grey Ghost lets out a shrill roar as he lands on the familiar sand of Dragonstone, proud of himself for delivering you safe and sound. You surmised that he could smell the blood of your wound, and it had him in a protective mood.
Hissing as you slide off Grey Ghost, you grip your arm.
For you to fly, you could not take any pain relief in the form of milk of the poppy; the pain from the cut was stinging viciously.
The dragon masters meet you on the shore, maester Gerardys accompanying them.
Grey Ghost is escorted to the pit on Dragonstone, and Gerardys stares at you, unaware of the storm that would be your mother once she arrived with your brothers.
Smiling anxiously, you begin to walk with the man who has tended to you since you were born, rolling up your sleeve to show him the bloody bandages that decorated your arm.
"The funeral was quite eventful, Maester."