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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 hushed stillness of the vast chamber, where shadows clung to the crevices like wary sentinels, the soft susurrus of breath could almost be mistaken for a lullaby. Slender fingers of morning light, prying their way through the narrow slits of the half-closed blinds, crept across the cold stone floor in searching patterns. Dust motes danced in the beams, gilded and fleeting, as though the very air had taken to waltzing in the sun's tender favor.

The pale rays, timid but persistent, fell upon an ancient oak table in the room's heart. Where once the wood had seemed sullen and dark, the sun coaxed forth a warm, honeyed glow, bringing life to the faded grains.

Along the walls and columns, the careful carvings of flowers and curling waves seemed to stir, no longer the lifeless adornments of shadow but whispers of artistry and memory, as if the room itself exhaled after a long night's slumber. Another day had come to New Castle, and the sun, as ever, rose to claim dominion over stone and story alike.

In the farthest recess, standing in proud defiance of time, a white marble column gleamed—its surface the canvas for a dragon's patient embrace. The creature's body coiled lightly about the pillar, each triangular scale lovingly rendered, its features smoothed where loving hands and the years had conspired to soften them. In the dim light, it might almost stir, a guardian dreaming of skies long lost.

Across the chamber, the sunlight found its next conquest upon a grand painting adorning the wall, a relic of memory and pride. At its heart stood a silver-haired woman, her face stern yet luminous, her hand clenched tight around the hilt of a dark, slender sword.

Beside her loomed the suggestion of a dragon, its presence half-shrouded, patient and eternal. Below, in the most delicate of High Valyrian script, the words named her: Visenya Targaryen, with Dark Sister and her dragon Vhagar—the warrior queen. Here, in this quiet hall of stone and sunlight, the past lingered, resplendent and unforgotten.

Beneath the dim light of that room, there rested a modest wooden desk, small and unassuming, though any hint of order had long abandoned it. Books of every shape and subject sprawled across its surface, some stacked precariously, others fallen open as though in mid-conversation with whoever last turned their pages.

Among the clutter stood tiny soldier figurines, each frozen mid-battle, locked in some eternal conflict only their silent general might command. And there, upon a proud little pedestal, loomed a wooden dragon, its wings flung wide as if to cast a shadow over the troops below, poised to descend with all the menace of a storm yet to break.

Beyond this chaos of study and collected curiosities lay the heart of the room: a bed, low and worn, swallowed in a fortress of blankets and furs. At its edge rose the remnants of some proud little bastion, a child's citadel against the night. Curled within, half-hidden by the rumpled layers, was a small, still form—a lump no larger than the shape of the furs themselves, as if the bedding had grown a soul of its own.

No sooner had the quiet hour settled into its soft pre-dawn hum than the great oak door shuddered and swung wide, protesting with a low groan. Shadows fled before the sudden intrusion, and in their place stepped a solitary figure, tall and narrow, moving with the fluid caution of one who knows she belongs and yet treads softly amidst the silence.

She was adorned in silks of deepest red, their hems brushed with black, the neckline kissed with pale blue and yellow lace, the pattern curving into the delicate silhouette of a dragon—small, but proud, as though it guarded her very heart.

Princess Naemera Targaryen moved with a quiet majesty that seemed born from the blood of dragons themselves—paying silent tribute to her own steed, the pale and magnificent Azurine. She was the very image of her storied house, her long silver hair—soft and luminous like moonlight spilling over still water—woven into intricate braids that coiled and crossed.

Each plait met and merged into a gathered row along the back of her head, and there it was fastened, as if the hair itself were in service to her poise. Upon it rested a small coronet, a delicate circlet of silver and onyx, not so much a burden as a gentle anchor, keeping the gleaming river of her hair tamed and still. 

They said of Naemera that she was a woman touched by grace, and it was so; not a single strand ever dared to trespass upon the smooth plane of her brow or the slender curve of her neck by day. Only in the quiet hours of night, when the torches guttered low and her chambers sank into shadow, did her hair find the courage to spill free. 

