Chapter Text
Rhaenyra woke choking on smoke that no longer surrender her.
A scream tore through her dreams, high and desperate, Aegon, her little Aegon, calling for her. “Mother!” The sound was ragged, soaked in terror, echoing through the corridors of her mind. She clawed at the sheets, thrashing, as visions of her other children flashed behind his eyes.
“Please,” she whispered into the dark, her voice raw, broken. “Please, gods, keep them safe. Please… not yet.”
But the boiling hot flames did not relent. Dragonfire roared in her ears, the acrid stench of burned flesh curling around her.
The courtyard was ablaze, faces twisted in hatred, jaws gaping wide. Her sons tumbled through the sky, blood and screams mingling in the heat.
She lurched upright, sheets tangling around her legs, silk choking her like the memory of her helplessness. No flames. No dragons. No chains. Only the carved oak of her bedposts and the painted ceiling of her maiden chamber, cold and mocking.
Her heart pounded as though trying to tear itself from her chest. She pressed her palms to the mattress, grounding herself in the softness, the present. Beeswax and lavender oil, the calm of a world that should not exist, hit her senses, a cruel contrast.
A knock at the door drew her sharply from her mind as her head snapped towards the entrance to her bedchambers.
“Princess?” A maid called softly. “It is time to rise.”
The door creaked open. Two girls entered with cautious smiles, carrying gowns of seafoam and silver. Rhaenyra stared at them, but the image blurred. None of this was real. Those maids were long dead one falling from the stairs, the others dead after being whipped on Alicents orders.
“What day is it?” She demanded. Even if they were ghosts she could still command them she was a dragon after all.
“The seventh day of the third moon, Princess.”
A week.
A week before her mother’s screams echoed through Maegor’s Holdfast. A week before her father chose ambition over love. A week before betrayal became blood.
Was she truly here? Alive after being burned? Was her entire life a mere dragon dream? No. It had to have happened, she must have been sent back somehow.
Her fists clenched. Anger coiled like a living thing in her chest, scorching her lungs. Her half-brothers murderous, usurping cowards, would pay. Otto, Alicent and Viserys along with their half breed spawns. Their names burned themselves into her mind like a brand. Her father, the pitiful man who allowed it all, weak and trembling, his loyalty to his precious Hightowers over his blood. He would answer for his sins. And Alicent, that traitor in silk, smiling while the blood of innocents soaked the halls, would burn for what she had done.
“Princess?” One maid whispered. “Are you… unwell?”
Her face hardened, smooth as steel. The mask slid into place with practiced ease.
“I am perfectly well.” She said, voice sharp, cold completely unlike the childish girl they were accustomed to. “Send word to my uncle that I wish to break my fast with him. At once.”
The maids curtsied and fled.
When she was alone, her mask shattered. She pressed her hands to her mouth, trying to stifle a sob. Her sons were not here. Not yet born, not yet slaughtered, and yet she felt their loss in her bones. Lucerys was not yet falling through storm-torn skies. Jacaerys had not yet bled out in snow. Joffrey had not yet killed. Aegon and Viserys had not yet been torn from her arms.
She staggered toward the window, throwing it open. Cold morning air lashed at her face.
“My children,” she whispered to the wind, voice trembling, “I will not let them touch you. Not you. Not my little babes. Not any of you.”
Grief curdled into something hotter, sharper, a storm coiling in her chest. Anger, despair, confusion, and fear intertwined until she could barely breathe.
“They will pay,” she hissed through clenched teeth, eyes blazing. “Every last one of them. They will bleed for what they’ve done. Every traitor, every coward, every murderer.”
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Daemon woke up with a scream trapped in his throat gasping in pain.
His body hit the rocks hard after he jumped from his dragon, finally avenging his son. Pain lanced through every bone, every joint, a jagged fire that stole his breath. For a heartbeat, the world tilted sideways, then flipped, plunging him through smoke and shattered sky.
And Aemond… the one-eyed kinslayer. He was there too, in his mind, riding the same descent, eyes full of hatred and fire. The memory of his son bleeding out beneath that gaze, of the plunge that ended everything, seared through him again.
