༻♕༺

𝕯𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍 𝕷𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐒, 𝐀 𝕭𝐀𝐓𝐇, &
𝐀 𝕳𝐔𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝕱𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐒

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 || 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆'𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆
𝟏𝟎ᵗʰ 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧 || 𝟏𝟐𝟒 𝐀𝐂

༻ •𖢻• ༺

𝕱𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖍𝖑𝖞 𝖋𝖑𝖔𝖜𝖊𝖗𝖊𝖉 𝖆𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖊𝖊 𝖒𝖔𝖔𝖓𝖘 𝖆𝖌𝖔, Princess Maelera Bloodmoon tosses yet another letter from a suitor into the blazing hearth with an irritated huff.

She bleeds from her cunty and now every man in Westeros wants to fuck her.

Gods, spare her. She's only one-and-ten, barely out of her youth.

Although young she may be, Maelera 'twere neither stupid nor naive, not under the tutelage of Queen Alicent Hightower, she knows why these noble lords and their sons are so fucking vindictive to win her hand in marriage.

'Tis because she is bonded to Balerion the Dread. The largest dragon in the world, the King of Dragons.

Who wouldn't want him to their name?

The blood of the last dragonlords swirls through her veins, and she 'twill only birth more dragonlords into this wide world. And, the Realm's Jewel 'tis deemed the most beautiful woman in the world.

All they ever wish for, these foolish men, 'tis her family name and the power she holds. Not her.

And it all served to irk Maelera. She wouldn't even humor them.

A knock echoes from the other side of the door. Maela expels a breath, straightening the creases in her dark indigo dress before clasping her ringed hands on her stomach. "Come," she calls.

Ser Melvan opens the door. "It is the Princes, my Princess. 'Tis time for their lessons in the pit."

His words have Maelera's spirits lifting.

And thus, Maela now stands within the dimly lit Dragonpit with the domed roof high above them and glittering rays of pale gold light peering through the few and far windows, between Aegon and young Daeron.

   This 'twere far from her first time within the pit, yet still its beauty as always awestruck her...even if she despises the purpose of the Dragonpit.

   A dragon's prison, more like.

   Behind them, loomed the main gate–a pair of massive bronze doors, so wide thirty knights could ride through it at once. And the amphitheater stretched in a circle beneath the strong roof above them–benches which could seat eighty thousand easily.

   From the inner gates, opened on the sands beneath their feet, the Keepers bring forth the dragon of the golden dawn, Sunfyre, then Daeron's whelp–the young prince's beautiful she-dragon had scales and wings the colour of cobalt whilst her claws, crest, and belly scales 'twere the shimmering shade of bright beaten copper.

   A grimace crosses her features at the sight of the jagged steel chains wound tightly around the beautiful Sunfyre's neck and legs, and the cage the Dragon Keepers hold the young whelp within.

   Like they 'twere dogs or birds, not the most fearsome creatures in the world. They should be treated with the utmost respect, in her eyes.

   The he-dragon screeches at his rider, lurching forward to approach him only for the twenty Keepers it takes to withhold Sunfyre to pull on his chains with all their might.

   "𝐔𝐦𝐛𝐚̄𝐬," one yells out. ( hold )

   Sunfyre, irritated, only huffs with a defiant shake of his glimmering head.

   "𝐑ȳ𝐛𝐚̄𝐬, 𝐕𝐞̄𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐳𝐲𝐬. 𝐋𝐲𝐤𝐢𝐫𝐢̄." ( obey, sunfyre. be calm )

   One of the two Keepers beside the Targaryens, with Ser Melvan and Ser Steffon Darklyn behind the young ones, beckons with a wave of his hand, "𝐌𝐚̄𝐳𝐢𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐢̄ 𝐳𝐢𝐫ȳ𝐥𝐚." ( let him come )

   The Keepers unhook the chains around Sunfyre's neck and legs, and the he-dragon shakes his head with a shrill screech, the spikes along his neck trembling as his golden scales catch the faint light of the sun and sparkle like fragments of citrine gems.

His golden eyes with those pink streaks narrow upon his rider, and a high-pitched rumble issues from his gut–like the purr of summer–as he begins to approach the three Targaryens with the Keepers and guards behind them.

"Tell Sunfyre to heel, Prince Aegon."

