PROLOGUE  / You shall be mine

The world had taken on a dark hue as day passed into night, twilight coating the sky as a man with silver hair hacked his sword into a piece of wood. He was angry, his dragon was restless, and all he wanted was to be king. He was stuck inhabiting a castle on an island that did not belong to him and pretending his whore was with child just to have a legitimate claim. Daemon Targaryen felt pathetic as he screamed each time his sword made contact.

His heaving slowed as he grabbed a waterskin from his resting dragons saddle, drinking greedily and wiping his face. Dragonstone was silent at this time of night. All that made noise was his own agony and the breathing of Caraxes. The blood wyrm coiled tightly on the beach, watching the cliffside as if a great monster were to appear. Daemon sighed as he turned back to his hacked up piece of wood. He lifted his sword again and was ready to swing down when–

Caraxes stood, and made his way into one of the many caves in the cliffside.

Normally, Daemon would leave his dragon to its own devices and find it in the morning, but he needed Caraxes to be able to make it back to the castle before dawn rose. "Caraxes! Māzigon kesīr!" He shouts, the command slipping from his tongue easily. He sheathed his sword and moved to the entrance of the cave. It was dark and dank, and it smelled much mustier than any of the other saves he had explored across the cliffs. It must have run deeper into the heart of the island than the others. Caraxes made no move to listen to the words of his rider. Daemon felt he had no choice but to follow his odd acting dragon.

He almost stumbled many times as he made his way slowly through the cave. At some point, Caraxes had stopped to sniff the air and try to listen for... something. Daemon wasn't sure what his dragon was looking for yet. Though, as time wore on, he heard a faint Valyrain Lullaby drifting through the air. The words were immaculate, the lilt of them seemingly perfect, not the jumbled mess of Valyrians now. His face pinched into a look of confusion. Why was there singing?

He made his way into a large cavern. He assumed it was many miles beneath the surface, there was no breeze on his face and the air stank of something old. The music was still soft but... it was from the only source of light in the room. At the top of the cavern was a bright orb, shifting between red, blue, and silver, that sang a high valyrian lullaby about a sleeping babe. Caraxes nudged some open pit on the floor. Daemon's eyes caught it as he made his way closer.

Artifacts of old Valyria were strewn about the pit, crowns, jewels, and even a book with a dragon and sea snake on the front. What really caught his eye was the sculpture of a babe wrapped in linen that seemed to be carved into the floor. It looked so... real. Daemon bent to his knee and ungloved his hand, running it along the smooth stone. He was not a man of artwork and poetry yet he knew no artist would hide such a marvel of sculpture in a cave.

His hand caught a jagged edge, sharper than a blade, cutting his palm deeply as he hissed in pain. Caraxes seemed to react to the blood and the way it dripped onto the stone. A purr reverberated from its chest as the blood began to melt into the stone. It was almost ethereal as it sank, glowing red and wicked beneath the surface. He traces his hand across it again as the ball of light floats down closer to his head. "Wake hen dreams oh dōna mēre, save se vys." The soft voice sang. Wake from dreams, oh sweet one, save the world. Daemon didn't understand why it sang or hovered, but he did know Vayrian magic was at work here. "Magic flows iemnȳ aōha perzys, ānogrosa nehugon glaeson ezīmagon se uēpa vys." Whatever the second sentence said was muffled as the rock began to crack under his hand.

Bit by bit, each piece fell away, the glowing red of the blood sinking down into the small opening underneath. The sculpture destroyed itself as it opened to present a Babe. Wrapped in purple silk and flaxen gold upon its head, a dragon sculpture was clutched to its chest. It could not be more than five moons old. He frowned as the blood coated the silk, the babe stirring at the feel of the warm goo on its skin. She, he assumed it was a girl, opened her eyes as she bared her soul to Daemon in them. Violet, piercing, they cut into him and reminded him of a mother he had never met. She reached up with a curious, chubby hand, fatty fingers clutching at air, her eyes still staring into his soul.

With a hand that had never been delicate, he reached down, his finger being caught in the small girls clutch. He laughs as she squeezes his finger, a strange joy now replacing the previous confusion. "Don't you have the grip of a dragon?" He murmurs quietly, as the girl finally gives him a toothless grin. He glanced to the side and reached for the book with the sea snake and the dragons, noticing the small mesh of sun and moon in the corner. He opens the book and tries to read the old words. Beware the doom that death shall bring, Its end a sacrifice, a mournful sting. But love shall rise, a saving grace, To heal the pain, restore the space. He wasn't able to make out much more. "A prophecy?" He murmurs.

