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ii. DRAGONS OF WHITE HARBOR
SEASON 1
EPISODE 6: THE PRINCESS AND THE QUEEN
—- HOUSE OF THE DRAGON —-

HEAVY IS THE CROWN

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WHITE HARBOR
124 AC

172 YEARS BEFORE DAENERYS TARGARYEN

WHITE HARBOUR
124 AC

|| IT WERE A RATHER BRISK MORNING WHENCE CAME UPON A CALL TO AWAKE. In the quiet stillness and darkened corners of one particularly large room—hummed a soft lullaby of breath. The rays of the gentle sun weeded through the slivers of the blinds —cascading across like spindly fingers upon the stone floor.

Hues of yellow managed to reach upon the old oak—illuminating the once dull surface to a honey blonde. Elegant cravings of delicate floral and waves that lined the walls and columns—spoke full of life once more. It was yet another day the sun had chosen to arise above New Castle.

At the furthest reach from the horizon, a white column stood tall— a small dragon craved ever so gently out of it. The very body tangled around it—fashioned with triangular scales and smoothed features in the cervices.

The sun then gave chase upon a large painting dawned against a wall. At the very center stood a silver—haired woman, clasping a sword tight at her side whilst a dragon lingered slightly to the left. Visenya Targaryen, with dark sister and her dragon Vhager—the warrior queen... written in the smallest High Valyrian at the bottom.

Below that laid a small, wooden desk. Of course, the desk was quite in disarray. As books of every kind laid Strawn upon its exterior. Figurines of tiny soldiers positioned for battle whilst a wooden dragon stood upon a pedestal—its wings outstretched far beyond the body. Readying it to besiege them.

But At the center of the marvelous and merely disarray of studies—laid a bed in the very heart of it all. It were covered at every corner in blankets— what resembled a small fort still stood at the edge. A little lump lay amidst the rubble—where the furs conformed to the circular pattern
matching a small stature.

It were not the highest peak of the hour before the darkened frame of the large oak door flung open rather hastily. In the soft, hushed silence of the pre-dawn twilight, a solitary figure parted the velvety shadows of night, wrapped in a sense of purpose. The proverbial blackbird singing in the dead of night, she stood, her tender hair glistening under the tenuous glow of the first light.

A tall and narrow woman emerged elaborately, whilst fitted in silk of the finest red joined with black lining. Upon the neckline of a such a dress fashioned light blue and pale yellow lacework in that of a small dragon.

Paying homage to her own dragon, Azurine. Princess Naemera Targaryen was the woman's namesake. Her long, elegant silver hair like that of the passing moon, was braided tightly together into a weaved manner. It was then secured into a row at the back of her head.

Her small crown was a slight anchor to keep the rather long hair at ease. That was the one thing detailed about the Princess Naemera the most, were she was a lady of most extraordinary grace. Never once was her hair daring to fall upon her face or neck unless at night in the shallows of the room.

The maids of the house quickly followed in behind her with the flick of her wrist to the air—a crisp ring from her thumb against her middle finger. The princess of eight-and-twenty of prominent noble birth, looked rather distasteful upon the little shroud that laid hidden in the covers.

With her hands upon her hips, the lady mother commanded the blankets be tossed off. And without missing a beat, the two maidens did just that—soon revealing a small child. The girl was quite a sight to see, sprawled out like one had just fell from a great distance.

Glancing around the room, Naemera's eyes of the palest violet locked upon the desk. Disgruntled at the very lowest level, the princess then made her way over and gracefully sat upon the bedside—the material slowly confirmed to her shape. In this, the young child awoke—feeling the gravity of her space change.

Groggily, the girl of nine rubbed the sleep from the inner corners of her eyes—one's that then that fully focused upon the middle aged woman seated to her right. Her silver hair that usually keep up with appearances, was now unkempt and Shorn about.

" Good morning, my sweet." Naemera's voice was soft and soothing—the crisp roll that followed her words spoke only of one language—high Valyrian. One that Vyselyra was quite good at and picked up the words fairly easily.

