Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

They say that the Red Queen was embraced by fire, that the flames of hell enveloped her body and allowed her to leave unharmed with the promise to bring fire and blood to the Seven Kingdoms. That her touch is warm, tender but her eyes burn in an emptiness that tells of the most terrible of betrayals and smile as empty as the greatest abyss.

She is the Red Queen.

She is Daenerys Targaryen.

Chapter Text

It was a call, Daenerys named swimming between unconsciousness and the effort to stay awake, blood began to seep between her fingers and the dagger buried firmly in her belly, the rain continued to soak Drogon's back. It was the desperate call of a son to his mother. 

A sweet, small, childlike voice, drowned in fear, despair and sadness.

She wondered if it was death who was finally catching up with her and that was its way of manifesting itself, if all the dead went through a moment of hallucinations in their last moments of life, if Missandei and Ser Jorah experienced something similar at the moment they left the world.

It sounded like Rhaegal when she decided to lock up her children for the sake of his people, like Viserion when the Night's King's spear pierced his throat, it sounded like Drogon when he roared trying to keep her alive as he flew through Kings Landing, away from the destruction, away from the horror, away from a frightened Jon Snow who intended to finish the job. It was a plea. Help. Mother.

She closed her eyes tightly, her lips trembling uncontrollably as her grip on Drogon began to feel more and more distant. All she felt was pain, sadness, her heart was broken by betrayal. 

Three betrayals you shall know, she remembered the warning of an old woman. One for blood, one for gold and one for love.

She wanted to fall, to slip off Drogon's back and meet her end. It would be so easy, she thought, her hands numb, an unsteady grip, so easy, the loss of blood would kill her before she hit the ground, her body would be shattered by the impact, a strange comfort.

"Mother, mother!" she heard above the storm. She wished she was strong enough to refuse, refuse the call. She was no longer a mother. Her son died in her womb, Viserion and Rhaegal died for her recklessness, Drogon was the only one left alive.

Her legacy.

Did Viserys think of that before he died? 

Did Viserys see her, the Khaleesi he could neither bend nor subdue, or did he see the little girl who used to chase him back and forth in search of stories of dragons and exiled princes taking back what was rightfully theirs?

"Mother." Softer, smaller, it was a child's voice. "Mother, I'm scared." She opened her eyes one last time, there was nothing in front of her, nothing but rain falling on her face and an endless gray that resembled purgatory. The eternal punishment.

"Drogon." She exhaled softly, released her grip on Drogon though she didn't realize she did so until she pressed a firm palm to his scales. She couldn't feel his warmth. "It's all right."

Mother. Mother.

"It's okay." She insisted leaning her forehead against his long neck, her eyesight blurring due to tears.

Mother. Mother.

Daenerys desperately wanted to help him, to give him comfort with her dying breath.

How unfair the gods had been to allow her to sail from Essos to Westeros only to lose everything.

"Goodbye, my sweet boy."

Above their heads, a war dragon roared.

And in his rage and helplessness, Drogon responded.

Chapter Text

Fire raced through her body, burning her insides. Rhaenyra placed a hand on her now empty belly, pushing down the nausea that settled in the pit of her stomach and brought a bitter taste to her mouth. The tears she refused to shed faded her surroundings. Her heart beat, in a low, slow, painful tone, beat to the rhythm of sadness, of nothingness as her fingers clutched at the parchment Daemon handed her earlier.

A sob tore her lips perfectly pressed together, bursting through the overwhelming silence that embraced her with a suffocating blanket and urged her to tear at her clothes, her skin, tear out the silver locks of her hair, anything that would help her awaken from the cruel nightmare the old gods had subjected her to.

Lucerys. She thought visualizing his sweet little face, his charming smile, the adorable way he used to chase her back and forth calling her 'muña' in slurred Valyrian, those eyes full of innocence she would never see again. Lucerys, her precious Lucerys....

How much more?

How much more would she have to lose? 

How much more would she have to lose until it was enough?

Her father, her crown, her kingdom, her little Visenya, now her adored Lucerys.

How much more would Alicent Hightower take?

How much more would Alicent Hightower take until enough was enough?

Queen Alicent has not forgotten the love they once had for each other. 

Otto Hightower's words felt like a taunt. A sour poison. Impure, unholy.

Love? Was that what Alicent called 'love'? An old piece of paper about the story of a princess who was forced to flee her home to save her life and that of her family? What did she hope Rhaenyra would think when she took the paper in her hands? 

That her heart would be softened by longing for the old days, those days when they were two great friends as Rhaenyra used to believe before she discovered that Alicent came to her father's room during wolf hour while she wallowed in the emptiness that the loss of her mother left her with or would she see the paper and recognize it for the vile threat that it was? 

In a burst of rage, Rhaenyra swept the board, pushing over the edge any object she could reach. The spilled wax touched her bare hands but the pain was barely noticeable, a little tingling and nothing more. It was not enough.

Not to equal the pain that clutched at her heart. Not to equal the loss that the death of a daughter and son generated.

An eye for an eye. Daemon whispered, his voice cracking and his soul breaking. A son for a son. Lucerys shall be avenged.

Would her greed be able to feel that pain? Would her chest fill with the same agony, the endless emptiness, the grief and rage Rhaenyra was feeling? The guilt? 

Would her selfishness acknowledge the loss?

Would she see the crown upon the usurper's head as the cost of her child? 

She tore out a few hairs as she took her crown, the crown that had been worn by her father during his reign and the good King Jahaerys, eager to throw it as far away from her in the hope that her sudden disdain would result in the appearance of his child, walking with joy ready to tell her what he did during his day.

It didn't happen.

Instead arms wrapped around her body, holding her through her outburst, preventing her physical but not mental collapse. Her nails dragged over the leather of his clothes, cracking at the pressure she inflicted, then she slammed her fist down on the other's hands. Once. Twice. Three. Four. Five. The longer she was restrained, the more frustration motivated her to continue causing the most damage.

She wanted the world to feel her pain.

She wanted everyone to see what Alicent Hightower had stolen from her.

Her children...

What excuse would the prudish cunt give? In her eternal role as an honorable woman, a victim and not the perpetrator.

She sent Lucerys to Storm's End as a messenger and not a knight, confident that all her little dragon would do would be to call in Borros Baratheon's favor and return to Dragonstone as soon as possible. Three days passed from his mission until a raven arrived with the terrible news of what happened at Stormlands.

