Chapter Text
They had been happy on Dragonstone. Six turns around the sun after more than a decade of forced distance between her and the man she had always loved more than anyone else in the known world. It had been the most joyful six years of her existence.
Daemon had taken to fatherhood like a dragon took to the sky – with great gusto and unadulterated happiness. Especially Joffrey had gravitated towards his new father figure and had attempted to emulate him as he grew older.
Her brave little boy, who died so young.
Now, it was the twenty-second day of the tenth moon of the year thirty-four and one hundred after Aegon’s Conquest and any happiness that had ruled the Isle of Dragons was long gone.
No more clamorous family suppers and awe-inspiring feasts. No more dancing and jumping and singing in the halls, or Valyrian story time before bed.
Four sons and one daughter had been stolen from her bosom. Her two living daughters were missing from her side and her last surviving son would no doubt be forced to watch her perish at her raper and usurper half-brother.
Rhaenyra cursed the day her father took to bed her former handmaiden, soiling the Blood of Valyria with that of a people considered by the Lords Freeholder to have been too stupid and primal to make slaves out of.
If any dragonlord had decided differently, the Freehold would have taken the lands of the West with ease, no doubt, but none cared enough about Westeros to do so, and thus the Andals had remained free.
Instead, the Freehold settled only as far as Driftmark, Claw Isle and Dragonstone – now the ancestral lands of three of the last true remaining Valyrian houses.
“Sunfyre, dracarys.”
Rhaenyra cringed but not for the command the crippled dragon was given but rather the broken High Valyrian the Usurper was using, “You need to pronounce your High Valyrian better, Andal.”
Even through the burns that marred what was once a handsome face, Rhaenyra could see the flush that her barb caused.
“Cut her, Broome. The blood will rouse my Golden Lady’s interest,” her father’s son sneered at her whilst her own beloved Aegon kept on with his struggling, shouting cruel and insulting expletives at the broken man who called himself king. It seemed like her brother had little knowledge of the Valyrian language past the most basic of commands for he gave no reaction to her son’s vicious words – no doubt picked up from his father.
The turncloak Alfred Broome seemed to take great joy in the prospect of harming her, the yellowed teeth in his mouth turned into an ugly grin at his king’s command, “At once, Yer Grace,” and unsheathed the ugly steel dagger at his side. Rhaenyra’s struggling did nought to stop the brute’s manhandling of his queen.
At least until he brusquely released her and the Queen fell to the ground. The man’s scream shook her out of her stupor and she glanced back at the man – an arrow lodged in his clavicle.
It seemed that much like Rhaenyra, Aegon and his men were finally catching on that something was amiss. Her half-brother’s head flicked from side to side, trying to look back from the wheeled chair he was forced into because of his extensive injuries.
Shouts made Rhaenyra glance to the sky in worry, fearful of what they might mean for her beloved boy, still roughly held by Ser Marston Waters, one of the Usurper’s dogs.
Suddenly, arrows rained down upon them and several of the Mummers’ Dragon’s men fell.
In the madness, Rhaenyra called to her son, “Aegon, come!”
Though young, only six name days old, the boy proved to be every bit the son of the Rogue Prince and the Realm’s Delight, planting his teeth in Waters’ hand, forcing the knight to let him go, allowing him to flee his grasp and run towards his mother, swerving to evade any errant arrows.
The volley of arrows stopped as swiftly as they started while Rhaenyra grabbed her son and her last living lady-in-waiting and hid behind a wall. Holding Aegon tightly but herself shielded by Elinda Massey, Rhaenyra looked around frantically, hoping for a way to escape.
Just as she was readying herself to run towards a servants’ hallway that connected the outer courtyard to the servants’ quarters, she stopped in her tracks at the sound of a deafening shrill shriek.
In her arms, her son’s head snapped up as well for there was only one creature capable of making such a sound.
The Blood Wyrm.
Rumours had been abound for the past five moons. Of her estranged husband’s death above the God’s Eye, slaying their greatest foe – Vhagar and the half-breed that flew him.