A soft snap of her fingers—a sharp, ringing kiss of thumb to middle finger—cut through the stillness of the chamber, and at once her attendants emerged, as if conjured from the very shadows. They moved like wraiths, a small flock of silent and obedient shades gliding to her side, trailing behind as though drawn by the invisible threads of her will.

The princess, Naemera of House Targaryen was two -and-thirty, a blossom of noble blood so old and proud that the lines of her family could be traced back to the very forges of Valyria, where fire and blood had first entwined to shape the destiny of dragonlords. Yet in this moment, her gaze—those pale violet eyes, cool as frost upon fresh glass—fell upon the small, shrouded shape nestled beneath the bedclothes, and a shadow of displeasure crossed her high-boned face. 

The silken blankets rose in a narrow mound, a sliver of shadow and weight betraying what lay hidden there. Her lips curled, ever so slightly, in a manner that suggested more than she would ever allow to be spoken aloud—a mingling of disdain, curiosity, and the hint of some inward calculation. It was the expression of a woman who could hold ten thoughts behind her eyes and betray none of them save what she chose. 

She placed her hands upon her hips, a queen in her own demesne, and with a single wordless gesture, commanded the maids to lay bare what the bedding concealed. They obeyed at once, as though her very fingers had plucked at their strings, and the blankets were whisked aside with practiced precision.

There, revealed amidst the billowing folds of silk and shadow, was a small child. She lay sprawled in a manner most unbecoming, as though she had been dropped from some great height and left to settle where she fell, limbs askew and face slack with the heavy abandon of sleep. 

Naemera's gaze wandered slowly through the shadowed chamber, moving over the muted shapes of furniture and the long fingers of darkness that crept from the corners, until at last it settled upon the solitary desk beneath the tall, arched window. She pressed her lips together, a thin line of resolve or disapproval, and a faint furrow creased her brow.

Whatever thoughts stirred behind those pale, luminous eyes, they carried no warmth, no softness; they were the thoughts of a woman weighed by memory, judgment, or perhaps some quiet, simmering grief.

With the languid poise of one accustomed to command her every movement, she drifted across the room. Her gown whispered against the floor, the silken fabric sighing and brushing like the ghost of a breath, and she came to perch upon the edge of the great bed. The mattress sank beneath her, reshaping itself around her form, as though the down and silk themselves bowed in acknowledgment of her presence, yielding in silent submission.

It was then that the atmosphere shifted. A subtle change, almost imperceptible, yet enough for the little world contained within those four walls to sense it. The child stirred, drawn from the deep well of slumber by some wordless pull. Her eyelids fluttered like the wings of a moth testing the air, and she gave a faint, drowsy murmur before dragging a small fist across her eyes. A girl of nine, she blinked the remnants of dreams from her lashes, squinting up at the figure seated beside her bed.

Her silver hair, so often neat and gleaming beneath the light of day, now fell in uneven drifts, shorn and untamed, framing her face in a wild halo. She focused at last upon Naemera, that middle-aged woman whose presence seemed to still the air itself, and in the quiet that stretched between them, the night seemed to hold its breath.

" 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 Vaenyra was quite good at and picked up the words fairly easily.

With a languid effort, the girl began to push herself upright, her small palms pressed flat against the coverlets as if drawing strength from the bed itself. The movement was slow at first, tentative, for in the drowsy glow of morning even the simplest act seemed a labor.

Her name was Lady Vaenyra Targaryen, a name wrought from the legacies of Rhaenyra and Visenya. It was Naemera who often said that to endure in this world, one must drink deep from the strength of those who came before, and it was in that spirit the girl had been given another name: Vaenyra—a title whispered as both blessing and omen.

Her eyes, a curious mingling of gold and brown that caught the light like leaves in the turning of autumn, wandered to the fractured panes where the sun crept through faded glass. Each beam spilled like molten honey, and at its touch her heart seemed to stir, to leap within her slender chest. The energy that had slumbered in her small frame awoke all at once, bright and uncontained, as if she herself were a spark kindled from dragonfire.