Daemon coughed, tasted blood, felt armor grind against him as if it still clung to his skin. His fists clenched instinctively, muscles trembling, but was on a bed. His fingers tangled in bed sheets.
Where was he? The world around him was unreal. Stone walls, elegant tapasities, and a fire dying out in a hearth. Yet his chest hammered as though he were still falling.
Pain. Fear. Rage. Confusion!
A familiar voice, or was it a memory before his death? The pounding of a knock at the door cut through the chaos.
“What!” He roared, voice ragged, but strength licked with menace. He had just died after losing everything let him rest for gods sake!
“A message, my Prince,” A familiar yet long dead guard he remembered from the Red Keep stammered. “Princess Rhaenyra requests your presence to break fast this morn.”
Daemon froze. Of course she did. Of course the gods had allowed both of them this cursed mercy. A cruel dream showing them their fate. This meant all those times he had mocked dragon dreams they were real.
His twin flame. She must be waking as a child, all her children lost or unmade, grief and fury colliding in her chest like a storm.
“Tell her I am coming,” he said, voice low, dangerous, laced with fire.
He forced himself upright, though pain screamed through every fiber. Rage coiled like a dragon inside him at the traitorous fools who had allowed slaughter while calling it duty. Beneath it, grief, deep and jagged, tore at him.
He would not fail her again. Not this time.
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Rhaenyra’s solar was bright with morning sun when Daemon entered, but the warmth did nothing to soften the tension coiled inside. It was strange to see it decorated in such an elegant yet childish way. The hearth crackled gently. Incense burned in a silver dish. The room smelled sweet.
It felt like a well decorated tomb more than anything else.
Rhaenyra stood near the window, pale in a simple gown, silver-gold hair cascading down her back. Servants hovered uncertainly around her.
“Leave us,” she said.
One maid hesitated. “Princess, the King may disapprove—”
Rhaenyra turned slowly, and the violet fury in her eyes froze the girl mid-sentence.
“I am your master and the only Princess of Westeros.” She said, low and lethal. “Now go.”
The door shut with a heavy thud.
Silence.
Daemon and Rhaenyra stared at one another across the sunlit chamber. Recognition struck immediately. Both seeing the years of pain in each others eyes. Understanding at once that they had been blessed or more likely cursed with a dream of their future.
She grabbed a pillow and hurled it at his chest.
“How dare you!” She screamed, voice breaking under the weight of years not yet lived. “You died and left me alone! You left me to bury our sons! Hold our daughters as they mourned! You sired a bastard and brought your whore into our lives! You left our family, you left me!”
The words tore from her like open wounds. Tears streamed down her face, hands trembling with fury and heartbreak.
Daemon crossed the room in three strides and seized her, pulling her into his chest as though afraid she might vanish.
“I am sorry, darliros,” he rasped into her hair. “Gods, Rhaenyra… I am sorry.”
She struck him once before collapsing into his embrace, clutching him as though she might drown otherwise.
“Our children,” she choked. “they butchered our children. Aegon, I don’t know what happened to him…”
His own tears fell freely now, darkening her hair. “Those bastards will pay.”
They stood wrapped in one another while the fire cracked softly behind them, as if the hearth alone remembered what they had endured.
At last they drew back, but their hands remained locked together. The Princess’s were shaking.
“Who was Nettles’ mother?” Rhaenyra demanded suddenly, suspicion raw in her voice.
Daemon blinked. “What?”
“The woman you betrayed me with.”
He recoiled. “Who told you that?”
She let out a bitter laugh. “Myseria. But was it not obvious! Bringing your long lost daughter into our home among all the other dragonseed bastards?”
“No.” His grip tightened. “I never betrayed you. I laid with a whore before Laena’s funeral, to forget that my cousin, my friend, and my daughters Muna was gone. It was a moment of weakness. She bore Nettles after I forgot to give her moon tea. I discovered her while tracking bastards of Valyrian blood. You are my twin flame. I would never dishonor you.”