Since her fleeing the capital, Rhaenyra knew that in her immeasurable grief, she had been manipulated by her husband’s former whore. How she had wished to have Daemon by her side once more. Her husband would have protected her and no one would have ever dared to turn her away from their doors. She would never have been humiliated by false friends if Daemon had stood behind her.
A sudden crash brought her musings to a sudden halt and for only a second she dared to peek around the wall that hid them from harm. With an open mouth, Queen Rhaenyra watched how her husband sat astride his giant wyrm and tore apart her half-brother’s broken dragon, aided by Sheepstealer.
The shrieks from Sunfyre were brutal but were over soon for Caraxes showed no mercy in destroying the young dragon.
What had once been declared the most beautiful dragon ever flown was now a butchered carcass ripped apart by two ravenous dragons.
For the first time in many moons, Rhaenyra dared to feel hope.
“Kill them all,” her husband shouted, “But leave my brother’s abomination to me,” as dozens of men flooded the courtyard, overwhelming the Usurper’s men.
Glancing toward the broken man in a wheeled chair, confined to a balcony overlooking the courtyard, Rhaenyra witnessed how he was taken under the sword of one of Daemon’s men, while the guardsmen at his side were brutally slain.
“Please, please, mercy, my prince,” the false knight Aegon has raised to Kingsguard fell to his knees, begging for mercy from her husband as he disembarked from Caraxes and sent him back into the sky.
Still keeping themselves hidden, Rhaenyra and her son watched how their saviour unsheathed a sword from his side – crudely made and clearly not Dark Sister – and used it to butcher the few remaining of the Usurper’s men, including the wailing Ser Alfred Broome, but kept the kingsguard alive.
It was brutal. Her husband was splattered in blood, shaking with rage, but to her, he had never looked more beautiful. Once more glancing toward the balcony, the terror on her half-brother’s face was glorious to behold. Within minutes, he had gone from having his greatest foe in his hands, closer to death than she had ever been and now he was taken prisoner by a man who despised him more than any and would grant him nought but the most painful of deaths.
But it seemed like his nephew was the least of his concerns as her husband frantically looked around before his eyes fell on the three heads barely peeking around the wall.
Her husband dropped his sword and fell to his knees. Aegon swiftly dislodged himself from her embrace and ran toward his father, barrelling into his chest and holding him tightly.
Daemon ran his hands over his young son, looking for injuries on his body but finding none, “Aegon,” her lord husband kissed their last surviving son all over his cherubic cheeks before turning to her, “Rhaenyra…”
Her name was enough to have the Lady of the Seven Kingdoms lose her composure and run toward her husband just as her son had, losing herself in his tight embrace.
“Iksan vaoreznuni, ñuha jorrāelagon. Kostilus shijetra nyke [I am sorry, my love. Please forgive me],” the words felt foreign spilling from her lips but they had to be said.
“Daor, ñuha dāria, istin sagon se mēre… [No, my queen, I must be the one…],” but before he could finish his sentence, Rhaenyra desperately kissed him, cutting him off as salt streamed down her ruddy cheeks.
They stayed like that for minutes, wrapped in each other’s embrace and holding their softly weeping son. It was not until someone cleared his throat that they disentangled.
Rhaenyra found it difficult to look at the girl who had cleared her throat and whom she had ordered to be killed only six moons before.
Her husband looked at his ward and followed her nod toward the balcony where her half-brother still sat, surrounded by half a dozen of Daemon’s men.
“Bring him down. It is time for this mummers’ dragon to go the way of his spoiled mount,” her husband commanded.
Without a care for his wounds, two of the men grabbed Aegon by his arms and lifted him from his chair, causing him to curse and yelp in pain, and then dragged his crippled body across the stone floor and into the keep. A few minutes later, they exited through the heavy oak door and onto the courtyard, throwing the false king in front of their master.
“This is where you beg, half-breed. Beg for your life but also for the lives of the few that remain of your Hightower kin. I slayed your brother, as well as his dragon. None but your mother and daughter remain, and I will kill both soon enough.”
“I will not beg you. I am the king–”
Before he could finish his sentence, her husband brutally punched him in the jaw, dislocating it on impact. Her half-brother wept in pain and terror, suddenly far less brave and pompous.