The girl gurgled and stole his attention, and despite the screaming curiosity in the book lying next to him, he picked up the baby and cradled her. He had never known gentleness before, but this girl was as delicate as a flower. He had no idea how the blood of any dragon ran through her veins. Though, as he looked at her and how her eyes wandered, she reminded him of Rhaenyra's unending curiosity. His throat felt as if it closed and suffocated him at the thought of her. She was fire, she was goodness, and she was the perfect woman to raise any child. Especially one as special as the babe wrapped in purple cloth.

He stood quickly, grabbing the book and whatever artifacts he could store on Caraxes and let the dragon lead them away. The child gurgled again, a quiet giggles slipping from her mouth as the white ends of his hair tickled her nose. The ends of his lips tug into a smile, his cruel disposition melting away at the touch of blood and fire licking in her palm. She was a sweetness, a little thing held together by nothing but determination and gentleness, though there was fire burning in her violet irises that no babe should hold. She was the very embodiment of the tales of Valyria.

It took no time at all for Caraxes to lead them back into the chilled sea air. The night sky sparking as the babe coo'd looked into oblivion. The stars seemed to twinkle in greeting, as if they wished to weave themselves into her soft tufts of downy hair. Everything seemed brighter as she coo'd and giggled, gripping onto Daemon's thick doublet in her tiny fist, a conqueror's grip that had him laughing. He had never known or wanted the grips of fatherhood, but this Babe had enthralled him in mere moments. He could spend the rest of his life teaching this girl to cause chaos, as he so easily did. He ran a finger down her chubby cheek, let her bring his calloused finger to her mouth, and smiled as she grinned around his finger. She was precious and sweet.

Daemon knew he would destroy that sweetness with his dark touch.

So, when the time came that he was confronted for stealing a dragon egg and occupying Dragonstone, he proudly cradled the babe in his grip. Otto Hightower, a cunt of a hand (as Daemon so majestically puts it.), seemed surprised by the rogue prince's gentleness. It all washed away as the Princess of Dragonstone landed Syrax and took matters into her own capable hands. "My father named me Princess of Dragonstone. This is my castle you're living in, Uncle." The words slipped so easily off her tongue in Valyrain, the babe quieting as Rhaenyra speaks. "You have a child?"

"Not until you come of age," he responded, his own tone slipping into something more gentle as Rhaenyra traces her gaze along the watching child. "She is not of my blood, I found her in a cave along the cliffs, she is of old valyrian blood." His voice melted to honey as he looked down at the girl who so easily entrapped the hearts of many. "I found her encased in rock; only blood seemed to crack the spell she was under."

Rhaenyra looked up, surprise stretching across her beautiful features as her lips dropped in amazement. "You have angered your king," she said, trying to zero in on the egg held in the clutches of his rucksack instead of the babe she felt so drawn too.

"I don't see why," Daemon said, trying to pass off his gentleness for indignance. "This is a day of celebration; I am to be wed"

"You already have a wife," Rhaenyra sniped, her wit as sharp and piercing as ever. Her eyes trailed back to the babe wrapped in the house targaryens colors, with a purple silk pillowing her head. Since when has Daemon taken to holding orphaned children? Or searching caves? Many questions bit into her mind as she held her tongue. She had more pressing matters. But she desperately wanted to know the child's name.

"None of my choosing." His response was dry.

"And this required you to steal my brother's egg?" She asked, raising a brow at him. She was like a mother, lecturing her ill tempered child.

Bored indifference slipped into his tone, he already knew he would give the egg to Rhaenyra and send her back with a child. "You shared your cradle with a dragon when you were born," His voice dropped as he stepped closer to her. Her eyes trailed across his face, and his hand itched to graze across hers. Disgust welled in him at the thought. She was pure, he was tainted, why should he ever allow himself such a delicacy? Such a sweetness? Viserys would surely have him cast out, and for now he could never tarnish Rhaenyra. She was too young and too kind. "I wish the same thing for my child."

Her eyes drop to the babe that had her eyes locked on Syrax. Did he wish to adopt the girl now? "You're to have a child now?" Her heart weeped at the thought; she wished to rip the babe from his arms and protect her from the world. From Daemon.

He cast a glance back at the woman in white. "One day!" He said it as a defense, but the woman rolled her eyes and walked away. Internally cursing all Targaryens and their damned fiery blood. Rhaenyra almost laughed at how she abandoned Daemon for her own worthless propriety, or her pride. She looked down and swallowed, looking back at the girl before trailing her eyes to his face.

"I am right here, Uncle." She finally said it in the common tongue. She was cunning; she never forgot a slight, and Daemon was the same. "The object of your Ire, the reason you were disinherited." Her voice was strong and her will was stronger; she knew exactly how Daemon would answer her. "If you wish to be restored as Heir, you'll need to kill me. So do it, and be done with all this bother." She spit. The silence after was tense; he looked all around him, wondering how he could never win this. If he struck Rhaenyra down now, he would be killed. Could he subject this new child to something so harrowing in her first few days of life amongst them? No, no he could not.