What would she say to justify the murder of her beloved child?

Aemond. Rhaenyra collapsed to the ground with Daemon in tow. Her energy faded, leaving a numbness that took over her body. Nothing. There was nothing anymore. Only the name of her half-brother on the tip of her tongue.

Aemond Targaryen.

Aemond The Damned.

Aemond The Kinslayer.

"My children." Children she carried for nine moons in her womb. Children she loved with her soul, worshipped as the most precious thing in her life. Children she bled and wept for, praying to bring them safely into the world. Children that Alicent Hightower and Aemond Targaryen took from her. "My children. My children." She repeated until she was voiceless, until the air failed to reach her lungs, until her rage matched the roars of dragons.

It was a mother's right to raise her children, to watch them grow and thrive in life, not to bury them. She had already buried Visenya and it hurt as the seven hells were unleashed upon her. She could not bury Lucerys as well.

Not him, she begged any God who would listen. Not him, please, not him. Not the sweet child who used to fear the dark, who sought his mother's comfort in every moment of stress. Who smiled as if she placed the stars on the floor.

"I'm sorry." Daemon whispered over her ear. "I'm sorry, my love."

"They have stolen my crown and killed my children." She sobbed, leaning her head on her husband's arm. "They took away my chance to say goodbye to my father, how much more will they take?" 

The scroll, though on the ground after her outburst, remained in her field of vision. Rhaenyra closed her eyes tightly hoping the words would fade away like everything else she felt. To her misfortune, she remembered them perfectly.

Prince Lucerys Velaryon engaged in battle with Prince Aemond One-Eye Targaryen on the backs of his dragons. House Baratheon swears loyalty to the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms, Aegon II Targaryen and acknowledges Rhaenyra Targaryen as Usurper of the Crown.

He must have been terrified, she thought feeling once again that tug at her heart. He must have seen it and recognized that there would be no way to face Vhagar and emerge victorious.

He must have tried.

He must have fought.

He must have clung to the hope of seeing his mother or father arrive on the backs of their dragons in the hope that they could save him.

He must have...

Must have...

Rhaenyra must not have sent him.

Chapter Text

In the sky the sighting of a dragon is heralded by the war horns, sending every Lord, soldier, and common folk of Dragonstone into a raw state of tension and panic.

The watchmen of the castle towers move restlessly, trying to track the great beast that can only be seen when the sky lights up. But as the soldier Velaryon reports, it turns out to be a nearly impossible mission when all they manage to catch is a shadow in the sky—far enough not to be recognized but close enough to be considered a threat.

Meanwhile, Rhaenys Velaryon squeezes her eyes shut. She feels her legs give way under her weight, and the air is brutally torn from her lungs.

No one in the Black Council had considered the idea that the Greens would launch an immediate attack, not when the news of Aemond Targaryen's dishonorable actions toward young Lucerys Velaryon had reached their shores only a couple of nigths ago, hitting them so hard it disoriented their senses and numbed their bodies, lost in their own grief to think of an appropriate response to Rhaenyra's usurpation.

They hadn't even had time to light candles in their little one's name. They hadn't discussed retrieving the body and giving it the Velaryon-worthy rest. All they could do was stare at the parchment, reread its harsh words over and over, wondering how it must have been for Lucerys to spend his last moments far from home, if he was scared, if he hoped someone would save him, if Laenor received him among the waves and held him so tight he swore never to let him go again… or if fire enveloped his body so atrociously that the Dragon Kings rose to welcome him.

Rhaenys runs a trembling hand over her face, trying to keep calm, but her heartbeat pounds furiously in her ears, drowning out any external sound.

Her breathing becomes erratic. Panic bubbles deep in her gut while the sour taste of nausea settles on her tongue. She can't even utter a word without her lips turning it into a whispering stutter, extinguishing any possible idea in the stifling War Room.

Daemon is the only one with his eyes fixed on her, staring directly into her eyes.

Disbelief mars his beautiful, haggard face. His hands rest on the table founded by Aegon the Conqueror, his nails unconsciously scratching the ridges that mimic the mountains of the North as his brow furrows and his lips press into a thin line.

For the first time, the Rogue Prince seems to have been caught off guard, completely cornered and without an escape.

Instinctively, Rhaenys looks to her beloved husband for his warm comfort, but Corlys Velaryon seems to have fallen ill once more in an instant.

"Vhagar?" Her brave Baela's voice breaks through, suggesting what everyone fears to be true. Rhaenys swallows hard.

She does not fear a dragon confrontation.

No.

Both she and Daemon are capable of dealing with the intruder; what worries her are the rash decisions Baela, Rhaena, and little Joffrey might make if neglected long enough and it turns out the dragon lurking in the storm is indeed Vhagar.

Only the gods of Old Valyria know what twisted plans Aemond Targaryen might be brewing.

Even Rhaenys fears that the terrible news will reach Jacaerys's ears before any of them can catch him; they haven't decided how to break it to him or whether to wait for his return. Her eldest grandson must be in Eyrie en route to Winterfell, unaware of all that is happening at home.

Rhaenys's stomach twists and churns at the thought of Jace choosing to go to King's Landing himself to avenge his beloved brother's death.

Rhaenys, like Daemon and Corlys, fear the heir's reaction with good reason.

They were once as young as he, young and reckless, ready to lead wars just as Jace intended to do by flying across the seven kingdoms to rally bannermen to his mother's cause.

They didn't make the mistake of underestimating Jacaerys, of naively believing Jace would not react to the painful news. Not like others did, claiming he was... to be a true dragon.

The Greens don't know him at all.

Jace, despite his calm demeanor, has dragon blood boiling inside him, waiting to unleash its fire and devastate anything his rage touches.

Rhaenys was no different. Neither was Daemon, Joffrey, Baela, or Rhaenyra. Dragonspawn, that's what they were. She wanted nothing more than to mount Meleys and finish what Alicent Hightower started, but in such a situation, what they needed was to think coldly and not through pain and sorrow.

The truth is, it was easier said than done; the news destroyed them on more than one level, awakening different reactions in each of them that she wasn't sure they could contain. Even the Lords felt the loss of the little dragon, mourning his untimely passing, deciding it was not the time to debate how they would respond to the crown's outrage.