The girl slowly sat herself up, using the palms of her hands to steady. Princess Vyselyra Targaryen was her name; a combination of both Viserys and Visenya's name. Naemera believed for one to succeed, one must drawn the strength in from their forebears. Hence how the young girl came upon Vyselyra.

As her eyes of gold and brown mimicking the colors of fall fell upon the light bursting from the faded glass. The young girl's heart leaped and all the very energy that stored with her small frame—unleashed at its fullest. Her spirit was as fiery as the dragons her lineage tamed.

Vyselyra thrusted herself at once from the bed —merely knocking her lady mother out of the way. She eagerly marched over to the darkened blinds before not-so-graciously ripping them open. Revealing the rays of honey to every dark nook of the room. Of course, this was done with quite a struggle as the window and blinds were far more taller than she.

" Today is the day!" Vyselyra exclaimed rather loudly—admist a slight jump. The day where they were all to set sail for Kingslanding. For the announcement of princess Rhaenyra, where she was to yield yet another child. The news spread vastly like wildfire upon dried bushes. But it was not through the clamber of the folks where the news was heard.

A personal letter was sent, asking the Manderlys to join in the joyous celebration by uncle Kings Viserys. Someone who undoubtedly, would happily greet their arrival with open arms.

Not only that, but she'd get to see Rhae's two sons; Jacaerys and Lucerys Velaryon. Now, Jace was of zero-and-one—not far off from her own age. The duo oftentimes found themselves in great trouble, usually with Vyselyra sparking or ending the fight.

Wherever she went, Jacaerys was not far behind. When she was wasn't there causing a ruckus, both often wrote to another, though the writing wasn't in the greatest sense possible—the words often barely legible.

Forth-more, she marveled in all the stories from Ser Laenor Velaryon—especially of the ones from the stepstones. Their sessions of history and battles were often more than limited as the princess did not visit often. Only having the opportunity too when her father was called to court. The pair had always been quite close, with him exchanging his knowledge of dragon handling and sword fighting. He often partook in training her for such battles in case the need arise.

For maneuvering a Dragon was not a simple task as maneuvering a horse, nor a boat. However, with that being mentioned, Ser Laenor would use these such examples to express the importance of the bond between dragon and rider. However, she were not allowed to train fully with Windermere until 8, once the dragon was deemed big enough to ride and when Naemera was fully persuaded to finally ease her grip.

Unlike her mother whom did not particularly take to the swords nor of the others, Vyselyra found such thrill in the presence. Hearing all the glorious stories about the bloodshed and battles fought, she was eager to once more start of her sword training with Ser Laenor.

The young princess yelped with glee once more—pushing her body away from the window seal towards her mother. A slight smile dare to tug at the corners of princess Naemera's mouth, violet eyes softening upon her daughter's euphoria.

After many years of trying and failing every time to conceive a child; Vyselyra was their blessing. And so, she was watched over like a hawk—not one place the young princess could go without a guard. Perhaps that was exhibit A of why Vyselyra felt the need to rebel at certain times.

But Vyselyra denied the notion of being dressed by her mother nor of the maidens— as she claimed she was old enough. Remarking a girl even of her status shall know how to dress oneself.

So upon hearing her daughter's argument,
Naemera merely held her arms slightly up in defeat. And then maidens fancied in blue and white dresses, simply bowed their heads—still holding the dresses of which Naemera had chosen.

But yet, it was deemed Vyselyra rather the freedom of movement that the night slip granted her. Small dragons and merman's were woven of black lace— cuffed at the elbow of the gown. With that being said, Vyselyra twirled on the ball of her right foot twice before coming to a halt—splaying out her arms in a ta-da motion. Her hair just barely moved back to its original shape—yet lost strands called her lashes home.

But the proud princess Naemera raised a slight brow at her daughter's idea of dressing herself. It was very clear the princess was yet to be officially released from her grasp of dressing. She merely found it quite amusing for she was the same way at such an age. Queen Alsyanne surely had her hands quite full. At that age, Naemera rebelled against the authority of her grandmother—never fully grasping how appearances were to be upheld.

As it seemed the role had been reversed and now she had the reins. Taking one more look upon her daughter, the older Targaryen beckoned for the maids to come forth with the dresses she picked. The maidens more the age of her mother slowly walked forth—a dress laid out between both women's forearms.