“You are the king of nothing. Your mother and grandfather took advantage of a weak man to lift up their obsolete house but I am not my brother and neither is my wife. When I am done, none who dared to raise their sword against my wife’s rightful ascension will live. Nor will their kin. I will burn and butcher all. Baratheons, Lannisters, Hightowers. All will die. Their houses ashes in the wind.”
“You are a madman,” the usurper slurred through his shattered jaw.
“Then today you shall die at the hands of a madman,” and her husband descended upon her brother as if a demon from the Andals’ Seven Hells. Not giving him any respite, Daemon first snatched the Conqueror’s crown from his brow and then beat him and beat him with it until not a single patch of skin was not bloodied or bruised.
After mere counts, Rhaenyra ordered Elinda to shield their struggling son and take him beyond the wall they had hidden before. No need for a son to see their father in the throes of rage and bloodlust.
Her half-brother wept and pled for his life but Daemon was like a dragon-come-human and did not cease his brutal beating.
How ironic that it was the crown that he had stolen that was now doing such damage to his face.
Eventually, the begging ceased when the Usurper could speak no longer.
His face resembled raw meat more than anything, while his body looked even more broken than ever before. Daemon had shattered his nephew’s arms and legs and broken his torso in his violent rage.
All that remained now was a softly wheezing and crying mess of a man – abandoned by his family’s gods.
“Give me a sword and bring me a block of wood or something else that can stand as an executioner’s block.”
Rhaenyra looked questioningly at her consort for he had no Dark Sister at his side but he gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
One of her husband’s new men swiftly handed over his sword to their Protector and King Consort, who stood up straight and awaited a second man, who brought forth a large block from beside one of the doors. Crude but fitting enough to act as an executioner’s block.
Rhaenyra remained silent. This was Daemon’s moment.
“In the name of Queen Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men and Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, I, King Daemon of House Targaryen, King Consort of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, do hereby sentence you to die for the crimes of treason and usurpation. Do you have any last words?”
The Usurper could do nought but croak and weep as his head was placed upon the makeshift executioner’s block.
“None shall remember you, Aegon. My wife will rule as she was born to do. She will be the finest monarch House Targaryen has seen so far. Our son will follow my wife in time and he shall be known as Aegon the Second while your name will be lost to the annals of time. I shall ensure that all you are remembered for is being a mummers’ dragon and a usurper,” and just like that her weeping brother’s head was detached from his neck and her foe was dead.
It did not bring her sons and daughter back, nor did it fill up the gaping wound in her heart they had left behind but she did feel a measure of vindictive peace.
Her husband grabbed the head and threw it at one of the men, “If there are any maesters left, tell them I want the head put on vinegar,” before turning to the last remaining one of the Usurper’s men – the one who dared to wear the kingsguard’s white cloak, “On the morrow, you will be given a ship and a dozen men from these isles to sail to the capital,” the man looked frightened beyond anything Rhaenyra had ever seen on a man’s face, “You will take your Usurper’s body with you, as well as a message from me and your Queen… War is coming.”
Daemon gestured for her and immediately grabbed her hand at her arrival at his side, “The Dragon is coming.”
───※ ·♛· ※───
Daemon refused to let go of his wife and son, too frightened to let either out of his sight while they wandered the halls of Dragonstone. The few servants that remained were loyalists of his brother’s usurping mongrel, so he ordered them all killed – men, women and children.
The man once known as the Rogue Prince knew that his daughter was on the island for he and his men had seen her fly from the Dragonmont, so he immediately sent out men to scour the keep for her.
These halls had once been filled with laughter and even if it was the last thing he did, Daemon would ensure that happiness would return to them one day soon. Mayhaps not today for grief plagued their thoughts too much, but soon.
The greed of lesser men had cost his wife a lot but she would never doubt his devotion again.
Daemon had slain the greatest dragon alive. A dragon he had loved once, flown by his father and beloved late wife as she had been, but kill her he did.
He had slain that youngling, who had dared to believe he was a match for the wielder of Dark Sister. The loss of his beloved sword was a paltry price to pay for his survival and victory against a mount thrice as large as his beloved Blood Wyrm.
For a second, he had doubted whether Aemond was not right and that he had lived too long but his children and wife had need of him. His dynasty needed him.