With a suddenness that startled even her lady mother, Vaenyra flung herself from the bed, a whirlwind of youthful vigor. Her feet found the floorboards, and she made for the window, heedless of the startled gasp behind her.

The heavy blinds loomed far above her head, tall and stubborn in their shadows, yet she attacked them with ungraceful determination, tugging, wrenching, and clawing until the darkness surrendered. At last, with a sharp rip and a clatter, the room was bathed in light. Golden rays spilled into every corner, chasing away the gloom and heralding the day, as though the sun itself had bent to the will of a child of dragons.

" Today is the day!" Vaenyra 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 Vaenyra 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 lady Manderly 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, Vaenyra 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; Vaenyra 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 Vaenyra felt the need to rebel at certain times.

But the Manderly 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.

Yet it was, in truth, the gift of unbridled motion that drew Vaenyra most to the night-slip, that simple garment which whispered of freedom with each step she took. The fabric, black lace worked with delicate patterns of tiny dragons and the faint suggestion of mermen, caught the dim candlelight as she moved, the sleeves cinched neatly at her elbows to leave her forearms free.

There was a certain impish delight in her as she spun twice upon the ball of her right foot, a soft whisper of slipper against stone, before she stilled herself in a triumphant pose, arms thrown wide in an unspoken ta-da. A few stubborn strands of hair, having fled her braid in the spin, brushed against her lashes, clinging there like children reluctant to return to their bed.

Across the chamber, Princess Naemera—ever regal even in quiet disapproval—arched a single, perfectly trained brow at the sight. Her daughter's attempt at self-adornment had not yet won her release from the careful hands that had dressed her since birth, for the princess was still very much within her mother's orbit.

Naemera found the scene more amusing than she would dare confess aloud, for she herself had once been a girl much the same, headstrong and unbending.

Queen Alsyanne, in those days, had borne the full weight of her wayward charge. Naemera remembered well her own rebellions against the firm and patient rule of her grandmother, railing against the invisible chains of duty and appearance, never quite willing to accept that a princess's very skin was a performance for the world to behold.

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.

Vaenyra 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 Vaenyra.

But the lady mother was not having it and wished to leave New Castle at a timely manner. So, she gently took Vaenyra 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, Vaenyra 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 Vaenyra scalp— wincing upon her mother's endless tugging.

"Vaenyra," Naemera began, her voice carrying that soft lilt of warning that only a mother could wield, "This time, let us try not to stir another ruckus with Aegon and Jacaerys. You know as well as I that it ill becomes a young noble to dabble in such cruel diversions."

The girl answered with a roll of her eyes, sharp and disdainful, like a dagger cast aside. It was not that she hungered for another quarrel, nor that she craved the attention that always followed; rather, it was that Aegon had long since mastered the art of needling at her temper, plucking each string as though her very patience were an instrument he delighted in tormenting.

And once he had set her alight, there was little to do but endure the blaze—her wrath would spill over him or, should some other poor soul step into her path, upon them instead. Jacaerys, by contrast, was the calm in her storm. He possessed a quiet gravity, a way of drawing her back from the edge, as though the mere weight of his presence anchored her to the earth.

Sensing, with that preternatural awareness borne of motherhood, the slow shift in her daughter's mood, Naemera did not allow the silence to linger. "This day is meant for Rhaenyra," she said, gentler now. "A new child is to be born into this house, and whatever storms may gather around her, we must stand beside her in this hour."

As she spoke, her hands were not idle; she reached for the dragon-shaped pin set with blood-red rubies and nestled it among the braids of her dark hair, the gemstones catching the torchlight like tiny coals ready to spark into flame.

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, Vaenyra'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 Vaenyra 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.