Vyselyra groaned heavily— tossing her head lightly back; her eyes then gazing upon the high ceiling. Naemera was not at all having the ailing child's distress. There would be another time such things. She quickly moved for the wooden brush stationed at the night stand before her eyes settled upon a rather reluctant Vyselyra.

But the lady mother was not having it and wished to leave New Castle at a timely manner. So, she gently took Vyselyra by the wrist and began walking her towards the bed. Yet came the battle of dragging the young girl—for she refused to lift even one foot in accordance.

It were moments like this that Naemera would whether face the silverwing beauty itself than face her daughter antics. Finally caving in, Vyselyra sat with her arms folded over another across her chest—dismal made itself at home in her features. The lady mother took the brush upon her wild curls—trying her best to at least tame them. As the teeth of the comb racked against Vyselyra's scalp— wincing upon her mother's endless tugging.

" Vyselyra, this time how about we not cause a ruckus with Aegon and Jacaerys. You know very well it is not suited of young noble to play such cruel games."

The girl merely rolled her eyes distastefully, it wasn't that she necessarily wanted the fight nor the attention—it was just Aegon knew very well of her temper and exactly how to push every single button. Thus in true fashion, would cause her rage to unleash upon either him or others that dared interfere. Jacaerys however was quite the opposite, he mostly eased her back to reality.

Feeling the subtle shift of her daughter's demeanor through that heightened sense a mother possesses—Naemera was quick to speak again. " This is in celebration for Rhaenrya.
A new child is to be born no matter the circumstances. We must support her in this time."  She spoke, before placing the dragon pin fitted of rudys upon her braid.

Once the girls hair was fashioned as tamed—her hair of silver hues that sang of the moon seated proudly in a neat braid, wrapped securely by the forementioned pin. And of course came the dressing much again her dismay. Never once did she speak to acknowledge what her mother spoke of, merely nodding as her way of communicating it was understood.

The tiny dress was simple, not as extravagant as Naemera's. Yet fashioned of turquoise silk with small hints of red at the sleeves, and black string hooked them to the body of the dress. Mimicking much of her mother, Vyselyra's dress held a dragon of lime green and pale yellow lacework across the lower neckline. This was a depiction of the he-dragon Windermere, the young Targaryen's beast of nine years.

Naemera unfolded a black cape with a bright red silk lining—and almost flattering by nature—folded it across the one maiden's arms. It was a colossal insignia that felt as though it bore the weight of a destiny, crafted meticulously for dragon riders; one laced with a fine thread of gold, and infused with the strength and warmth essential for the arduous task of riding.

Slowly, Naemera took it from the maiden and delicately draped the black cape upon Vyselyra's small stature—The cape, though large, settled with noble grace over her small form as if recognizing its wearer's noble roots. It seemed to possess an uncanny awareness of the tender shoulders it rested upon, molding its contours to her silhouette like a guardian – protective yet empowering, quiet yet assertive.

The older, distinguished Targaryen got down to on knee, her eyes reflecting respect and fondness as she looked upon her daughter. Ever so carefully, Naemera brought the two pieces of black fabric together and fastened the ornate clasp. The clasp itself was a work of mesmerizing artistry—a merman cast in sterling silver, poised sideways, with a finely carved trident forming the other connecting clasp.

The merman, symbolic of vigilance and resilience, seemed to leap forth from the rich black fabric into which it was embedded, an embodiment of the fighting spirit of House Manderly.

Vyselyra's small frame, clad in the elegant cape, held a momentous air as the older Targaryen took a step back, her wrinkled eyes inspecting. The tiny palpitations under the fine cloak gave away the child's excitement. Naemera stared back at Vyselyra, her youthful eyes glowing with determination—an unspoken homage to the heritage she was born into and the legacy she was destined to protect.

Naemera flashed Vyselyra a small smile upon her dainty lips—-raising her slender hand to meet her daughter's rosey cheek. Her lengthy fingers, still held youth among them—touching as softly as the wands of new spring foliage. From her eyes to the warmth of her smile, Naemera was a conduit for happiness—as if the universe chose her to channel its positivity through.