Rhaenyra’s fury faltered, replaced by horror. “Daemon…”
“I made mistakes. I was a fool to leave you that brothel and flee Westeros without you. But I would not betray you that way, making your first time one of manipulation in a whorehouse. I would never betray you, as my wife and my Queen.” He insisted, voice breaking in desperation.
Her hands slid over his. “My love… I am sorry. I cannot apologize enough for doubting you. We were drowning in grief. We let others poison us against each other.”
“No, I am sorry. If I had been there when you had our little girl, told you about Nettles… if we had simply spoken—” he said hoarsely.
“Everything would have been different.” She finished with utter devastation.
The truth pressed down on them. They had grieved separately, rather than together. He had buried himself in bitter revenge; she in her schemes to gather support. To make thier dead children’s life have some meaning in their victory. Right now it mattered no longer but the pain of that time would never fade.
Daemon broke the silence first, bitter words slicing the air. “If Viserys had let us wed when I asked, you would have been Queen. I would have killed those treasonous Hightower bastards.”
Rhaenyra’s eyes widened. “You asked for my hand?”
“Yes.” He admitted, shame flickering across his face. “That’s why I took you to the brothel. A reckless, idiotic scheme; I thought my brother would have no choice, since not even Corlys would marry his son to you after losing your maiden head.”
“You should have told me,” she snapped through tears. “I would have crafted a far better plan.”
A strained laugh escaped him. “Yes. You would have.”
Her laughter was sharp, broken. “The Stepstones pirates must have struck your skull too often. I would have just ordered you to take me to Dragonstone so we could wed before the Fourteen. Then we would have gone to every noble keep before Otto and Viserys could let them know we wed without his approval.”
“We could have killed Corlys.” Daemon said.
“With Laenor as Lord Velaryon, Driftmark’s support would have been ours. Could have restored the Strong’s lands, rebuilt Harrenhal and brought Harwin to our side.”
Rhaenyra’s eyes widened. Not only was her mother alive, but so was Harwin.
Daemon nodded slowly, dark amusement flickering. “I would welcome having Harwin grace our bedchambers. For our brown haired boys.”
Rhaenyra laughed sadly. “I would gladly do the same with Laena. All to have our twin girls again.” The humor died as swiftly as it came.
“All of them are alive. My mother…” she whispered, letting the word settle like a blade between them.
“My mother is still alive,” Rhaenyra said, trembling. “Viserys has not yet cut her open.”
Daemon stiffened with shock as his head snapped down to stare at her. “He did what?”
“He ordered her to be cut during her labours.” She hissed as anger surged in her once again. “At Otto’s urging. That cunt poisoned her for years to make her weak. I found proof when we reclaimed the Red Keep. Midwives and one of Mellos’ assistants wrote testimonies and hid them in the secret compartment in the Queen’s chambers. Alicent never even knew they were there.”
She barked a cruel laugh. “He urged my father to kill her. Otto made sure no one knew what Viserys did, and worse, he poisoned my mother. Every miscarriage, every dead sibling… all to make his whore daughter Queen.”
Daemon’s face darkened with murderous fury. “That snake.”
“That’s why Alicent was my only lady, to remove competition. He planned everything! He must have conspired with Mellos and the maesters for years to kill my mother and siblings.”
Rhaenyra’s hands curled into fists, tears threatening again. She thought of all the little brothers and sisters she should have grown alongside. How her children should have had loving aunts and uncles. Not the monstrous andal spawns Alicent and Viserys brought into the world to steal her throne.
“They made my half-brother Aegon king,” she spat. “A rapist, drunk, coward. They cheered when Aemond murdered my son. Daeron, smiling as he burned towns. Helaena…” Her voice softened briefly. “Innocent, perhaps, but too weak to stand against them. None of them were true dragons.”
“Being raised by small minded andals it is no wonder.” Daemon growled. “The Hightowers. The Faith whispering treason. The Baratheons who let Aemond kill Lucerys. The Lannisters who funded slaughter with coin. Every Lord who chose a drunken manwhore over you. Over us when we were the rightful heirs!”