It was devastating to see them crumble like little flowers in the wind.

Rhaenyra couldn't bear the pain; the poor woman collapsed as soon as she read the parchment. Daemon barely held back his tears and made an effort to ignore his pain and hold his wife when she burst into rage. Rhaena fainted as soon as she heard a shocked Baela repeat the words her father announced in a small whisper. Instead, Joffrey rushed to the dragon pit, ready to mount Tyraxes and bring fire and blood upon the Greens if not for Corlys managing to stop him at the last moment.

But Daemon... for the first time, Rhaenys saw him for what he was.

She saw the man, not the beast.

She felt sorry for him.

The man who had spent half his life preparing to fight for Rhaenyra's claim, the man who knew in advance the horrors that would come for them once Viserys passed and was more than willing to fulfill his duty no matter the cost.

The man who never seemed to consider that the cost of a crown would be a child.

The pain... It was something Rhaenys wouldn't wish on anyone, not even the woman and man she suspected during the first moons of her new marriage to have been involved in her Laenor's death.

Rhaenys knew that pain all too well.

That kind of loss.

For moons, she suffered an extensive void that took over her soul, gnawing at her heart and leaving her with nothing but the shell of the woman she once was.

The only joy she managed to recover was due to her little grandchildren, spending long hours in their company, talking about everything and nothing, learning every tiny detail, enjoying helping and teaching them about their new duties.

Rhaenys loved each one of them, and would have brought fire and blood upon the Greens if she had only suspected the terrible tragedy that was about to happen.

But Lucerys was dead, and there was nothing she could do.

Dead like Laena, like Laenor. Her light, her love, her favorite, her little dragon with lamb's eyes despite being a man of the sea. Dead, alone, and by the hand of the Bloodslayer.

Wasn't that a cruelty of the gods? Lucerys feared becoming Lord of Driftmark. Of course, his fear wasn't due to the responsibility; Luke was an incredibly intelligent and strong boy who, although he lacked discipline in swordsmanship, made up for it with his dedication. He enjoyed the sea as much as he enjoyed flying on Arrax's back; he was just terrified of seeing them die. Corlys told her three moons later what the little Dragon confessed at Laena's funeral.

Rhaenys wonders if Lucerys was grateful to be the first and not someone else if he considered it a blessing from the Gods despite the pain tearing them apart inside.

The thought makes her feel sick.

Her husband places a hand on her shoulder despite his own unease. Corlys strives to offer the warmth, bravery, and security that her agitated heart needs.

When their eyes meet, Rhaenys sees a youthful face that once followed her in her quest to become her grandfather Jahaerys's heir and eyes that continued to express the same devotion and respect despite the many moons that had passed since they first met.

Rhaenys forces herself to take a deep breath. Exhale slowly. Inhale again. Over and over until she tames her wild heartbeat, and the fragile calm becomes something she can hold onto without feeling on the verge of collapse. She needed to regain control of her mind before another mistake cost them the life of another loved one.

They were risking perishing under the wrath of an unknown dragon, a dragon they could suspect to be Vhagar at that very moment, surrounded by those who most supported Rhaenyra's claim to the Iron Throne.

She knew Alicent Hightower was accustomed to pulling strings in the dark, that she was more than she let on. There was no point in playing the role of a martyr enslaved to sacrifice, duty, and honor now that her son had been crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms. It was time to secure her little Usurper's claim and anyone who doubted his supposed right.

What was honor and duty compared to the Crown, to keeping her dishonorable blood on the Iron Throne? The Game had begun, and they had the upper hand, the masks finally uncovered.

Even if the eyes of the Seven Kingdoms were upon them, upon their hypocrisy, the blood of an innocent was nothing compared to their greed.

So it makes sense, she thinks. If Aemond Targaryen dared to kill young Lucerys so brutally, if the rumors were true, why not eliminate the rightful heir to the Iron Throne and all her supporters in one fell swoop at their weakest point? Only Daemon, Rhaenyra, and she had the appropriate dragons to defend against an attack and consider victory if it was Sunfyre and Dreamfyre, or die trying if they had to protect themselves from Vhagar. But Rhaenyra was still lost in her grief, and although the children were willing to accompany them on Tyraxes, Moondancer, and Stormcloud, these were small creatures as inexperienced as their riders.

None of her charming grandchildren were trained as war riders; they wouldn't know how to lead the dragons if necessary. But while they lacked experience, they made up for it with bravery, ready to avenge what was taken from them.

All in the name of Lucerys.

Rhaenys lowers her gaze to her lap, trying to hide her inevitable tears. The pain forms a thick knot in her throat, her heart races once more as she thinks of her little grandson.

It doesn't fade.

The pain did not fade with Laena, nor with Laenor.

She was certain it would not fade with Lucerys.

“It’s not Vhagar.” Rhaena’s whispering voice takes them by surprise. It feels like the first time they’ve heard her speak in so long. Rhaenys turns her gaze to the sweet girl, who clutches the war table until her knuckles turn white.

Like Rhaenyra, Rhaena fainted when she heard the terrible news and refused to take milk of the poppy no matter how much Daemon and Baela insisted or to stay in Rhaenyra’s room.

Her face was still pale and sweaty, her lips remained dry and cracked, bleeding. Through Baela, Rhaenys learned that Rhaena hadn’t slept at all, staying by the balcony, staring at the horizon, moving the dragon egg between her hands with her betrothed’s name on her lips, even when the fierce storm battered the castle walls and threatened to destroy the Velaryon fleet and any fishing boat anchored at the docks.

I can see him. Baela repeated what Rhaena had confessed between tears. Riding a dragon that isn’t his. He’s scared. So scared.

Rhaenys feels a new knot choking her throat.

Dragon Dreams were a well-known matter within the Targaryen Dynasty. After all, it was Daenys the Dreamer who saved her family from perishing in the Doom of Valyria. Aegon the Conqueror dreamed of the Seven Kingdoms united as one, and it was rumored among close relatives that the last dreamer was Maegor the Cruel, who spent much of his reign trying to eradicate the Faith of the Seven.

After them, the Dragon that favored them with that gift did not bless them again.

“Rhaena, you need to rest.” Gently, Baela places her index finger under her sister’s chin, finally meeting her distant gaze. Those sweet eyes remain red and swollen from crying, consumed by pain and sorrow. “Come on, I’ll take you to your chamber.”

