༻♕༺

𝕾𝐔𝐍 & 𝕯𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 || 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐖𝐎𝐎𝐃
𝟒ᵗʰ 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧 || 𝟏𝟐𝟏 𝐀𝐂

༻ •𖢻• ༺

     𝕬𝖋𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖓𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖑𝖞 𝖙𝖜𝖔 𝖜𝖍𝖔𝖑𝖊 𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖐𝖘 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖙𝖍 𝖔𝖋 festivities–feasts, balls, and a tourney–the Royal Family leaves for the Kingswood for a Royal Hunt in honor of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon's birth.

   A pair of winged shadows trail the royal wheelhouses. Balerion the Dread and young Sunfyre following their riders into the vast Kingswood stretching across the Crownlands for miles on end.

   Within the second wheelhouse in the procession of three, Maelera sits with the Queen and her children with little Aem perched on her lap. He dozes, playing with her hair, as she gently bounces him, rubbing circles across his back. 

   Listening to the distant singing of her boy and Sunfyre brings a smile to her lips.

   'Tis like a song of home to her.

The wheelhouse suddenly jolts when it rolls over a harsh bit of terrain. Maela grunts, soothing little Aem with a peck on his crown of silver. She much prefers wings over wheels.

And she would've flown to the royal camp, but Alicent wished for them to arrive together, and for the Queen and her children, Maela would suffer through this ride and then some.

"Won't this be fun, my darlings?" A hopeful grin spreads across Alicent's lips as she cradles Daeron to her chest. "We'll get out of the keep for a while. Some fresh air might do you good. I even hear there'll be a market, as well."

   From her cushioned seat across from her mother, beside Maela and Aemond, sweet Hel asks, "Do you think they'll be selling manticores there?"

   Manticores, an insect native to the islands on the Jade Sea half a world away from Westeros. Their poisonous sting is fatal to man, with venom that kills the instant it touches the heart–hence its use in numerous poisons.

   Helaena had many of the bugs in this world in her ever-growing collection, but had yet to find any manticores to add to it.

   "I don't know, my darling. They might." Lovely Alicent were wary of her daughter finding this lethal insect, but she hadn't truly the heart to deny Hel, whom smiles at the prospect.

   "I remember the royal hunt for your second Nameday, Aegon." Alicent says, nudging the ankle of her eldest beside her. "A White Hart had been spotted."

   At the mention of the rare deer recognized as a symbol of royalty in the old eons of Westeros before dragons arrived on its shores, Aegon's lilac irises sparkle. "Truly?"

   Grinning, Alicent nods. "The men took it as a sign of good tidings." She does not mention these "good tidings" were her son's right to the Iron Throne as he were Viserys' firstborn son, not wishing to spoil the mood with the weight of duty and obligation.

   "Do you think another might be spotted again?" Maelera questions, although she doubts it. The young prince were no trueborn Valyrian. He is no dragon.

   "'Tis said those whom witness the White Hart are chosen by the gods, I suppose we shall see what they decide in time." Is Alicent's response.

   "The hart before the red moon." Helaena mutters to herself.

   They seem to arrive at the royal camp as the wheelhouse slows to a stop. The resounding claps and cheers heard from outside only intensifying in sound when Ser Criston opens the door.

The surrounding crowd of hundreds of awaiting nobility cheer for the Prince Jacaerys as the King and his eldest daughter present him to the eager lords and their lady wives, suffering many a pinch on his chubby cheeks.

"Hail the Prince Jacaerys Velaryon!"

It seems many'd forgotten about the Prince Daeron... even the King, the babe's father, himself.

A grimace crosses Maela's face at the Strong boy's birth overshadowing Daeron's. A bastard outshining a Targaryen Prince, 'tis absurd to her.

Maela were the last to step out of the wheelhouse with the growing boy held to her hip. Aemond were certainly heavier now, but she hadn't the heart to tell him no. She hardly ever did.

This were her first Royal Hunt and she recalls Ser Gerold's words when she asked about them; dreadfully dull. But the camp, itself, was magnificent. Tents of all sizes and colors, mostly red and gold, were spread about with the smell of roasting meat wafting through the humid summer air. There was even a market as Alicent said, and a jousting lane!

It seems not all forgot young Daeron's birth, though, as Lord Ormund Hightower with his wife come to greet the Green Queen and her five children.

"Your Grace." Lord Ormund and his wife bow in respect. The bejeweled scabbard of his Valyrian steel sword, Vigilance, catching the light of the sun at his hip.

"Cousin. 'Tis lovely to see you again." Alicent greets kindly.

"Aye. I couldn't very well miss meeting the newest Targaryen Prince." His weathered gaze falls to the babe in the Queen's grasp, whom turns Daeron around in her hold to show him to Ormund.

The Beacon of the South beams with pride. "My, what a handsome young prince." He chuckles. "He'll be a fine knight one day."

"I don't dare to think of putting a sword in his hand yet, cousin."

   "Bah," Ormund chuckles, " – he'll be a soldier regardless."

   With a polite chuckle, Alicent readjusts the babe in her arms, "Have you spoken with my father recently?"

   "I have, Your Grace. He regrets missing the hunt, but urgent matters at Highgarden called for his aid."

   There is concealed disappointment in the Queen's emerald eyes none took notice to, "A shame. Might you give him my regards when next you see him?"

   "Of course, Your Grace."

   After bidding farewells, Maelera follows behind Alicent and her eldest toward the largest of the tents at the edge of the royal camp–big, bright red, with three towers barring flags with the infamous sigil of the Targaryens at their pointed tips.

   It seemed more like a castle made from fabric.