Naemera Targaryen, the elder and stately matron of her house, sank gracefully to one knee, the silvery strands of her hair catching the flicker of torchlight as she gazed up at her daughter with eyes brimming in equal measure with pride and tenderness.

Her weathered hands, steady despite the years etched upon them, reached to gather the two lengths of black fabric, their soft weight whispering of old histories and solemn oaths. Slowly, with a care that seemed to draw the moment out into something sacred, she joined the twin pieces and secured them with the clasp—a marvel of such exquisite craft that it all but demanded a pause of reverence.

The clasp was no mere adornment. Forged in bright sterling silver, it was a leaping merman, his sleek tail curling mid-surge, his face turned as if to challenge the sea itself. Across from him, the finely wrought trident caught the firelight in sharp gleams, its barbed points rising to meet him, the two halves connecting with a sound more felt than heard.

It was a token meant to endure, a symbol not only of House Manderly's resilience but of the ceaseless vigilance of those who wear its mark. In that instant, it seemed almost alive, ready to spring forth from the black folds of the cloak, a spirit of the deep bound to the flesh and blood of the family it served.

When Naemera eased back, her joints protesting only slightly, her eyes traced the delicate figure of young Vaenyra, now draped in the solemn elegance of the cape. There was a subtle gravity in the girl's bearing, a momentous air that belied her small frame.

Beneath the fine fabric, the quickened rise and fall of her chest betrayed her excitement, and yet her face—those luminous, defiant eyes—spoke of something older than childhood, a quiet oath unspoken. In Vaenyra's gaze Naemera saw the flicker of the past and the forge of the future: the unbroken chain of heritage, the steel of a legacy that would not bend, a flame she herself tended and now passed on to the child before her.

Naemera flashed Vaenyra 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, Vaenyra 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 Vaenyra would at least listen this time and the trip would go relatively smoothly.

Vaenyra 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 Vaenyra, 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 Vaenyra, 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.

Vaenyra 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.

Almund, one of her father's most steadfast and loyal guards, had been standing sentinel at the great hall's entrance when the commotion first reached him—the pounding of small feet against stone and the sharp echo of breathless laughter. His sharp eyes caught the sight of the two figures hurtling toward him with all the reckless abandon of youth.

Without hesitation, and with the ease born of long practice, he slipped from his post and angled his trident low, the polished steel glinting in the sun. He knew, as he always did, exactly where the young princess would dart next, and his sudden movement forced her to skid to a jarring halt. The game was over the instant her momentum died, her skirts whispering against the dust.

"Got you now!" Medrick's triumphant voice rang out behind her, full of boyish pride, as he seized her shoulder and spun her around to face him. Vaenyra scowled, her dark eyes flashing with the indignation of the defeated. She had never worn the mantle of loss comfortably, and in those rare moments when misfortune found her, she wore her temper like armor.

With a huff, she shoved him square in the stomach. Medrick toppled backward, landing flat on the packed earth with a heavy thud, a cloud of dust blossoming around his sprawled figure. For a heartbeat he lay there blinking up at the sky, then propped himself up on his elbows, a mischievous grin curling at the corners of his mouth. Vaenyra's own lips mirrored his expression, yet hers held the glimmer of reclaimed victory, a small and silent satisfaction in the game of their endless rivalry.

So unmoved by the guard's haste decision, Vaenyra 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 Vaenyra's chest. Before pushing the girl back in the direction of her mother—whom traveled with great haste towards her and Medrick.

" Vaenyra!" Her voice bellowed—one that usually sounded of heavenly rhythms, was now raspy and scratched at the eardrum just the wrong way. The young lady 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 Vaenyra 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. Vaenyra, merely in attempt to ease the tension within her mother's grip, cocked a small smile.

" Vaenyra, 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. Vaenyra 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 Vaenyra 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 Vaenyra 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 Vaenyra 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.

Vaenyra 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.

Alas, perhaps it was that very demeanor which endeared the young Manderly princess to the hearts of the smallfolk. In time, whispers spread across the quays and cobbled streets, calling her by a name both reverent and affectionate: the Divine of White Harbor.