“No.” She whimpers, her face crumpling. A sudden, clear desperation distorts the features of her pretty face. “No, no, I must, Baela, I must…” Her heart breaks at such a heartbreaking scene. Rhaenys forces herself to look away as Rhaena refuses to leave the hall.

“How long do you think it will take for the dragon to arrive?” Corlys asks Ser Willem.

According to the report, the archers on the towers saw the unknown dragon flying over the Windwyrm area at an unusually slow pace but didn’t know if it was really slow or too far to see it move.

The fog, lightning, and torrential rain prevented a clear view of the dragon, but those who caught its glimpse in the sky assured that the dragon was black as night, a mere shadow as big as Balerion the Black Dread, illuminated only by lightning.

Any dragon that fit those characteristics were Vhagar and Cannibal. As far as they knew, Cannibal had not yet been claimed, remaining hidden in the deepest caves of Dragonstone, ready to devour anyone who dared disturb it.

“At any moment.” Daemon answers before Ser Willem can. His fingers move around Dark Sister, a nervous habit that Laena mentioned in her letters that Rhaenys can’t help but notice. “It’s delayed enough not to be a deliberate act, therefore it must be a dragon with a rider.” The stress is clearly reflected on his face as Daemon sinks into his thoughts.

Could Viserys see them from Valhalla?

He had been so, so wrong, she thinks. Daemon wasn’t the leech Viserys had to watch out for. Nor was it Corlys or herself. It was Otto Hightower. Otto and his damn daughter, the woman who coveted what didn’t belong to her.

It was a shame that Viserys reached the Stranger’s hand before he could realize the carrion crows he had for a wife, children, and father-in-law.

“Do the archers know where it’s headed?” Corlys asks once more.

“By the direction it’s flying, it’s suspected it will arrive at the castle shore,” Ser Willem replies.

“Prince Daemon!” Aggo Waters’ voice bursts into the great hall. The knight stumbles in, horror etched on his face. “The dragons…!” The man gasps, breathless, desperately pointing in the direction he came from.

Daemon doesn’t think twice; he quickly reaches his daughters and pushes them towards Corlys, murmuring that they need to find shelter before kissing the girls on their foreheads and leaving the great hall with Ser Willem and Aggo Waters. Rhaenys doesn’t hesitate to follow, a single nod from her husband setting her in motion.

“What happened?” Rhaenys hears Daemon ask Aggo Waters. The knight takes a deep breath before answering. Sweat runs down his face, and his eyes have a nervous gleam.

“The dragons took flight.” He gulps hard as Daemon stops abruptly. Rhaenys’ heart sinks to her stomach. “We couldn’t stop them, my Prince, I came as quickly as I could.”

“What else?” The Rogue Prince demands to know. If Rhaenys calls Meleys, she’s sure her dragon will come at her command, just as Caraxes would respond to Daemon’s call, but now, at this very moment, knowing that Meleys is without her makes her feel uneasy, vulnerable.

The anxiety burns her throat, spilling like a devastating poison. Fortunately, Daemon, though seemingly ready to explode at any moment, contains his anger enough to let the nervous knight continue.

“The wild ones…” The man hesitates for a second. “They went after the claimed dragons. We thought there would be a confrontation but… they’re just flying in circles, even Cannibal is with them.” Daemon is speechless, his gaze locking with Rhaenys’, trying to understand what the hell is happening and what could explain it.

Wild dragons usually keep their distance from claimed dragons, and the riders preferred it that way to avoid a confrontation, especially when the wild ones had shown they could grow beyond imagination without being tamed. They were volatile and hostile, with enough stories about foolish men trying to claim them and ending up as nothing but ashes. Rhaenys can’t fathom a valid reason for the dragons to decide to unite as one.

Still, Rhaenys swallows her emotions and doubts and watches the sky once she exits the castle.

The sky lights up every few moments, the figures of the dragons flying above making her uneasy. Rhaenys sends a few prayers to her gods and then understands why the castle is in deep chaos, desperately trying to gather enough materials for the scorpions. It’s terrifying, beautifully terrifying.

“Princess Rhaenys, the dragon has arrived at the northern shore of the beach.” Alyn, a member of Corlys’ crew, quickly approaches her. Rhaenys gives her hurried thanks, and together with Daemon, they head in the indicated direction.

And what they find makes them hold their breath. Tension invades their bodies.

It’s… gigantic, like seeing their nightmares come to life. The dragon stands defensively, its scales bristling and the claws of its wings digging into the sand. Meleys is beside it, growling low, probably sensing her rider’s tension. But most surprisingly, Caraxes is also there, strangely calm. The other dragons fly over the area, singing above the storm, though the sound is distant and vague.

They can barely get close enough to see that there is a small woman next to the dragon. Her hair is as white as the snow in the North, intricately braided, though the torrential rain seems to be undoing most of them. Some strands rest on her face, framing delicate yet fierce features. One of her hands protectively cradles her belly while the other stretches behind her back, shielding the bundle nestled against her.

Strangely, Rhaenys is reminded of young dragon hatchlings. So small and delicate, yet so bold and fierce, full of unyielding pride, ready to protect their own with their tiny claws.

Rhaenys squints, trying to get a better look. She has no idea who the woman could be. For a moment, she considers that it might be Rhaenyra, but there’s no way it could be her, not when the queen is lost in her grief and sorrow.

She sees the woman’s lips form a hiss, but the storm swallows any sound she might make. Daemon imprudently tries to get closer, his hands raised as if trying to tame a wild dragon, insisting that everything will be fine. The dragon behind her responds with its rider’s fury. It raises its neck to the sky and emits a fireball that illuminates the heavens.

And there, curled up on the woman’s side, the gods show they’ve heard their prayers.

Lucerys.

Chapter Text

For a moment, Lucerys Velaryon is surrounded by nothing but darkness, vulnerable. Arrax is dead. He knew it. Felt his soul die inside, as a piece of him burned to ashes.

Everything hurts, burns—his legs, his arms, his throat. It’s terrifying, but Lucerys tries to be brave. For him, for his mother, for Arrax, who gave his last breath trying to keep him alive. He cannot dishonor his sacrifice by perishing without trying, but he is so scared.