So as she held her hand there to bask in the moment with her daughter, Vyselyra happily did the same—placing her much smaller hand upon her mother's. The bond both shared was irreplaceable.

But the darling moment was quite cut short when her half brother Medrick, came knocking up the door frame. The young boy of eleven years, his head filled of bouncing curls of reds and browns hues. Many would say he was the very spitting image of their father, Lord Desmond. Both Targaryens immediately locked upon the boy in the doorway. Naemera sighed heavily, hopeful that Vyselyra would at least listen this time and the trip would go relatively smoothly.

Vyselyra immediately removed her hand from her mother, eying her brother's stature before rushing him. The boy not having one moment to utter the words before Vyselyra, with the burst of energy of a bull, bounced upon her eldest brother like a wild wolf. Naemera merely rolled her eyes watching the two smack hands around, their version of throwing punching—their giggles feeling the atmosphere of the hall.

With her hands upon her hips once, Naermera looked at the duo rather distasteful, "Knock it off you two." She sternly commended, trying to ease them to take it up elsewhere whilst she found their father and Torrhen. But Vyselyra, being the little instigator, slapped her brother upon the right cheek; with the sound flesh hitting flesh echoing through hollow hall—before darting off towards the courtyard. Struggling to hold the mass of her dress within her arms.

Medrick however was not letting her get the last word in and followed right in suit of her. Naemera was not far behind, hoisting her dress in both hands as she moved—as it would not drag across the stone.

Vyselyra dodged cooks, contorting her body around their large bowls and circular dishes. Maidens carrying lindens were the biggest hurtle, but from her training, she quickly ducked down and scooted under a opening in the cart. She cared not for her brothers nor of the maidens that dared to stand within her way.

However, Medrick was not far behind her—his legs having carried him a greater distance. Of course, he was slightly older than the Targaryen girl.

But Almund, one of her father's loyal guards, noticing the duo racing towards him at top speed—Quickly moved from his post at the entrance and lunged his trident out. Knowing exactly where Vyselyra would end up. Which in turn, caused the young princess to come to a screeching halt— thus ending the game of tag as Medrick caught her.

" Got you now!" He exclaimed rather boastfully, grabbing at her shoulder and twirling her around to face him. Disgruntled, Vyselyra acting as if he had provoked the fight. Often, though it was rare, she did not take kindly to losing the games.

So princess Vyselyra merely pushed him away by that of his stomach— causing the boy to fall back first upon the dirt. As the dust settled, Medrick, Perched himself up using his elbows. A sly smile played at lips as he laid there, to which Vyselyra replayed the same—though hers was one of victory.

So unmoved by the guard's haste decision, Vyselyra twirled her thumbs behind her back —innocently acting as if she was going to retreat back to the covered portion of the courtyard. However, Almund having already undergone her usual routine, gently pressed the butt of the trident against that of Vyselyra's chest. Before pushing the girl back in the direction of her mother—whom traveled with great haste towards her and Medrick.

" Vyselyra!" Her voice bellowed—one that usually sounded of heavenly rhythms, was now raspy and scratched at the eardrum just the wrong way. The young princess of White Harbor winced upon hearing her mother's shrill voice, her expression of smugness fell fast—her lips tucking in like a dogs tail between its legs.

There, her body froze simultaneously where she stood. Her limbs dared to not move for it deemed to risky, even when her brain commanded to run. Medrick only flashed the princess a grin merely composed of his triumphant.

Princess Naemera was upon Vyselyra in seconds, twirling her round to face the full extent of distain written upon her face. Naemera was quite prompt on reeling in the young Targaryen-Manderly Princess. But never once did the woman have to ever threaten the child with beatings, for having just a dragon on standby was more than capable of executing the same. Vyselyra, merely in attempt to ease the tension within her mother's grip, cocked a small smile.

" Vyselyra, we mustn't ruin our dresses. You may play your games another time." She sternly remarks— pausing momentarily to let it fully sink in—eyes boring upon the small girl. Vyselyra however, knowing of what she did, heeded not a word to escape from her mouth—for there was not a time nor reason as why she did certain things. It was purely adrenaline of having to be the best and that's why many deemed she was much of a rogue princess like her great uncle Daemon.