Beneath her breath, Maela scoffs at the word, "heel". Sunfyre the Golden 'twere not some dog to whistle up at need and command.

No. The bond between rider and dragon 'tis so much more than that. 'Tis not commander and beast, instead 'tis a bond of mutual respect. The rider merely says a word and if their dragon so wishes, they will listen.

No one controls dragons, not even Targaryens.

Maelera could not stop Balerion from burning a farmer's herd to ash and bone if her Dread 'twas hungry.

"𝐃𝐨𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐫𝐚̄𝐬, 𝐕𝐞̄𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐳𝐲𝐬. 𝐊𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐨𝐧." ( serve me, sunfyre. halt )

Sunfyre slowly stops in his path, nostrils flaring as he sniffs at the humid air engulfing the pit. The he-dragon considers Aegon's words for a long moment, before he settles with a shrill purr, lowering himself onto the sand beneath.

He tilts his elegant head with a chirp, the pupils in his magnificent eyes widening as his spiked tail–lined with pink frills–swishes across the ground, kicking up plums of sand and dirt.

"𝐒ȳ𝐫𝐢̄." The head Keeper praises with a proud smirk. ( well done ) "You will hold mastery over your dragon soon yet, my Prince." A smile tilts Aegon's lips at the praise, lilac irises looking to his girl beside him.

She gifts him one of those beautiful smiles that make his youthful heart flutter, "He's right. Your bond grows stronger by the day."

Aegon's smile widens. Across from them, Sunfyre purrs at the joy rippling through their bond.

"Release the other."

The blue whelp, not yet named by Daeron, 'tis freed from her cage only for a chain to be wrapped around her legs. She hisses in discomfort whilst flapping her wings, hovering in the air above them as one of the Keepers holds the end of the chain.

Her hisses twist into screeches of pain, desperately struggling against the jagged chain tugging at her still sensitive scales, having not yet hardened, as the man approaches the Targaryens, pulling the thrashing whelp behind him.

Maela winces at the sound that tears at her heart. Couldn't they see the poor thing 'twere in agony?

Daeron leans against his cousin's side, clutching the skirts of her dress with a muffed cry.

She sympathetically grins down at the young boy, he must feel her pain like 'twere his own, hushing a sweet nothing to him as she begins to soothingly rub his back.

"𝐑ȳ𝐛𝐚̄𝐬. 𝐄𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐭," the Keeper shouts. ( obey. down )

The she-dragon cries out in defiance, struggling against the chains with all her might.

With wisps of pale smoke arising from his flared nostrils, Sunfyre screeches at the sound of his young kin's anguish, hissing at the Keeper with flames dancing across his teeth.

"𝐋𝐲𝐤𝐢𝐫𝐢̄!" ( be calm )

Maela knows 'twill happen long before the whelp even stretched her maw open, thus she tugs Daeron's face into her dress to shield him from what his little dragon is about to do as she opens her jaws.

Cobalt blue flames spit forth from the young dragon's throat as she burns the Keeper holding her.

The knights step forward and pull the children behind them whilst the man screams in agony as his skin bubbles and bursts, thrashing upon the ground whilst the blue flames wholly consume him.

The whelp roars, flying freely around the domed pit in victory.

Upon the ground, the Keeper unsheathes the dragonglass dagger at his hip amidst his burning and slices it across his own throat–as tradition dictates for the Dragon Keepers, a quite morbid one.

Whilst Aegon gasps in horror at the sight, Maela watches the moment the man fell eerily still and felt... nothing. No horror, no sorrow, no joy. Just...
nothing.

Silence soon encompasses the Dragonpit, only filled with the flapping of the whelp's wings and the hissing of Sunfyre.

The Keepers deem the lesson over then.

༻ •𖢻• ༺

     𝕬fter returning from the Dragonpit, Maela took a trembling Daeron to the nursery he shares with Prince Jacaerys, and remained with the little one until he'd settled down and fallen asleep.

   Now, the princess sits within a bronze tub beside the flickering hearth, steam emitting from the near boiling waters as the scent of citrus wafts from the oils Salna put into the bathwater.

   Scented candles 'twere as well lit around the chambers, smelling of something between citrus and floral.

   Maela softly sighs in content, leaning her head against the rim of the tub when she notices the shadow beneath the door shifting and snickers to herself.

   Little Aemond.