He is a Targaryen , he tries to embolden himself, and a Velaryon . Targaryens do not feel fear, Velaryons are brave, made of fire and blood, children of Old Valyria who answer to neither men nor gods. Yet Lucerys does not understand what is happening, why he feels anxiety coursing through his body, burning his soul. Why it isn’t over yet.

Lucerys waits. He waits for Aemond to make good on his threat, waits for Hel to be unleashed upon him, but all he gets is a small, trembling hand that grabs his cloak and pulls him until Lucerys can breathe again.

He inhales sharply and desperately, screaming in the process because he cannot contain it. A bitter taste rises in his throat and clings to his palate. It’s unpleasant and hurts even more, but there is nothing Lucerys can do except cling to the hand holding him in the darkness.

He glimpses the flash of silver hair, a blurry shadow. Thin, small. Briefly, he thinks his Uncle Aemond has finally found him and is about to face his madness, but the shadow surprises him by taking him in their arms instead of taking out his eye, as his uncle had promised he would.

Lucerys cannot help but break down. The pressure and surprise of what has happened finally catch up with him. He holds on as tightly as he can, hearing the sweet voice whisper in soft Valyrian that he is safe, that he has nothing to fear, but the tears continue to flow uncontrollably, and the sobs tear at his throat.

“Ñuha jorrāelagon zaldrīzes, arlī jaelagon iksā.” They promise. Lucerys holds their hand tightly, using the other to clutch their clothes in a tight fist, hiding his face in their shoulder as the shadow places a hand on his head and tries to console him as best as they can.

“Muña,” he gasps through his pain. It’s hard to breathe, hard to say anything more. Lucerys thinks of his mother, of Visenya, of the pain that devoured her, that brought her to the ground once she read what Alicent Hightower had done, of the pain that forced her into early labor. She has already lost her father, her crown, lost her daughter, and was about to lose one of her sons if it weren’t for the kind stranger who came to his aid.

Lucerys swore he wouldn’t fight; he honored his word, and it almost cost him his life.

It breaks his heart to think of not returning to his family, not being able to hug Muña or hear the adventures of Kepa, not seeing Aegon and Viserys grow up as he wouldn’t see Visenya grow, not being able to thank Jacaerys for being an excellent brother and let him know that he would be a great king. He thinks of Baela, his sister, brave Baela who used to get into fights to defend them, and he thinks of Rhaena, his betrothed.

“Vowāre, vowās ao jāris iā pōja.” He remembers her voice, the way she looked at him. He remembers how scared Rhaena was to see him leave, her insistence that maybe a knight should go instead of the heir to Driftmark. He remembers her making him promise to hold her hand while she held his, as if afraid to let him go, as if afraid she would never see him again.

How foolish he was not to listen.

“Ēdrūptas hēnkirī iksis lēdar iā zaldri.”

He hadn’t understood it then and didn’t bother to ask because he didn’t want to cause her more distress, not after Rhaena had suffered the worst pains for entire nights, her dreams plagued by nightmares. Lucerys mistakenly believed Rhaena was referring to the dragon egg that awaited in her chambers, the one she hadn’t been able to hatch despite her efforts. He felt happy that the gods had finally granted his betrothed that wish because he knew that all Rhaena had ever wanted was a dragon.

Lucerys can barely stand; he is losing his strength. His eyelids grow heavy, lethargic, unable to stay open. He feels cold, so cold, and his body is heavy, then he realizes he is soaked and shivering.

Finally, Lucerys loses his battle and sinks into the deep darkness in the stranger’s arms.

In his dreams, he sees King’s Landing burning. He smells the soot, the ash. The blood spilled in the streets, the bodies piled high, covered with the banners of House Lannister. He sees a dragon flying in the skies, unleashing its fury on the poor souls screaming and running in terror, trying to escape its wrath.

Those who manage to do so are brutally massacred by men in leather coats who shout with joy as heads and bodies roll on the ground.

Lucerys walks among them, confused and a little scared by the brutality, not fully understanding what is happening, how he is in King’s Landing when he remembers nothing, or why the men are devastating the city with no Gold Cloaks to stop them.

"Lucerys Velaryon," Lucerys turns as soon as he hears the soft voice at his back, meeting a woman he has never seen before. She is young, though not as young as he is, with a striking beauty, seemingly sculpted by some artist. She reminds him of his sisters because she shares their curly hair, though hers is dark and short, and her eyes, though deep, convey a warmth that makes him believe she will not harm him. The woman smiles sweetly. "Son of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon, it is an honor to be in your presence."

“What…what is happening?” He cannot help but ask. A chill runs down his spine at the thought that the war has finally broken out, that he has no idea where his family is, if they are alive or dead. If they have won this war or lost to the greens.

Lucerys steps back, horror coursing through him, nausea settling in his stomach. He sees small children crying for their dead mothers, kneeling beside their charred bodies and staying there despite the chaos. Some men try to fight, to save as many elders, children, and women as they can, but they are quickly overwhelmed by men bearing the sigil of a direwolf on their gambesons.

“No, no! Mercy, mercy!” One of the women screams, kicking as one of the soldiers grabs her by the hair and drags her into an alley. His hand goes to his waist, where the dagger that used to belong to his father, Laenor, should be, but he finds nothing. He doesn’t have his sword either.

“You cannot interfere, my young lord.” The young woman places a hand on his shoulder. She gives a small squeeze, as if intending to comfort him. “Fate has been sealed, the dragons have finally died.”

“My mother?” A knot forms in his throat.

“Her legacy.” The woman replies. “The future of House Targaryen, Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, Bride of Fire, perishes at the hand of her nephew, Jon Snow. Please.” Under the light of the flames, Lucerys sees her dress glow like burning embers. Unknowingly, he finds himself following her through the streets and chaos that surround them. Lucerys tries to think where he has heard that name before. Daenerys . It’s familiar, but he can’t find the reason. “I would have liked to prevent you from seeing this, because this is not who she is, but it is beyond my control.”

Before he can notice, they head to what Lucerys supposes was once the main entrance to the castle, now in ruins. Ash falls from the sky at a steady pace, creating a thin layer resembling northern snow, but what catches his attention are the men. Men who ride and sing their victories, shaking their weapons in the air. There is another army beside the riders, covered head to toe, standing in the front row before the ruined castle, clutching their spears and tapping them persistently on the ground.

In the center, a woman walks with pride, though her face is marked by loss. Dragon wings unfold from her back, large and majestic. Lucerys holds his breath at her presence.