Nevertheless, she reluctantly yielded to her mother's request—easing her spirits. " Now, we must make hast to the caves if we are to make it there in great time." Those very last words quite made Vyselyra euphoric once more, as it only meant two things; one was seeing her two friends. Ben and Lyana, children of Commander Wyllam Snow—of Storm Dancer.

Thought their father held a prominent position, Naemera still turned a blind eye toward them, knowing surname Snow was only given to those labeled as bastards. This however, never wavered Vyselyra from sneaking away to hang out with them in the city.

The next would be flying their dragons there. Instead of taking the nasty and slow boat that seemed to carry on for weeks when the journey needed only be a few days. She had always found it quite impressive riding in on dragon back— a-bit daunting than ever.

The caves were built a many years ago into the large mountain that sat behind the castle. Most of the stroll would be taken upon shallow stairs of White but there was a slight chance to be taken partially through the city. And there, White Harbor boomed as it always was, hummed with the enthusiasm of thousands. Men and women alike joyous from the plentiful of their labors.

There was an expanding of colours of the town, but not of the variety many would think— for it was of a pale white. Hence why the city had earned its name. Everywhere the eye glanced, all buildings carried the same kind—white even at the highest peaks. The fullness of the nonexistent color came alive as the brightening of the day strengthened. Many of the roofs that once fancied it, were now faded away from the centuries it stood against the sea of time.

"Princesses," A couple of a many years worn upon their wrinkles remarked.  " Little dragon." Most folk greeted Vyselyra with great affection, most with open arms and enlightened smiles—there were not a single soul upon White Harbour that disliked the girl nor her mother.

Vyselyra was quite free spirited and marched to the beat of her own drum. Greatly influenced by that of her half brothers Medrick and Torrhen. Though as such a tender age, it seemed she followed the irrational logic of the younger of the boys.

But atlas, perhaps it were this attitude that the common folks held a fond appreciation for the young Targaryen/ Manderly princess. It was soon enough when she earned the title as "The white Harbor's divine" purely of her stunning appearance and character. A girl of skin paler than the singing moon itself and hair as white as the doves that nested high upon the sea.

Vyselyra was far from the those that ruled in Kingslanding and held a good reputation of being sweet to those lower than herself. Often smuggling out the leftovers from the kitchen—giving to the grieving and ill-stricken families at the outskirts of the city. Of course, this was aided by the help of Medrick. Even admist their petty arguments and play fights, the duo shared a common ground and that was the love of their people. In some aspects at her age, she also followed strongly in the eldest son's beliefs.

This was likely the case for why so many would side with the White Harbour's divine when the time came forth. As she strolled the streets of grey washed stone and cobble towards the entrance—her head held high and stout. Her mother's hand of warmth held steadily upon her much smaller hand. Some looking in would assume it was of caring nature when in truth, it was the very opposite.

Vyselyra, on many occasions had often bolted from the security of her mother or father whilst making the trip the city or to the dragon caves. And even did the same with the guards. The girl was one of curiosity and lusted for adventure. The troublemaker was often found hiding out with Lyana or with Ben upon his father's ship; StormDancer.

It was deemed in one's best interests to get the princess back before she held a chance to reach her dragon or even those presumed as friends. But they feared her getting to Windermere, as both together were like adding more wood to a fire. They would then ransack or more like scare; a better word to be used. As all the youngest Targaryen did was use her dragon to instill fear in the crew of the cargo ships— thus forcing them to give her the candied goods aboard.

Of course, this had not gone unnoticed and Lord Desmond, though thrilled with her ambition, was not in the slightest pleased with how she went about it. As before, Vyselyra was a child of two sides, one of good and another more sinister. She held a strong flame for chaos within and often found it difficult to control when confronted either by her brothers when fighting or when Aegon would start his antics.

It was a rather and particularly long journey to the highest point of the mountain that snuggled behind the grand New Castle and city. There within the caves, nested Naemera's she—dragon of eight-and-twenty—a large creature of magnificent beauty. Resembling much of her mother-dragon Dreamfyre.