Daemon had no other option than to live.
After he had plunged Dark Sister in the Kinslayer’s last remaining eye, Caraxes had simultaneously been able to tear Vhagar’s throat out at long last, after which he went after her belly while they went down, spilling her guts and entrails all over the God’s Eye.
Daemon had fallen from Vhagar’s back as the dragon was in the last throes of life and if not for Caraxes, wounded as he may have been, breaking his fall with his soft wing, Daemon would have died on impact within the great lake.
Daemon and Caraxes had both crawled to shore. Not on the shores of the Riverlands but rather on the shores of the isle that graces the middle of the God’s Eye – the Isle of Faces.
The Isle of Faces was home to the Green Men and was protected by ancient treaty. As one of the last worshippers of the Fourteen Flames, Daemon had never really cared for the Old Gods, though he had certainly more respect for those who worshipped them than those who bowed to the Seven-Who-Are-One.
Yet, when he and Caraxes had crawled onto the shore, they had immediately been begotten by those of the ancient order and Daemon had been surprised to find that there was some truth to the rumours of green-skinned protectors.
Little men with blueish-green skin and odd markings on their faces. Their body seemed almost made out of wood or stone and their foreheads had small horns on them.
For nearly a full moon, the Green Men tended to him and Caraxes. Their wounds healed slowly, though still much swifter than if the Maesters’ medicine and healing had been used.
One day, after he had brought their foes to heel, Daemon would return to thank the men and women who had saved his life and that of his beloved soul mount.
“Your Grace,” one of the men from House Celtigar, who had offered his service to him when he arrived at Claw Isle two moons prior, addressed them both, “The Lady Baela has been found.”
“Princess Baela,” his wife spoke at his side, ever the queen, “She is the daughter of a king.”
“I apologize, Your Grace,” the knight genuflected, “Princess Baela was found. They kept her in the maester’s chambers, guarded by a few men,” Daemon never even had to ask for the man answered him without prompting, “The men were killed. As were all we came across.”
“Have her brought to the Hall of the Painted Table,” his queen commanded and the man bowed before departing.
The great keep that had been home to the dragonlords of House Targaryen for many generations before the Conquest was once more in the hands of its true owner – the Queen Upon the Iron Throne.
All around them lay the bodies of the men and women who had knelt to the Usurper upon his taking of the castle and whom Daemon’s men had killed at his command, but neither the Queen nor her King Consort had any care for them and instead kept walking towards the hall where the Conqueror’s famed painted table stood as they had left it when they took the capital.
Everything was it was as if they had never left. The grand chairs stood before the fireplace and the chairs were still assembled around the table.
Rhaenyra and Aegon made their way to the chairs, huddling up together as they used to during happier times, while Daemon laid the Conqueror’s crown upon the table.
His queen had lost too much already, so fearful of losing their last living son, she did not let him out of her sight.
Nettles kept to his back, careful to not startle his lady wife and probably still fearful of the written words that declared her an enemy of the crown and to be put to the sword.
Daemon would never allow that.
With only a few guards around, Daemon and his loved ones waited.
“Father,” Baela came barrelling through the door and nigh jumped into his arms, just as she used to when she was a little girl. As swiftly as she had embraced him, she let go of him to embrace his wife and her little brother, “Rhaenyra. Aegon. How I have missed you,” Baela cuddled her brother close to her chest, while giving her queen a loving kiss on her cheek.
Even from his place at the table, Daemon could see the tears in his wife’s eyes, “I am glad you are healthy and hale, my girl,” Rhaenyra held them both close, “What about Moondancer?”
Baela flinched, “Moondancer fell against Sunfyre, but she did great damage to that golden cunt,” his daughter looked back at him, searching for approval.
“Yes, she did. No doubt making it easy for Caraxes and Sheepstealer,” Daemon spoke in a soothing tone.
“So, she is dead?” at his nod, she continued, “And the Usurper?”
“Your father killed him himself,” Rhaenyra assured his daughter.
Baela turned to Nettles and embraced the girl as well, “I am gladdened to see you well, Netty. Many thanks for taking care of my father.”