Her hair is silver, glowing with small golden touches, intricately braided at the back while the rest flows in waves over her shoulders. She has the typical eyes of his family and pale skin. She wears leather clothing, which in a way reminds him of Rhaenys the Conqueror's attire; a chain of a three-headed dragon hangs from her chest, and she carries no weapon. He supposes it isn’t necessary, not when she herself looks as lethal as one. The men, upon seeing her, continue to sing her praises.

She's a queen.

“You called, and Daenerys Targaryen answered. What is coming is the beginning of the end, Lucerys Velaryon. Every step, every decision made will lead to this path if you do not act soon and prevent the usurpation. It will not be easy, but you will need her help as much as she will need yours to change the fate the Great Other wants to subject you to. Daenerys knows what is happening, how the story ends; you must listen to her because the alternative is to perish in darkness, cold, and death. Winter is coming, and with it, the horrors lurking in the darkness.”

“What am I supposed to do?” His mouth feels dry, a heaviness in his chest. He finally knows why the name Daenerys is familiar, having heard it from Rhaena. He doesn’t know much about the last dragon, only that she has been haunting his betrothed’s dreams for the past few nights, causing indescribable pain with what she has seen of her.

It’s a tragedy , he remembers Rhaena whispering. She is alone, surrounded by lions with fickle wills and spiders weaving their webs, fish and ravens wearing the skins of a wolf. They seek to destroy her, feast on her body. They will steal everything she has fought for with blood and tears.

“Convince her.” The woman responds. “She must remember who she is, who she is destined to be.”

“Qoy Qoyi.”

The first thing Lucerys sees upon waking is Rhaena's face. His sweet betrothed screams with joy as he opens his eyes and doesn't hesitate to throw herself into his arms, not caring that the impact knocks the breath out of him.

His head spins; he can't think clearly. His tongue feels numb in his mouth, and his body is so damn heavy. Rhaena says something, but she talks so fast that Lucerys can't quite catch it, though he hears some sobs. He makes an effort to return her embrace and comfort her despite the lack of control he feels over his body.

His muña is there, silently crying and holding his hand tightly, as if afraid he might disappear if she lets go. She thanks the gods of Old Valyria for their mercy and apologizes for some imprudence. His kepa is behind her, holding Joffrey in his arms while Aegon and Viserys sleep peacefully at the foot of his bed. His grandmother seems to be holding her breath while his grandfather watches with eyes red from crying. Baela is nowhere to be seen.

It takes him a moment to realize the scene is unusual, and for a moment, a chill runs through him at the thought that it might not be real, that he might still be trapped in his visions. But there are no traces of that mysterious woman, nor the young Queen with dragon wings who ended up stabbed by the love of her life.

Daenerys.

His mouth opens, he exhales heavily and inhales quickly. He feels pain spreading in his chest as vague memories take control of his mind. Aemond's provocations, the chase, Arrax's desperate attempts to keep him safe, the gigantic dragon that came out of nowhere and fiercely fought Vhagar, him falling into the void.

The dreams, King's Landing burning. The man, the bastard, who dared to become a Kinslayer, who stole the crown from the rightful Conqueror and placed it at the feet of the crow, the monster. Confirming his deepest horror that used to haunt him as a child.

Alicent Hightower used to torture them when they were younger. Not physically, of course; her attacks were more verbal and always when they were alone or with Aegon and Aemond's nurses, when their parents were too busy with their duties to stay with them. She used to talk for hours about bastards, their dirty blood, how twisted they were, and the sins they might commit because their greed inclined them to evil, how the gods cursed them because their births were an insult to them. In those days, Lucerys was too young to understand, until he finally heard the rumors and realized what Alicent, the Queen, really meant.

Lucerys used to cry at night, begging the gods to be kind to him, that he never intended and never would take Jacaerys's throne. He had learned alongside Rhaena their future duties as Lord and Lady of Driftmark, trade, production, and mastering the command of a ship. Lucerys loved the freedom of sailing; he couldn't imagine himself chained to a throne or capable of hurting his brother so profoundly, of taking his life as the wolf intended to do to the dragon.

Inevitably, he looks for her, his savior. The woman who answered his call despite being wounded. In his dreams, Lucerys saw the wolf stab her in her most vulnerable moment, saw the betrayal in her eyes, the pain. He saw her crawl on the ground, trying to reach her dragon.

"Baela is with her." Rhaena places a hand over his heart, where the organ beats furiously. Lucerys looks at her, eyes unfocused and sweat beginning to cover his face. "It's okay, she'll be fine," she promises, and Lucerys believes her; Rhaena would never lie to him. Slowly, he lies back on the pillows again. His gaze turns to his mother. He has so much to say; if the gods have sent Daenerys Targaryen to their aid, they must secure her help at all costs.

But how can she trust them when her own blood has betrayed her? When her nephew, the love of her life, dared to stab her, to steal what she had worked so hard to achieve with sweat and blood?

His kepa used to live in exile. If anyone can understand what it's like to be distrusted by their blood, it's his kepa. His brother, the King, loved him but felt wary of him, believed he would marry his muña to steal his crown or that he would challenge him for the throne. His kepa, out of pride and pain, never refuted those accusations but never managed to close that wound, to heal from the pain of being separated from one of the people he loved most. So he strove to unite them, to make them see that there was nothing more powerful than family.

"There are no half-siblings, Lucerys, only siblings. If war breaks out, Jace will need you by his side, as much as you will need Baela and Rhaena. Joffrey, Aegon, and Viserys are just babies, but don't forget that they will be the reflection of your unity." That's how Lucerys understood that even if he was a bastard, if Alicent Hightower was right about the wicked nature of bastards, he still had Targaryen blood running through his veins and, like Orys Baratheon, would be willing to give his life for his siblings if necessary.

"It's okay, my sweet boy, you can rest now. We'll be here when you wake up." His mother brushes the strands of hair from his face and smiles softly. With one last squeeze, Lucerys closes his eyes and calmly slips back into darkness.

This time, there are no dragons or wolves, no crows or lions waiting on the other side.

Chapter Text

In her hands, Daenerys held the small wooden dragon.

She marveled at its details—the ones that had faded with time and those that remained intact. It had once belonged to Viserys, one of the few possessions Ser Willem had allowed her to take from his chambers before their flight.