Then came Vyselyra's he—dragon of nine; Windermere; hatched at the highest point of the moons journey across the velvet sky. He was deemed much with the attitude of his rider—holding a very similar attitude as she.

Whenever she were near, Windermere's mood shifted to joyous, a low purr—one growing from his chest. He was eager to spread his translucent wings to the sky whenever possible; adventurous much like his rider. Unlike his counterparts such as Vermax, Windermere was quick to understand the high Valyrian of his rider, listening greatly in part. The young he—dragon heeded her every command.

Much like Syrax, Windermere lived a pleasant lifestyle—never once in his nine years upon the world; did he ever have to hunt his own meals. Vyselyra was justified about communicating that her dragon was to never hunt, for the dangers of the world and thus, had him fed three meals daily. The young princess made sure to watch over the dragon handlers as they prepared his food. His diet mainly consisted of cows, goats and seals of the sea. Or whatever they found on their flights. Vyselyra would often more than non, eat her snacks beside Windermere as he devoured his.

Predominately this was why Ser Laenor was so strong in his counsel, that she needed to learn the ways of dragon handling and fighting. As if anything were to happen, the girl would be quite lost.

And due to their open source of freedom, never once having to be chained nor confined to a room—Azurine quickly surpassed Rhaenrya's dragon in growth long ago. Or so, that's what the dragon handlers had put forth. Windermere still had quite a many years to grow, but he out-massed even Sunfyre.

In short, Windermere was loathed by Aegon—as how one could hate a dragon as he did; one may never know. The reason behind it all was her dragon was much visibly larger than his dragon Sunfyre and it troubled him so. Windermere would often bully the much smaller Sunfyre in the dragon pit whilst the Manderly's were visiting,

Moving along in size, the he-dragon was twice the body of his counterpart Vermax. Vermax's body was only slightly bigger than Windermere's skull. In addition of this, it was not soon before Alicent was accusing of blood magic as how could such dragons have grown so quickly in so little time. Amidst this, Vyselyra well enough understood her mother was quite uneased with having to even be in the Hightower's presence once more.

The entrance to the stairs was of one delicate beauty craved by the finest of architects—an arch that fancied a dragon twirling around smooth curves. Two grant doors of oak finished with the blazon of house Manderly; whilst large fences lined the perimeter—an effort to keep wondering townsfolk from getting too curious about the nest.

For dragons trusted nothing non other than their riders and anyone that dared to step foot in their lair was sure to be sent up in a blaze of flame. Unless, of course the said person was a dragon handler. People of their own status, their language purely of high Valyrian; history sourced by to old Valyria.

Vyselyra was evermore distraught as her eyes trained upon more stairs. She surprisingly hadn't remembered how long it took. Clearly a tactic to deter people away from even thinking of entering the lairs. Vyselyra hated them the most as it felt the steepness carried on forever and it caused the stiffness within her joints. Naemera however, carried on without a single peep.

The pasty color that once held to the cut stone now fashioned of discolor, carrying a story of many steps upon them. Finally after all she had struggled, the platform of which was nestled in front of the entrance—one where they would ready their dragons for riding; rather than the inside the darkened cave-came into full view.

" My lady." The older dragon keeper keen, on speaking in their shared tongue spoke softly, his eyes the color of oak then flickered upon Vyselyra. " Little Princess," he added before ending with a subtle bow to both. He was a man of a rather tall build—much like that of Almund. One of the very many that came from Kingslanding in support to help tend to the dragons here. "They are ready for you." He plainly stated, gesturing in the direction of the cave. Often he spoke without much emotion snaking around his words. There was a body there but much of soul was not.

Their eyes flicked to the cavern. A large fracture in the otherwise solid rock was the mouth—a poorly executed attempt at a rectangular opening. Something Vyselyra found herself commenting on every time she visited the site. However, the opening itself was deemed larger than that of Caraxes or even Vhagar. And it greatly mimicked that of the dragon pit's entrance, yet here no dragons were ever to be confined.

The mouth of the cave on either side was fixed with two wooden dowels fastened to the jagged rocks with metal bearings. At top of the stick wavered a small flicker of light—a marriage of bonny pastel waves eddied and swirled, forming a candle.