Daemon noticed Rhaenyra’s flinch but ignored it for now. There would be more than enough time for explanations later.
They all sat together, huddled as one, not even speaking. Rhaenyra’s last surviving maid ever at her side. Young Elinda was quite protective of both her queen and prince.
Nettles stood at the Painted Table still, seemingly out of place, but Daemon would rectify that soon enough, so he smiled at her, setting her at ease.
“How did you survive, husband?” Rhaenyra looked at him with a soft smile on her face, playing with their son’s hair, “At Old Stone, we heard that you had fought the One-Eye but had been slain in doing so.”
“They were wrong. After I plunged Dark Sister in that mongrel’s eye and we plummeted to our deaths, Caraxes – though badly injured himself – caught me with his wing, allowing us both to swim to the shore,” all looked at him as he told his story, “Rather than the shores of the Riverlands, it was the shores of the Isle of Faces that allowed us to survive. The Green Men used their ancient magics to heal us to the best of their abilities. We stayed there for two moons before we flew in the midst of the night to the Mountains of the Moon, where I had told Nettles to fly to before I faced the Kinslayer and Vhagar.”
All looked at the young girl, who fidgeted where she stood, clearly uncomfortable.
“We stayed hidden within the mountains for a short while before flying to the Claw Isle, where we were granted command of the men we brought with us,” Daemon explained further, “House Celtigar remains as loyal as ever, and so the castellan gave us a few ships, a chest of gold and plenty of provisions that we used to hide out in the Dragonmont for the past moon while the Usurper stayed at the Keep and Caraxes healed some more. Their castellan is rallying men as we speak.”
“Is he fine now?” his son asked, worried for his father’s mount.
“Yes, nothing some rest and some mutton could not fix,” Daemon ruffled his son’s hair, “Though he shall have a large scar on his belly from now on.”
It seemed like during his story Baela finally noticed his lady wife was not wearing her crown, “Your crown, Your Grace?” Baela asked, “Did the Usurper take it?”
Rhaenyra seemed embarrassed, “I had to sell it to buy passage to Dragonstone after Duskendale had turned me away.”
“What do you mean, ‘turned you away’?” Daemon asked with narrowed eyes.
“It was only at Ser Harrold Darke’s insistence that Lady Darklyn allowed me to stay and send ravens to the Vale and the North. She eventually revoked her hospitality and sent us on our way, refusing us provisions and gold.”
Baela was furious, standing tall in her rage, “How dare she? To abandon her queen in her time of need!”
“She was fearful of being discovered,” Rhaenyra tried to play peacemaker, “I can’t blame them for–”
“Them? Who is them?” Daemon narrowed his eyes.
“House Rosby,” his queen seemed hesitant. Too good she was, even now, defending their foes.
“They are traitors,” Nettles spoke up for the first time since they arrived at the Chamber of the Painted Table, “There is no forgiveness for traitors.”
“Netty is right. There will be no mercy, as I told the Usurper. They took my children,” Daemon caressed Rhaenyra’s cheek, “Our children. I will burn these lands from North to South and East to West, to rout out our enemies. They will beg for respite but I shall give them none.”
“We must have an army first, father.”
“The North and the Vale are on our side still,” Rhaenyra assured them, “I wrote them ravens and they vowed to fight for me still.”
“As are the Riverlands and large parts of the Reach still. The Houses Rowan, Beesbury and Tarly are ever faithful,” Daemon said.
Baela gave her own recommendation, “The Velaryon fleet–”
“Your grandfather turned his cloak. As did his bastard son,” Daemon interjected, “House Velaryon sides with the usurpers.”
Daemon understood the news upset his daughter if the clenching of her jaw was anything to go by, but better the short pain, “News came to me at Claw Isle. He sits on the small council once more as Master of Ships.”
“Then grandfather made his choice.”
His beloved seemed uncomfortable still, “I imprisoned him. Mayhaps we can come to an accord for recompense.”
“There shall be no recompense, nor mercy,” Baela was furious, “I care little that he was imprisoned. He dishonours my grandmother by allying with those who killed her. At the first opportunity of increasing power, Lord Corlys Velaryon always chooses advancement. First, my grandmother and the Great Council, then my mother and her failed betrothal, only to finally sell his son into marriage, just so his grandchildren may sit the Iron Throne.”