Daenerys remembered the night her brother had gifted it to her, claiming that small dragons had to stay together to survive and that he was already a dragon large enough to fend for himself.

She remembered his promise, laden with emotions a girl of only four moons could not yet understand.

“I promise you, Dany, that one day I shall give you a real dragon. And with Fire and Blood, we will reclaim all that was stolen from us.”

"You used to say that I would be the King, and you would be my Queen."

The unexpected voice did not startle her. Daenerys set the small dragon upon the desk, her gaze taking in every corner of the little house with the red door—a house that had seemed so much grander when she was a child.

It was the only home Daenerys had ever known.

“I was too young to understand the weight of my words.” To know that it was not so simple, that they would have to sacrifice what they loved most to claim the Iron Throne.

“I meant to honor my word,” he said softly. Daenerys could hear the sincerity in his voice. Yet she did not turn to face him.

The past was the past, and it belonged where it lay. Dwelling on what might have been had never brought her solace—only pain. So, she forced herself never to look back.

She resumed her walk around the room. Her fingertips traced the spines of books and the edges of scrolls, the ones Ser Willem had written and replied to in secret. She noticed Oberyn Martell’s name on one, and Doran Martell’s signature on another.

“It’s been a long time since we were last here, hasn’t it?”

“It feels like a lifetime,” she replied. A bittersweet smile curved her lips, heavy with sadness and longing. The paintings of dragons still hung on the walls—dragons she had once admired while sitting by the hearth, dreaming of one day being as grand as they were.

In those days, Daenerys dreamed of being a dragon herself, one so immense that nothing could frighten her. If she were a dragon, the Usurper could not harm her.

“Why am I not dead, Viserys?”

“The price has been paid, sweet sister. It was never meant to be this way.” Viserys stepped beside her. Daenerys turned her gaze from the paintings to look at him—to see the Viserys she had once remembered, before his face began to fade from her memory. The Viserys who had carried her on his shoulders and pretended to be a dragon, who had spent hours recounting tales of their ancestors, striving to give her the education she would never otherwise receive.

The Viserys who had once loved her.

“Haven’t I lost enough already, brother?” Her chest tightened as the thought crossed her mind, as the weight of that cost bore down upon her.

The father, mother, and brother she had never known. The brother she had lost long before the golden crown was placed upon his head.

Drogo, now turned to ash—a man she had learned to love because she had no other choice. And Rhaego, her little dragon, deformed by her naivety—her foolish belief that Mirri Maz Duur had honor or at least the decency not to punish a child for the sins of his father.

She thought of Viserion, her sweetest child, and Rhaegal, her most defiant—both lost to her recklessness and the folly of Jon Snow, their foolish plans driven by desperation to regain control as it slipped cruelly from their grasp.

She thought of her Khalasar—brave men who had followed her across the Narrow Sea only to find their graves instead of glory. She thought of the brave men she had freed from chains, only for them to die in lands that neither welcomed them nor knew their names.

She thought of Missandei. Ser Jorah. Ser Barristan. Even Lady Olenna, Ellaria, and her daughters—those she had failed so miserably. Allies, friends, family—all gone.

Why wouldn’t they let her go?

What more could they take from her, what more could they take?

She was so tired.

She spent the first half of her life running, terrified of the Usurper, his mercenaries, and her own brother, whose moods shifted as swiftly as the sun’s position throughout the day.

The other half, she spent fighting—battling in her wars. She won most of them, lost a few, but never had the chance to mourn her losses.

She gave everything.

Her blood, her tears, her family.

And now, she had nothing.

A Khaleesi without a khalasar. A Mhysa without her children to protect. A Mother of Dragons without her dragons. A Breaker of Chains enslaved by the madness of her dynasty.

All the titles she earned through sacrifice were now forgotten, rendered meaningless, drifting with the wind alongside the ashes of her crimes.

She was just another queen without a crown, a disgraced protector. A conqueror of bones and ashes, mad like her father, like her brother, Rhaegar.

How wrong she had been to idolize a man who eloped with Lyanna Stark, dooming their dynasty to extinction without a care for the consequences of his actions.

But that no longer mattered. It would never matter again.

They were safe now—those Daenerys was meant to save. They would revel in their castles, wear their crowns, and see the spring arrive after surviving the longest winter.

Who would be the king of the seven—or perhaps six—kingdoms now? Jon Snow? Would he take the Targaryen name, as was his apparent right, or keep the name Snow?

Or better yet, would he embrace the Stark name? After all, he was as honorable as Ned Stark and his lineage, not a madman like the Targaryens.

Would he keep the peace during his reign, or would his oath-breaking sister take his place, because he was too honorable to desire something as vulgar as the Iron Throne?

With the help of her armies, Daenerys had brought the dawn.

She gave her blood, her flesh, and her promises to break the wheel—her dreams of a better life for all those lost souls. And now, the ingrates who rejected her, who used her for their benefit, would reap the fruits of her sacrifice while she was cursed in hundreds upon hundreds of pages about the Mad Queen who devastated an entire city because she was too emotional to overlook the death of her second child and her closest friend.

They would ignore who she truly was, her real purpose.

They wouldn’t speak of the slaves she freed or the khalasars she united as one. Instead, they would recount the innocent souls she burned in her blind rage and praise the honorable knight who killed his love to save the world from her madness.

Daenerys had won. She won and she lost. She won the Great War but lost the last one.

Why couldn’t she die? Deep down, she knew Viserys’ visit wasn’t just a simple visit, that he wouldn’t take her hand and lead her to Valhalla, where she would reunite with her little Rhaego.

Daenerys wanted to die. She was ready. She had served, fulfilled her duty. She wanted to close her eyes and let the darkness consume her soul, to stop feeling the pain clouding her heart, the emptiness devouring her stomach.

Even if there was nothing waiting for her on the other side, it would be better than living in agony.

Valar Dohaeris. All men must serve.

But Valar Morghulis. All men must die. Including women, because they are brought into the world by their mothers but remain their fathers’ daughters. Now she knew.

So why couldn’t she die?

“I…” Viserys hesitated. “I never apologized for the hells I put you through, for selling our mother’s crown, for not being the brother you needed me to be. I’ve had enough time to reflect on my mistakes, on what I could have done differently, on how things might have been if I had acted like a true dragon. I like to think… that maybe it would’ve been easier for you.”