The interior was rather dark and dreary; where the only sound that can be heard was the drip of water from the stalactites. The air was quite thick with humidity, and yet the dragons called it their home. Velvet of darkness was so prominent, it were merely impossible to see them nesting if the eyes had not been trained to look for such creatures.

Vyselyra was not one held of fear nor of patience. Hence forth, oftentimes did not wait for Windermere outside, instead going into the cavern for him. "Windermere!" Vyselyra beamed, not longer able to hold the energy bottled within her small body. It was always fascinating to the young princess every time she called her dragon, as he heeded her every command. How one so small could command such a beast of war. But to her, Windermere wasn't a mere beast at all. He definitely was not Balerion and nor would he need to be.

As she slowly entered, there was a distinct change to the atmosphere. The damp and humid conditions inside where a abrupt contradiction to the dryness of air left outside.

Naemera however, patiently awaited Azurine to appear, their bond was more than words spoken-it was felt through the mind and soul of another. A magical connection between both. Vyselyra hoped that hers would become stronger as both grew older.

A loud and drawn out rumble much of a yawn came deep within the cave—one that tumbled throughout her small body. From the atrium of where Vyselyra stood, the cavern branched into two opened channels. One side, usually to the left was where the famed Azurine nested, whereas Windermere held claim to the right side.

As her eyes of warming gold adjusted to the velvet of the darkness—darting across the right side. The slightest glow of orange hues hummed from within the tunnel. The corners of her eyes crinkled, focusing upon the color as it slowly approached. The thumping of movement from a large force hitting dirt then echoed through the stillness.

"Windermere?" She hesitates, her voice slightly pitched as a calming melody. Another rumble mimicking a purr came forth a more; before the illusion of a sharpened head emerged from the rocky womb into honey rays. Windermere frilled out his muscular neck—leading the shiver down from his head into a slim body.

His body was covered in radiant scales of Forest green, colored darker than the rest. Azure blue at the points like they had been painted on—Lime green highlighted the shallow parts. Steadying himself upon the very tip of his wings and his back limbs to carry his body, allowing him to stand towering and noble.

Windermere, upon settling, eagerly strolled over to his rider. Cocking his head and gave a low, vibrating rumble that seemed to say, Hello—enough for her to pet. "Good boy." She whispered, giving him a slight brush against his nose; which he graciously accepted.

However, it was not long before Azurine made her grand entrance—bellowing forth a screech that deeply disturbed the very soul. Upon the very noise entering her body, Vyselyra was quick to place her hands on her ears —nose crinkling in distress.

Windermere, feeling his riders discomfort screeched a song of his own tone—though not as loud or deep as his mother Azurine. Snapping his mouth about his mother-dragon like a horse would when upset with another.

But as the older she-dragon of Princess Naemera slowly came into focus—she was poised as much bigger than he. A low grumble emerging deep from within her mouth of jagged teeth. Fierce azure eyes sit gracefully within her sharp skull—her eyes amidst the rest, were a rather peaceful appearance. Two long crest of tannish, gold sat upon the sides of her head; following in the curve of her eyes. They sat above, surrounded by much smaller, pointy horns. Dark blue like the sky painted itself around where the horns meant the flesh.

Several rows of small horns jutted down the sides of each of her jaw lines—just like Windermere. Rows of pale blue with slight yellow hues cascaded across her scales. Azurine like her son, held a slant to her walk—a process of distributing her massive weight to each limb. The light danced across the entirety of the she-dragon's body—her massive neck muscles shone as she wiggled out the sleep. Azurine had surely earned the honor of her namesake.

Naemera happily greeted her dragon with a smile and little kiss upon her nose. A low purr emitted—Naemera's hand vibrating upon the scales at the very noise. The harness of Aruzine was one of the finest materials—sporting black and red, with a rubied Targaryen symbol at the very center of it. Her seat was hindered lower, velvet black leather placed in midst of golden frame work.

Vyselyra's harness was much like that of her mothers, yet it was blue and gold—with slight accents of red and black. With a little grunt, Windermere shifted his entire body—lowering his one side just enough for her to climb aboard him. Using his leg and wing as some sort of makeshift latter, she grabbed up and used the protruding horns of his neck to hoist herself up.