She had earned the title not through deeds of conquest or proclamations from high halls, but by the simple grace of her presence—her beauty and her gentle heart. Her skin was pale as the moon when it sang across the darkened waters, and her hair shone whiter than the doves that nested in the salt-stained eaves of the city's towers.

Vaenyra was no creature of the southern courts, no proud blossom of King's Landing with its gilded intrigues and venomous courtesies. She belonged to the North in truth and spirit, and the people knew her as kindly beyond her station.

Oft would she slip unseen from the kitchens of her house, arms laden with what remained of the family's feasts, to gift the last of the bread and meats to grieving widows and the sickly children who shivered in the wind at the city's edge. Such mercies were not hers alone, for in these small adventures she was aided always by Medrick, her companion in both mischief and devotion.

Between them, quarrels and playful squabbles were as common as breath, yet beneath it all ran a vein of shared purpose: a love for their people, fierce and unshaken. In her youth, even as a maiden still learning the ways of her house, she already trod a path not unlike that of her eldest brother, whose beliefs she shared with unspoken pride.

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 Vaenyra'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. Vaenyra 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. Vaenyra 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 in the freedom of the open skies, unshackled and unconfined, never once chained nor forced into the dark and stifling chambers of a dragonpit, Azurine had thrived. The blue-scaled she-dragon had grown swiftly and splendidly, surpassing—long ago—the proud mount of Rhaenrya, or so the dragonkeepers whispered in their smoky halls.

Windermere, for all his youth, still had many long years of growth before him, yet even now his girth and weight outstripped that of Sunfyre, gleaming and golden though he was.

It was said that Aegon's hatred for Windermere ran deeper than any could rightly comprehend, for how does one come to despise such a creature as a dragon? Some murmured the boy-king's resentment was born of envy—his Sunfyre, radiant but small, made pitiable before the towering presence of the Manderly's he-dragon.

Oft had Windermere tormented the lesser beast in the dragonpit, snapping and posturing in cruel sport, all while the visiting lords of White Harbor looked on from the galleries.

In truth, Windermere's sheer size was a spectacle in itself. His body, broad and muscled, was twice the length of Vermax, and it was said that Vermax's whole frame would scarcely match the enormity of Windermere's skull. Such prodigious growth gave rise to darker talk still, for it was not long before

Queen Alicent whispered accusations of sorcery and blood rites. How else, she asked, could any dragon swell so vast in so brief a span of years? Vaenyra, for her part, needed no maester's counsel to read the unease in her mother's eyes, nor to feel the cold weight of being once more in the shadow of the Hightower's walls.

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.

Vaenyra 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. The lady 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 Vaenyra. " 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.

Vaenyra 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!" Vaenyra 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. Vaenyra 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 Vaenyra 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?" Her voice wavered on the name, soft and lilting, a melody meant as much to soothe as to call. The cavern answered first, with a tremor that rolled like a distant purr, a sound that belonged to something alive yet hidden. Then the stone seemed to breathe; from the womb of rock, a glint of motion stirred, and the illusion of a sharpened head pushed into the honeyed light of the sun.

Slowly, deliberately, Windermere emerged, muscles rippling beneath his scaled hide as life flowed into the great sinews of his neck and spine. A shiver of motion traveled down the ridge of his slender body, as if he were shaking off the final weight of darkness.

He was a vision of wild majesty—his scales a deep forest green, rich as pine at dusk, with the darker hue cloaking his flanks like a living shadow. At the edges, where light kissed him, the colors broke into brilliance.

Tips brushed with azure, as though the sky itself had traced its fingers along his form, and the shallower grooves caught the gleam of lime, a sharp, vibrant whisper of green against green. He steadied himself upon the jointed tips of his wings and the strength of his back limbs, rising with a noble poise, a creature wrought of both grace and power, towering in the glow.