   He often laid outside the door, peeking an eye beneath, whenever she bathed–or was since occupied with a matter he couldn't attend. Nothing perverted, she knew.

   Merely a young boy, now eight, attached to her hip hating to be apart from her.

   Maela finds herself remembering when she skipped supper some nights ago to fly with Balerion and how he threw a fit of burning rage, in Alicent's words.

   She had not skipped another since.

   "That boy is smitten with you, Princess," Salna giggles, sitting behind her princess on a stool to begin washing her unique hair, lathering the silky stands with vanilla-scented soaps and oils.

   Maela chuckles, "I do believe you may be right, my friend." The girls giggle.

   After scrubbing away the dirt and grim from her porcelain skin and lathering it with citrus oils and soaps, Maela stands from the cold bath. Salna wraps a deep blue robe around her princess, whom ties the silk belt whilst her maiden rolls her hair into a bun at the nape of her neck, pinning it together with a silver three-headed dragon pin.

With a breath, the girl walks over to her ebony armorie and, with help from her friend, chooses a dress for the remainder of the day. Maela'd promised Hel whilst breaking their fast together she 'twould help her pick the blooming Evening Star and Moonbloom flowers in the Royal Gardens at midday.

Whilst tying the laces of her young princess' dress of violet Myrish silk with black threading embedded with silver gemstones stitched into the shape of a dragon slithering around the form-fitting waist, Salna speaks up, "I heard about what happened in the Dragonpit today."

"I feel no sympathy for that dragon slaver. I only hope it did not startle young Daeron more than it need too."

Salna just hums, "I also hear the Princess Rhaenyra is going to allow her eldest to begin his dragon lessons in a sinnight."

The young girl only grumbles in displeasure at the news, and Salna giggles.

When the last of the laces 'twere properly tied, Salna beginning to braid the silver strands in her hair, Maela shouts so her shadow may hear beyond the door, "You can come in now, 𝐧̃𝐮𝐡𝐨𝐧 𝐳𝐚𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐢̄𝐭𝐬𝐨𝐬." ( my little dragon )

The door, immediately, opens and the girls giggle as a mere blur of silver hair rushes into the chamber and perches upon the cushioned stool at the vanity.

"How was your Valyrian lesson today?" Maela inquires, combing a hand through his hair before she rests her palm against his soft cheek. Little Aem leans into the warmth of her hand, smiling so brightly.

"I learned the word for dragonglass, 𝐳𝐢̄𝐫𝐭𝐲𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐳𝐲𝐬, and 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐧, the blood temples Old Valyria used to have where the blood mages resided. And 𝐙𝐚𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐢̄𝐳𝐞𝐬 𝐫ȳ𝐛𝐮𝐬, 𝐥𝐨 𝐦𝐞̄𝐫𝐢̄ 𝐮𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐫𝐳𝐢 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐨 𝐞𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐨 ȳ𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐮𝐚."

   "A dragon only listens if you speak in High Valyrian," Maela translates.

   Tilting his head, youthful curiosity creases Aemond's brows, "Is that true?"

   Maela softly shakes her head, "Yes and no. Valyrian 'tis the language of dragons, yes, but if you want them to listen to you, then you must listen to them first."

   "What does that mean, Maela?"

   She grins, tenderly tracing his cheekbone, "Many of those before us who've attempted to claim dragons only saw the power such a bond would bring them, like Maegor the Cruel with his Darksmoke. They did no see the sentient being they approached. Dragons aren't just fire, they are beings with their own thoughts and intelligence. No one controls them, sweet thing, no one chooses them. They choose you. And its here," she lays her other hand upon his heart. "that place between your heart and your soul that speaks to them."

   The way Aemond looks at Maelera, a little awed, a little wonderstruck, 'tis like she put the very stars in the night sky, itself. And she smiles to herself.

   "So when your dragon calls to you, listen here," she flattens her palms on his cheeks and kisses his crown of silver. "Now, what else did you learn today?"

   A soft smile blooms across her lips, listening on intently as the young boy goes on to tell her all about what he learned in his Valyrian and history lessons that day as Salna continues to braid her hair.

   Once she 'twere finished, Maela thanks her maiden then tells Salna to do with the day as she wished. Salna politely bows with a grin then leaves the Targaryens to themselves.