"Take her, name her," He swallowed tickly, trying to act as if he were ridding himself of a heavy burden as he dropped the child into Rhaenyra's arms. "Make her your heir for all I care." He threw the rucksack with all the artifacts and the egg into the hands of Otto Hightower. Then he turned in his place and fled the scene, his heart in his throat as he swallowed. He wished to cast a final glance back at the girl who had been in his arms for the three days he had known her, He forced himself to look forward. Daemon Targaryen did not love anyone.

Yet his heart was stolen by a babe caked in blood. In another life, his mind hums. I could be her father.

Rhaenyra stared at the babe in her arms wistfully. "Hello, little one." She whispers with a smile. "What shall we call you?" The girl giggled and cooed, reaching for Rhaenyra's finger. "You shall be mine. Little Selaenya Targaryen." She whispered, then dutifully carried the girl back to Syrax. Dismissing the hand quickly and managing to use the purple cloth to strap the girl to her chest, she was in the air.

The newly named Salaenya giggled and screamed, arms punching the air as the world blazed by. Rhaenyra swore to herself that this would be the only of her children, her sweet Selaenya.

IT IS SAID THAT in the first years of life,
Salaenya had been thrust into the Princess
Rhaenyra's hands. Enrapturing the hearts of many,
she was granted the name Targaryen and the title of
princess. Rhaenyra took her in as her own blood,
Raising her as her own and alongside her eldest son,
Jacaerys. It is said that once her son had been born, a
betrothal had been set, for Salaenya may not have
been her daughter by blood, but she could be by
marriage.

—- A DANCE OF DRAGONS, recorded by Septon Eustace.

Two years after Salaenya had been found, Rhaenyra had given birth to her eldest son Jacaerys. He had tufts of downy hair on his head, brown as his true fathers. Yet, as Laenor held the boy close, she knew that he cared not for her transgressions. The prince consort let the man of the night watch, Harwin Strong, cradle the baby as he attended to the girl he had taken as his daughter. Selaenya fussed within her fathers grasp, trying to reach for the baby in Harwins strong arms. "Do not fret, dear child." Harwin laughs lightly, admiring the firstborn he could never claim. "You will have your turn once I have had my fill."

A small plea slipped from her lips as she pouted and crossed her arms. Laenor smiled at her and kissed her atop her head. Her golden hair had begun to curl around her face, he tucked a stray curl from her wild hair behind her ear as he guided her to the couch. Rhaenyra watched, exhausted from her labors, no less happy at the small family she now had. "Now be gentle, sweetness." Laenor says, Harwin holding the head of the boy as he lays him in her arms. "He is delicate."

She croons as she looks down at the baby. He stared absentmindedly up at the toddler. "Pitty." She says in her baby voice. Her hand came to brush his cheeks, and he gently yawned and leaned into her. "Baby sho pitty." She grins, "Jacey."

"You like him, my love?" Rhaenyra asked the young girl, her head leaning against the birthing bed. The maids now fluttered around her as they began the process of cleaning her. "That boy will be with you always." Her tone was soothing, warm and honeyed as the girl giggled.

"Jacey." Was all the little girl managed to say, but the boy cracked a bleary eye open and gripped onto the girl's finger. Rhaenyra knew then and there, her eldest daughter, in all but blood, would wed her oldest son.

It was the beginning of a love so deep, so long in the making, that even the stars cried the day the babe was born. The heavens weeped as the little girl held her future and her undoing, all while not having a clue of her future or her past. She was a gentle thing in youth, marred by the curse of her blood and the sin of her existence. Jacaerys Velaryon and Selaenya Targaryen are two halves of the same star, bleeding into one as time goes on.

Love was delicate, something poets wrote of as a bloody, writhing, alive thing. Something so terrifyingly simple and utterly complex could be felt across lifetimes. This was the moment that Salaenya had been solidified into the tapestry of the Targaryen future, for if Jacaerys had not been born, Salaenya would have let it fall into fire and blood. 

Indi Speaking !

So like... here we go?? This fic is being singlehandedly motivated by a writathon I'm apart of right now lmao?? I'm so excited for these two (and eventually cregan) and eventually there will be a companion book Swan Song about my girl Melarie and how she goes bat shit after her son is killed ( b & c , cuz i love angsty shit and need to write a mothers rage. ) So yeah... this is the beginning of a very complicated plot that I may have to re-write multiple times. This will be 18+ at some points, so just be warned ab what you're walking into. 

Vote n comment, it motivates me sm <33  
Love, indi 

Words. 3080.      Published. 7.26.24.         finished. N/A