Daemon wished to smirk, proud of his girl as he was, “She is right. Corlys was my friend but his ambition has always clouded his judgment. Now, it shall be his downfall.”
None spoke for a bit. All were uncomfortable with the implications of the great rift between House Targaryen and House Velaryon becoming permanent.
It was Baela who shattered the quietude, voicing the obvious, “We can’t stay here for long,”
“No, we cannot,” Daemon agreed with his daughter, “We will fly to the Vale soon. The Greens have no more dragons and as such the Eyrie will be impregnatable.”
“We only have Caraxes and Sheepstealer,” Rhaenyra reminded him.
“Silverwing is without a rider,” Nettles spoke again. That news had come to them whilst they were at Claw Isle, hiding out. It had been a pleasant surprise to hear of the deaths of the Two Betrayers and the one they called Daeron the Daring. It had been a shame it also meant the deaths of Tessarion, Seasmoke and Vermithor.
“Mayhaps Baela is willing to take a new mount?” his lady wife asked their daughter, grabbing her hand in hers.
His daughter frowned, “Is that even possible?”
“Of course,” Daemon answered, “Though rare, in the Freehold it happened once in a while. Usually, because their rider was still quite young when their mount perished.”
“Even if they bonded with a hatchling?”
“I don’t see why not,” Daemon replied to his daughter, “Even if you do not claim Silverwing. I can still bind her to us through dragonsong – we can only have one mount but we can lead many into battle. Besides, the Greens have no more potential riders besides the little girl.”
“We should have never allowed the dragonseeds to claim mounts,” Baela sounded bitter to his ears.
“No, we should not have but it is what it is. We are where we are. We cannot turn back the wheels of time. The White and the Hammer were foul traitors but Netty is loyal still,” Daemon smiled at the young girl, who only hesitantly smiled back.
His family smiled at the girl as well, though his wife’s smile was more of a grimace than anything else.
“Nonetheless, first we must go to the Eyrie, ensure Rhaena’s safety, as well as rally our remaining men,” the queen said.
“I agree, but we have a few days. Dragonstone is protected by dragons once more, and I have five dozen men with me,” Daemon assured her of their protection, “Mayhaps food for a midday meal may be our priority now?”
“I could see what can be found?” Elinda said, standing from the ground, where she had been perched by her queen’s feet.
“That would be excellent, Elinda,” Daemon smiled at the loyal girl, “Take Baela, Aegon and Netty with you.”
When his son protested, Daemon raised his brow at him, which ended his grumbling. Baela immediately grabbed her little brother’s hand, “Let’s go, Egg, maybe we can find some lemon cakes?”
Daemon and Rhaenyra looked after their loved ones as they left the Chamber of the Painted Table, shadowed by Daemon’s loyal men, leaving the two alone at last and allowing Daemon to sit in the chair opposite from his wife.
Neither spoke for a while, instead just enjoying the few moments of peace before tidings of war would complicate matters.
“She is my daughter,” Daemon whispered. Rhaenyra furrowed her brow at him but said nothing in return, “During our planning of the War in the Stepstones, I took to bed a tavern wench at Hull and that was Netty’s mother. Her claiming Sheepstealer all but proved it to me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me, uncle?” his wife whispered as well.
“You had lost so much already. Visenya and Lucerys, and then Jacaerys and Viserys and now Joffrey,’ Daemon grimaced for the grief he had felt upon hearing of brave little Joff’s death had nigh crippled him for weeks, “I feared it would be too much. I should have though. I did not have enough faith in you and I am sorry for that.”
Rhaenyra stood from her chair and sat on his lap, laying her head upon his shoulder, not unlike the many times they sat in these same chairs during their happiest years, “We lost so much, Daemon. I should have thought about your pain as well.”
“I failed you but I will not do so again.”
Rhaenyra looked into his eyes, “You did not fail me, my love. My father did. You fought a war for me. You slayed the greatest and oldest dragon alive.”
“And I would do so again if need be.”
“I know,” his wife gave him the softest of kisses.
They sat like that for a long time.