   Lifting the boy into her arms to hold him against her hip–which 'twere certainly not the easiest thing now, but she didn't care–Maelera walks down to the Royal Gardens with Ser Melvan following behind to meet with Helaena.

   The princess awaits her cousin with a pair of wicker baskets beneath an oak tree, and Helaena beams at the sight of Maela and her younger brother rounding the archway into the gardens.

   Setting Aemond upon his feet, rolling her sore shoulder, Maela takes his hand and approaches her sweet Hel with a greeting smile. "How are you this morrow, Hel?"

   Hel returns the smile, waving at her brother as she hands Maela her basket, "I saw a white butterfly fly past just before you arrived. Some believe when a white butterfly crosses their path, it symbolizes changes in one's life are about to come."

   Then she mutters beneath her breath, "A string of blue woven into the green of old."

   Maelera only grins at her friend and offers her arm, knowing sweet Hel does not like sudden touches. The beautiful princess smiles, like nothing she spoke with eyes that see across centuries mattered, and weaves her arm through Maela's.

   Beginning to stroll across the cobblestone paths stretching across the gardens like veins, Helaena asks, "Do you know what Evening Stars and Moonblooms look like?"

   Maela's brows crease in thought, "I believe Moonblooms are similar to roses, only a creamy-silver in color. But I'm afraid I have not a clue what Evening Stars look like."

   Hel happily describes them, "Evening Stars are yellow, they are similar to Poppys but without the buds in the center. They have skinny green stems instead. You can make evening primrose oil from it. They don't last long under too harsh sunlight, we'll mostly find them under benches or in the shade of trees."

   Grinning, Maela nods, then looks to little Aem at her side, "Remember that, 𝐛𝐲𝐤𝐚 𝐦𝐞̄𝐫𝐞. I'll surely need help finding them." Aemond giggles. ( little one )

   And so, the ever growing younglings traverse through the vast gardens as its floral breath fills the air with sweetness until they come across a patch of grass and stone benches well concealed beneath the shadow of the looming keep and begin scouring about for Evening Stars.

"Do you see any, Aem?" Maela grins.

The little boy's deep indigo eyes narrow–rather adorably–with such determination as he leaves Maela's side to look for the flowers, peering underneath the benches and through the thick hedges.

   The young girls giggle at his eagerness.

   Aemond 'tis always been a determined child, once set upon a path, he rarely ever allows himself to stray from it, whether its to learn the Old Valyrian or eat his sweets before his proper food.

   "Have you had any dreams of late, Maela?" Helaena asks whilst circling around the thick trunk of a tree, its radiant leaves rustling gently in the crisp breeze. 

   A slight furrow bends Maela's brows, "One. I.. dreamt of walking into a great fire and when it burnt out as the blood dawn rose, the world fell to its knees in awe. Though I.. do not know why."

   "From the black ashes, the mother of her own will rise." The princess whispers, Maela did not hear.

   From the moment Helaena laid her pale lilac eyes upon Maelera Bloodmoon four years ago, she's known the girl's fate 'tis written in fire and blood. She knows Maelera 'tis destined for a great many things in this world, as all the Valyrian Dragonborns are.

   But Maelera 'twill be the most powerful of them all.

   For the cold gods, the ones in the night, the white shadows will one day awaken to cloak the world in an endless darkness, but the God of Dragons will come to bathe them in his mighty fire, burning their dark hearts away.

   "I found some!"

   Blinking out of her thoughts, Helaena's lashes flutter. She turns around, finding her younger brother proudly pointing to the patch of Evening Stars he'd spotted under the shade of the trimmed hedges. 

   Maela's giggle carries across the floral air like the sound of bell chimes as she trots over to the prince. Lowering herself onto her haunches, she kisses Aemond's cheek.

   "𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐤𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧," she smiles, and he beams at the praise.

Helaena joins her brother and cousin on the grass, beginning to tenderly pluck the flowers from the soil and lay them within her wicker basket.

After gathering the flowers, the younglings set off once again to fill their baskets with Evening Stars and Moonblooms until the sun began to sink from its high perch, their joyous giggles echoing through the air, filling the hearts of others with warmth.

__________༻♕༺___________

Short and fluffy, 🥰, with some foreshadowing, of course, 😉. And the end was sloppy, ik, ik, 🫠. I'm just so eager to finish the first part, lol.

Three more chapters left, 🥳!