And didn’t that make it worse?

Knowing Viserys could have been what Daenerys needed but ultimately succumbed to the inevitable madness?

Life would have been different then. She wouldn’t have begged for love in the most questionable places, wouldn’t have tried to fill that void.

She could have married Viserys, helped them reclaim what was rightfully theirs, avenged their family—the ones history forgot, the true victims.

But Daenerys no longer blamed him. Not anymore. She finally understood how pain and trauma worked. Viserys was just a boy who had lost everything, as scared as she was, forced to stay strong to shield her from it all.

Daenerys lost a family she never knew, but Viserys had lost a father who used to sit him on his lap, eager to hear him recite what he’d learned with the Maester that day; a mother who sang him songs of Old Valyria to lull him to sleep; and a brother he admired for his great honor and bravery.

Madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin.

In the end, Viserys became so consumed by the role of being Daenerys’ brave dragon that he began to believe she was his to command.

“I’m sorry, Dany.” And again, she found sincerity in his words. Because they had nothing left to lose, nothing to gain.

The Iron Throne was far beyond their reach.

Viserys was dead, and Daenerys wished she were too.

“Then let me stay here.” If she closed her eyes, she was back in that dark, musty room. If she closed them tightly enough, it was Jon beside her, not Viserys. I have never begged for anything.

Here, here where there was silence. Where she could hear nothing more. Where she had no purpose.

“You know I can’t do that,” her brother whispered, his voice dripping with pity.

“Why not?” It was all she had ever wanted—to return to the only home she had ever known.

She used to think that wherever she went, she could paint a door red and start anew, making those places her new home, a real home. But those childish dreams had lasted only as long as it took for cruel reality to catch up to her.

As Daenerys’ power grew, she lost more of herself.

She had fulfilled her duty at the cost of her soul.

“The price has been paid. The dragon must have three heads, Dany.”

Visenya, Aegon, and Rhaenys Targaryen.

The three siblings who started it all—the Targaryen Conquerors.

They too were meant to be three.

Rhaegar, Viserys, and Daenerys. But Rhaegar died for his selfishness and greed at the Trident before Daenerys could meet him, and Viserys died after showing her what she had believed to be true Targaryen madness.

And like Visenya after the Conquest, now only she remained.

She and Drogon.

Because Drogon no longer had Rhaegal or Viserion by his side, just as she no longer had Jon.

Nor their child.

She had believed Jon could understand her, that their love was enough to make him listen. But it wasn’t. He hadn’t even bothered to understand that his very existence was a threat—not just to her crown, but to them.

“They need you, Dany. They need to know what it’s like to have a true dragon by their side, to know what will happen to us. The gods have sent their promised prince.”

The moment Daenerys opens her eyes, she can feel the emptiness in her cursed womb.

Her entire body aches; she feels weak and dizzy, but none of it compares to the pain crushing her heart. Her hands tremble as she tries to sit up, pulling at the blankets covering her wounded body until she finally manages to uncover herself, revealing she’s dressed in nothing but a blood-stained nightgown.

A sob breaks the silence of the room. Thick tears roll down her cheeks, blurring her vision, but she doesn’t stop until she manages to stand on her trembling feet.

She doesn’t recognize the room she’s in. Candles illuminate every corner, but nothing feels familiar. Not that it matters.

She staggers awkwardly through a desolate hallway, leaning against the stone walls and pausing every few moments to take deep breaths.

But she doesn’t stop.

Daenerys keeps going until she reaches that room—the one pulling at the strings of her heart.

It’s the first thing she sees when she opens the door: That small bundle wrapped in blankets, resting peacefully in a beautifully crafted wooden cradle placed in the center of the room.

Too small, she thinks first. So painfully fragile.

Finally, Daenerys collapses at her daughter’s feet and cries so hard her body shakes violently.

She curses them all in every language she knows. She hopes her words can reach them. She longs for and prays that their castles crumble, that their crowns weigh heavy on their heads, that every coin they touch is cursed, and that their rivers fill with the blood of her innocent little one.

She curses the gods who subjected her to such a tragic fate, who still won’t stop and continue taking from her after they’ve already taken everything. She curses Jon Snow and his cowardice, hoping his decisions haunt him forever.

She curses every one of them—Sansa and Bran Stark, Tyrion Lannister, and the Spider—those who orchestrated her downfall to secure their positions in the Game of Thrones.

Her daughter...

Her sweet, innocent daughter...

Daenerys doesn’t realize how much time passes as she kneels with her daughter in her arms. She strokes every delicate feature and notices how much she resembles her. She has her lips, her nose, but Jon’s hair—a small dark tuft, barely noticeable—and those tiny scales Mirri Maz Duur had mocked her about, the ones her little Rhaego had, though without his other deformities.

She is such a tiny thing. She looks so peaceful, as if she’s merely sleeping, but those little eyes will never open, and Daenerys cannot stop crying—not even when a woman bursts into the room, looking frightened at the sight of her.

“Call the Queen!” she hears the woman exclaim, but Daenerys doesn’t care.

“We’re going home,” she whispers against her daughter’s small head, cradling the fragile body to her chest.

Home...

There’s no home to go back to. There never really was. But Daenerys is exhausted; all she wants is to grieve her losses, drown in her sorrow, and find her end. She cares little if she deserves it—that’s all she desires.

She rises with some effort. She feels weak, a bit dizzy, but they have to leave. She’s tired of playing the gods’ game. All they ever did was use her as a puppet and take everything she fought for.

She acknowledges the price her child paid, but this... This wasn’t something she ever asked for. Why did the gods think this was something Daenerys would accept?

Drogon...

Where is Drogon? She can feel him nearby, though there’s a weight of emotions she can’t decipher. She hopes to reach him, but the halls are long and endless, and something about the structure is beginning to look familiar.

But she doesn’t stop.

“Wait, my lady!” someone shouts behind her, trying to catch up, but Daenerys keeps walking as if she hasn’t heard a thing.

She doesn’t want anyone near her. She wants to be left alone. Viserys can crawl through the pits of Hel over and over again if he thinks she’ll keep appeasing the arrogance of the gods.

As far as she’s concerned, they can find themselves a new prince who was promised—or burn alongside Viserys in the abyss of Hel.

She won’t allow them to drag her down again.