The chamber seemed to shrink around them, air thick with smoke that did not exist.
“We could kill them now.” Daemon said, voice low and lethal, hand gripping the hilt of his ever-present Valyrian steel blade. “Take the Throne before they even know they were in a battle for it.”
Rhaenyra shook her head slowly but deliberately. She wanted nothing from this realm, nor to be part of it.
“No.”
His brows furrowed, confusion flashing, then he closed his eyes, taking several deep breaths to stop himself from yelling.
“My love, you are the rightful heir. It took me far too long to realize. We are Valyrians. We never should have bowed to Andal notions of daughters being lesser than sons. You are Viserys’s heir!”
“I will not rule a realm that would rather burn than see a woman sit the Iron Throne.” Her voice thick with grief as she fortified her decision. “They followed a King who bred his wife to death, his own kin! A King so pathetic her married a maid and only favored one family for years. They saw me being left unprepared to rule and did nothing. They wanted me to fail so they kept me weak and isolated.”
She let her fury out fully. “They crowned a drunk rapist over me. They slaughtered our sons to keep a Hightower King!”
Her eyes darkened until they were almost black.
“They killed our children,” she whispered, steady, cold. “They killed us all because they could not bear to be ruled by a woman.”
Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.
“No.” She said at last. “We will have our revenge. And then we will let this realm destroy itself.”
Daemon’s lips curved into something feral. “So we are to kill them.”
“Yes,” she answered softly. “not all at once. We will destroy them, ruin them. Let them watch everything they built turn to ash. Let them suffer Kings of Viserys’ and Alicent’s blood until they beg our descendants to return and fix their mistakes.”
He laughed low, unhinged, filled with promise. “Yes, my Queen. Let us remind them why our words are Fire and Blood.”
Rhaenyra stepped closer, resting her forehead briefly against his.
“When it is done,” she said, voice a vow carved in stone, “we will build our own home, our own realm.”
Outside, the sun shone brightly over King’s Landing. Inside the solar of the young Princess’s chambers, something far more dangerous had awakened.
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Rhaenyra stood alone in her chambers long after the echo of Daemon’s boots had faded down the corridor.
Her hands stilled as the weight of it settled over her. Daemon had gone to prepare for their departure. The memory of their final embrace still burned against her skin. They had clung to one another in the center of her solar, not as princess and prince, but as two broken souls granted a second chance. She had buried her face in his chest, committing him to memory all over again.
Daemon had departed for Dragonstone at once, wasting no time. He would prepare ships, gold, loyal men. Dragonstone would be their safe haven, from which they would chart their course east, away from Westeros and its rot. Her Kepus would take care of the traitorous rats in the castle walls, the whore Lady Misery who had turned her against Daemon. She wished she could be there when he killed them, but she would settle for knowing their deaths were painful.
Every moment spent apart from him felt wrong, yet every moment counted.
Rhaenyra closed the final coffer with a decisive snap. The Red Keep loomed outside her window, proud and ancient, unaware that its princess was stripping it of everything she valued.
They had burned once for this place. Never again.
This time, she would take what was hers,her mother, her dragon, her future, and leave the rest of the realm to choke on its own treachery.
The room felt different now. Despite her once-again small stature, it seemed fragile, almost claustrophobic. Pale pink and red silk hangings, delicately carved furniture, elegant tapestries depicting dragons in flight, all relics of a life that no longer fit her.
She drew a deliberate breath and moved with purpose. If she lingered, she would break, remembering every moment of joy she had known here. If she left, she would not leave behind her treasures for the unworthy.
First, the books: histories of Old Valyria, dragonlore, anything Targaryen. She selected the rarest volumes, the ones most difficult to replace, and set them aside to be collected by Daemon’s servants at the Red Keep.
Then the jewels. Heavy lids creaked as she opened chests to reveal sapphires the color of the summer sea, ropes of pearls, gold chains set with rubies like captured drops of blood. The rare Valyrian glass necklace Daemon had given her years… just two days ago; that was too strange to comprehend.