Once his stance was sure, Windermere moved with a kind of eager familiarity, a predator's stride softened into something almost companionable, and came to his rider. He cocked his head as he approached, the great eyes catching glints of light, and let loose a low, thrumming rumble, a sound that spoke a wordless greeting, like a deep and resonant Hello.

The woman reached out without fear, her hand brushing over the fine bridge of his nose, and he accepted the touch with quiet satisfaction. "Good boy," she whispered, her voice for him alone, and the dragon leaned into her small gesture with the grace of a king bowing to his chosen queen.

It was not long before Azurine announced her arrival, a grand and terrible entrance heralded by a shriek that seemed to pierce the marrow of the world itself. The sound did not simply echo—it crawled into the bones, slithered through the heart, and found its way to the soul, leaving a shiver in its wake.

Vaenyra flinched at once, her slender hands flying to her ears, her nose crinkling in visible distress, as though the very air had betrayed her.

Windermere, ever attuned to the tremors of his rider's heart, loosed a cry of his own, a higher, sharper note that trembled through the cavernous space. It was not the booming roar of his dam, but a song of defiance and discontent, a keening echo that seemed to challenge and plead all at once. His jaws snapped toward Azurine, a motion half-born of instinct, like a young stallion baring its teeth at the matriarch of the herd, bold yet wary.

Then, through the haze of sound and shadow, the elder dragon came into full view. Princess Naemera's she-dragon was a creature of size and age, her presence filling the space as surely as a mountain fills the horizon. Her body rippled with restrained power, the slow coil of muscle beneath burnished scales giving the impression of something eternal, patient, and deadly.

A low, guttural rumble emerged from the depths of her jagged-toothed maw, a promise rather than a threat. Her eyes—twin orbs of piercing azure—glittered like polished jewels set into a predator's skull, and yet there was a serenity in them, a quiet grace that belied the ferocity of her form.

Upon her regal head rested two long crests of soft gold, their hue tempered by a subtle tan, arching along the line of her eyes in elegant symmetry. Around them sprouted a crown of smaller, sharper horns, an array of natural armament that spoke of age and dominion. Where horn met flesh, the scales deepened into the dark, rich blue of a twilight sky, as though the heavens themselves had chosen to dwell upon her brow.

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—her 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.

Vaenyra'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 Vaenyra 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 Azurine's 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 had always sensed there was something wondrous, something almost sacred, in the very essence of the dragon. It was not simply their fire or their wings, nor the shadow they cast upon the land, but a deeper mystery that clung to them like smoke.

She remembered, as one recalls a dream half-forgotten, the night that had first impressed this truth upon her heart. She had returned late to the quiet chamber of her infant daughter, expecting to find only the soft hush of a babe's sleep. Yet when she crossed the threshold, her steps faltered, stolen by a sight so strange she could scarce believe it.

The egg—precious and unhatched the day before—lay broken open, its shell glinting like shards of moonlight upon the floor. Panic had flared in her chest, wild and sudden, as she searched the room for the hatchling. Her gaze swept from shadow to shadow until at last she found it, and her breath caught.

There, upon the great bed, the dragon lay curled in gentle slumber beside the princess Vaenyra, as if it had known her all along. Little Windermere's tail rested against the crook of her daughter's tiny arm, his slender neck arched so that his head nestled near her own. Together they slept, as if born to share the same dreams.

The memory came to her now, unbidden and sharp, like sunlight breaking through cloud. It was a moment she had pressed to the farthest edges of her mind, buried beneath the endless demands that clawed at her hours and days. Yet it lingered still, vivid as flame.

Thirty-two and burdened with the weight of her house, the Targaryen mother allowed herself only a heartbeat's pause before tearing her gaze away. There were duties awaiting, and the relentless tick of time pressed at her spine. She had never been one to arrive late, and she would not begin 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, Vaenyra 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 Vaenyra 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. Vaenyra 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 three years and Vaenyra 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, Vaenyra 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 .