───※ ·♛· ※───
“How was it?” Baela asked the girl at her side, “When my father fought the Kinslayer?” she elaborated on her question.
“He sent me from his side while he fought the One-Eye,” Nettles answered her, “I wish I could have seen them fight Vhagar and Aemond. I only saw them when they were already healing and came to me in the Mountains of the Moon.”
“Father is a great warrior and Caraxes is the personification of his indomitable nature and warlike rage, but Vhagar was thrice as large,” Daemon’s eldest daughter noted, “For them to defeat her, the battle between them must have been a glorious sight to have beheld.”
“Now they have no dragons and we have two,” Nettles smiled at her, “The traitors and usurpers will stand no chance against your father and me.”
“Two is not enough. We once had more than a dozen flying these lands,” Baela felt nought but anger at the Greens for commencing this conflict and nearly eradicating the great beings from whom House Targaryen derived their power.
“There are many more eggs here on Dragonstone your father has assured me,” Nettles reminded her gently.
“A hatchling is no use in war, and at war, we will remain for some time. Father will wish to extinguish all our foes, from the West to the East,” Baela was speaking more to herself than the other girl, “No, we must have more war dragons.”
“So, you do want to claim Silverwing?”
“No, not Silverwing,” Baela smiled at Nettles, “I am going for a ride. Do you wish to come with me?”
The young girl furrowed her brows at the sudden change of subject, “A ride? Where?”
Baela schooled her face in the most innocent visages she could muster, “I thought of the Dragonmont?”
“The Dragonmont?” Nettles was flabbergasted and it showed on her face, “Why would you…” though it took a while, eventually she caught on to Baela’s suggestion, “No dragon remains within the volcano. None but…”
“Exactly.”
“Your father…”
Baela interrupted her, “My father will not know until I have succeeded.”
“And what if you do not?”
The girl seemed frightened but whether for herself or Baela, the latter did not know, “I am the daughter of Daemon Targaryen and Laena Velaryon, both great dragonriders. I am the granddaughter of Princess Rhaenys and Princess Alyssa, and the Sea Snake and the Spring Prince. I am of the blood of Aegon the Conqueror and his Queens. I shall not fail. I refuse to fail.”
Nettles looked at her with awe on her face.
“Will you go with me?”
Though she hesitated for the barest of counts, eventually the young dragonrider acquiesced, “I will.”
“We will tell Elinda and the guards we are going for a ride to see Sheepstealer. None will be foolish enough to come with us.”
So the two did as they agreed. First, they spoke to Elinda, telling her they were going to see Sheepstealer. The loyal handmaiden had a knowing look in her eyes, perceptive as she was, but said nothing more, instead telling them to be careful on their journey. Though Aegon wished to join them, Baela managed to convince the young heir that as the new Prince of Dragonstone – which had made him flinch – that his duty was to protect the queen. Even at six sunturns of age, Baela could see their father in him – the sudden straightening of his back, the eagle-eyed focus and the sneer on his lips – as he vowed to do as he was bid. Both her young brothers had looked so much like their father.
Baela closed her eyes for a few counts for she did not like to think of her youngest brother, lost to the seas during the Battle of the Gullet. One day she would avenge him by destroying those Triarchy cunts who took him from them—their cities would burn and their people be extinguished.
A soft noise from the guard to her right snapped the newly minted princess out of her musing. They had ridden with them to the mouth of the Dragonmont but seemed fearful of advancing any further.
“We shall take it from here, good sers.”
“Princess, your father–”
“My father understands better than anyone alive today the power and the complexities of our wyrms,” Baela reminded the Celtigar guard, “He will understand that I asked you to stay behind if only not to endanger your lives for there is no worse way than departing the mortal coil than by dragonfire.”
The four men flinched but allowed them passage alone, “We will patrol the perimeters until your return, Princess.”
“Thank you, sers.
Baela and Nettles rode their horses deeper into the lands surrounding the active volcano, where sand became dragonglass until a roar shook the ground they were galloping on.
“I think this is where we part, Netty.”
Nettles looked nervous, “Are you certain this is what you want?”
“Never been more certain,” Baela assured her father’s young protegee, “I was born to brave the skies.”