Each piece was wrapped carefully in velvet and placed in a traveling chest. These were no longer adornments for courtly games; they were hers, some to trade, others to safeguard.
Her gowns followed, only the finest silks and velvets, the warmest furs, garments fit for travel and movement. Deep blacks and rich crimson, the colors of dragons, were chosen over the soft pastels her father had favored.
Every gift from Daemon, from her mother, from distant cousins was packed. Everything her father, no. From Viserys, was left behind.
It had never mattered that he named her heir; he had done it only to prevent Daemon from taking the throne. He had never prepared her, never allowed her to build a household of loyal nobles. He had wed Alicent after bedding her while she mourned her mother. Forcibly wed her to a man who could never give her legitimate children, despite giving his word she could choose her husband. Allowed his half-bred sons to be raised as Seven worshiping Hightowers to torment her!
He would pay before she left this all behind.
She left her chambers and made her way past the Queen’s wing. Her heart tightened as she thought of her mother. She longed to rush to Muna’s room and bury herself in her arms, to weep and draw comfort from her presence. But she would not risk it. Her mother had requested solitude during the final days of all her pregnancies. Any visit now, even from her daughter, would provoke suspicion and endanger her health.
Servants bowed before her as she passed, some carrying food, others drink. None thought it strange that Queen Aemma lay confined to her chambers, ordered to bed rest yet again, always ill, always pale, always grieving another lost child.
She saw now why: poison had crept through her mother’s veins for years, killing babe after babe before they could draw breath, weakening her, softening her for the butcher’s knife her father wielded in desperate pursuit of a son.
A hot wave of fury surged through Rhaenyra. Every gown, every jewel, every heirloom that had belonged to her mother would be retrieved. They would not remain in the Red Keep to be pawed over by Alicent Hightower’s sanctimonious hands. She would lie to the servants, say she wished the royal tailors to alter her mother’s favorite dresses, polish her jewels, as a gift. They would be leaving for good, to be free, wherever that might be.
She then continued along her path and made her way to the nursery. No one stopped her after all everyone assumed she would soon have a new sibling. Why would she not go to the nursery to prepare it?
She soon came to the chambers between the King and Queen’s wings. The door creaked open softly, as though afraid to disturb ghosts.
Sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, illuminating cradles carved with twisting dragons, their wooden wings forever poised for flight. Tiny blankets lay folded at the foot of each. A mobile of small silver dragons hung from the ceiling, stirring faintly in the breeze.
Rhaenyra’s breath hitched. The place where her many little siblings spent their short lives. Where her precious sons slept and took their first steps. The books she and Laenor read to their boys, the toy swords Harwin used to play with them. She stared at the space for a long time, she could even imagine the childish laughter in the air.
She stepped inside slowly, fingertips brushing the polished wood of the nearest cradle. There were three far more elaborate than the rest, all used by the conquerors when they were mere babes.
Only her children and her descendants will sleep here, she vowed silently. No usurpers get. No green-blooded pretenders, no unworthy fireless dragons.
She knew no one would set foot in here for days so she searched until she found the loose stones in the wall, the entrance to Maegor’s tunnels. She opened it with great difficulty as it was made with reinforced iron, a final measure for royal children to hide behind in case of invasion. Long forgotten by all.
She began gathering everything: embroidered blankets, tiny dragon-shaped rattles, the three cradles the conquerors slept in as babes. They were heavy, she forgot how weak she was as a child as she silently dragged them all with trembling arms into the tunnel.
These precious heirlooms would not remain in this castle to gather dust or, worse, cradle the children of her enemies. She would order Dameon’s servants to retrieve them later.
Her body shook with exhaustion as she dragged the items to the hidden alcove.
They had stolen her children from her once. They would not steal them again, not in this life. She closed the entrance and pushed it with all her strength.
When the nursery stood empty save for furniture too heavy to move, she lingered only a short time before turning away. She took a moment to find a mirror and wipe away the sweat while fixing her face. She looked so… innocent at least this image would serve her well.