Windermere of course, being the rebellious dragon he was, jolted his wing a slight bit; causing Vyselyra to lurch forward—before he slammed it back down. She sighed heavily—annoyance playing at her features. Naermera was already aboard Azurine—both patiently awaiting their children to quit being the fools. Thought, admittedly a smile tugged at the eldest Targaryens lips, her eyes teasing a roll—watching as her daughter and dragon bonded over being annoyances. Azurine merely grumbled of distaste, her icy eyes flickering elsewhere. She was never a dragon of much patience.

Windermere, a dragon hatched a fortnight upon a full moon-much like his rider. The egg soon to be deemed that of the young he—dragon, claimed from one of Rhaeys clutches. The egg, though smaller than the rest, was singled out by Naemera. And her reasoning was he may be small now, but in time would grow to be a fierce warrior as his rider.

Naemera knew that there was something spectacular about the very nature of the dragon. For one night when she returned to the bedroom of her sleeping babe—she paused in her tracks, unexpectedly finding the egg had hatched unexpectedly. Frantic, she searched only finding the dragon had taken its slumber next to the sleeping princess Vyselyra. Windermere's tail was curled right beside her lower arm—with his head positioned next to hers.

The memory flashed through her mind quickly, one that was suppressed to the very ends of her mind, since other duties dare to snag at her time. The Targaryen of twenty eight lingered at moment more before flickering her sight elsewhere—the anxiety of needing to arrive there in a timely fashion was ticking away. She was never one to be late, so that trend would definitely not end now.

So Sighing heavily and glancing at her daughter once more time, the elder princess leaned her stomach against the leather padding of the seat, her hands gripping upon the blackened handles.

With a subtle squeeze of her thighs, Azurine screeched a song of pride—before taking a slow running leap of faith into the morning air. Her much larger translucent wings of the palest blue clasped at the air—blue like that of a sky on a winter's morning. Azurine spoke of grumbles to the much younger dragon of nine— for he was still earning his take off skills.

Without a second more to waste, eager to arise to the sky, Vyselyra leaned down and tightly grasped onto the golden handles that protruded out of the saddle. Just enough for her to hold onto as he slightly turned to the side—many could said she were stupid for not having reins, but Vyselyra and her mother shared a similar feeling about them. Both disliked having the way the reins were hooked upon the creatures.

With a little call out to the Azurine above, he started to run forward, first with his wings against the ground— pushing pass the onlooking dragon handlers.

His translucent wings of lightened green spread upon evenly across the sky— flapping away at the brisk air just enough to pick up the much needed speed to lift his body into the air. Vyselyra looked behind her just one more time to see the elder dragon handler standing there unfazed, with his arms crossed and look of pride upon his face. " Goodbye Tse!.." she bellowed, her voice just barely reaching his ears. As Windermere hunched at the last minute— using all the strength in his legs—hoisted himself into the icy air. There were a moment where he dropped off below platform— his very shape disappearing into the shadows before reappeared with lightening speed, overhead the cave.

Feeling the crisp morning air against her skin was enough to remind her that this was the start to a new day, a new beginning—to welcome her new baby cousin into a world of hatred.

Her dragon slightly wavered far behind her mother—but Naemera had been flying Azurine for twenty years and Vyselyra had only been flying Windermere for barely 2 years. So her mother had more handling skills and time than she.

But with Windermere being smaller, Vyselyra was quick to surpass them, twirling down towards a larger docked ship. Upon seeing her brothers along with Ben playfully punching another on the ships deck. An expression of smugness grew tenfold upon her soft features—leaning herself further forward.

With this act signaled to Windermere to dive and so he did. Just low enough to get her brother reactions of disappointment for having to cruise with the rest on the boat. Of course to add salt to the wound, she made a face using that of her tongue—sticking it out at them. Now rather or not they could see that, it were another story.

       —————-HEAVY IS THE CROWN——————

Author's note
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—-BRO ALL THESE SPOILERS FROM THE SET OF SEASON TWOOOO. I know there's the books, but like let's be honest. Sometimes they never follow it .