   Within the tent, numerous nobility, mainly ladies, were gathered, either feasting on sweets or gossiping behind hand-held fans whilst the men prep for the hunt on the morrow.

   And whilst Hel trails behind her mother to the lounge area where all the gossiping ladies sit, Maela and her boys find a relatively secluded corner midst the spacious tent to be with themselves.

   Settling upon a clump of blankets, cushions, and pillows, Maela beckons one of the servants over to ask him to bring any books on the history of Valyrians to them, along with a tray of sweets and cider. The man returns a few moments later with a chest of books as another servant sets down a tray of the requested treats and drink by the younglings.

   "Thank you." They seem surprised at the gratitude, rare amongst royalty, coming from the princess, but bow their heads in respect nonetheless.

   The summer air is laden with incense of damp earth and rich perfume, the soft chatter of the occupants midst the tent mingling with the breeze ruffling its red fabric. Beyond the entrance flap, crowds gather to gaze upon the Black Dread and Sunfyre the Golden floating above the camp, dancing amongst the sky as their glittering wings bend the wind to their will.

The dragons dance is alluring, capturing the attention of their audience as they feel at peace to gaze upon its magnificence for hours.

Maela delves into the chest of books, shoving aside titles she's already read before picking three from the pile to lay them by the princes for them to choose which to read first.

"Will it be "Signs and Portents", "The Hour of the Doom", or, "Dragonlords, a History"? She asks.

The boys decide upon the third book, the history of the Valyrian Dragonlords, of which the Targaryens are the last since the Doom befell Valyria of Old over a hundred years past.

The other families of Dragonlords whom resided in Valyria called Aenar Targaryen a coward for fleeing, "Aenar the Exile" they named him, but because a father heeded his daughter's words, the Targaryens were not consumed by the wake of the Doom when all the rest were.

Of course, the Targaryens were not the last of Valyrian blood. The Velaryons and the Celtigars share the golden blood of Old Valyria, but they are the last Dragonlords, thus why their power is unmatched.

Nothing in this world can withstand dragonfire for long, not even the proud Dornish.

And there, in the secluded corner of the tent, the princess and her princes remain for the remainder of the day, laying on their bellies whilst reading all about the ancient Valyrians, their ancestors, and feasting on delicious sweets.

༻ •𖢻• ༺

     𝕰arly in the morrow, the men'd left for the hunt whilst Maela stands in front of the full-length polished mirror in her royal tent fitted with a four-poster bed with fur sheets and a chest with her dresses and few books stashed within at the foot of it. A cushioned chaise alongside a round-table with three chairs encircling it fill the tent, as well.

   A brazier in the center blazes with illuminating fire, providing both light and warmth as her sole maiden, her friend, Salna stands behind her, braiding her Princess' hair.

A single braid that runs down her back with the brunette and silver interweaving beautifully.

"What spoils do you think the men will return with?" Maela breaks the silence, twisting and turning the silver rings on her fingers.

She never wore gold jewels, only silver.

Salna's perfectly curved brows softly bend in thought as she hums beneath her breath. "I don't know. I have never hunted a day in my life."

Maela chuckles, "Nor have I. My mother did all the hunting for our suppers."

"Why ask, my Princess? Suddenly interested in slaying a few deer, or boar, perhaps?" Salna lifts a brow, and Maela giggles.

"Gods, no. I heard the animals make terrible sounds as they die."

Salna just chuckles, tying a leather band at the end of the young girl's finished braid. Maela kindly smiles at her through the mirror. "Thank you, my friend. Why don't you take the day and do with it as you will?"

"Princess." Salna politely bows, then leaves Maela to herself.

With Ser Melvan her guardian shadow, as always, Maela ventures through the grounds of the royal camp, having wanted to since the moment they arrived the day before.

And she marvels at the sights before her youthful eyes.

The common peafowl with exotically beautiful blue and green feathers wonder about aimlessly, their regal calls echoing through the breeze, knights with glinting armor duel near the jousting lanes with crowds of curious nobility surrounding them.

Trekking through the market, with rows upon rows of fabric-encased stalls, Maelera smiles at all the dazzling and shimmering trinkets the eager merchants bellow praises for.

Some even claim their artifacts, spices, silks, among other items, came from exotic lands across the Narrow Sea.

"From the Manticore Isle on the Jade Sea and the Eastern Market of Vaes Dothrak, I have them! I have them! Manticores! Manticores!"

Amongst all the jumbled shouts ringing in her ears, those words catch Maelera's attention and she turns to the Essosian merchant stood by a stall of colored silks and there she sees manticores in silver cages. She approaches the stall, eagerly.

Ser Melvan eyes his young princess warily as she admires the lethal insects rather too closely for his liking.

Observing one of the insects, Maela notes the manticore has a jewel-like carapace, an arched barbed tail, with an unsettling human-like face, malign and black. The insect, most likely larger than her palm, hisses then folds up into the shape of a scarab.

She hums, curious.

The merchant notices the young girl by the silver cages and moves to stand opposite her. "Is the young Princess interested in the manticores?"

A kindly grin adorns Maela's lips as she looks up at the exotic man. The middle-aged merchant is dressed in tiger furs and loud colors, with a dyed beard cut in three long prongs, like a trident.

"More so a friend of mine is." She responds. "How much, good ser?"

"I am no knight, Princess. Merely a traveling man looking to sell his wares to keep his ship." A chuckle slips from Maela's smiling lips.

"I will sell this one to you for thirty silver stags."

A fair price, all things considered, Maela thinks to herself. Though, instead of pulling silver stags from her pouch, Maela reveals five gold dragons and offers them to the merchant, whom begins to shake his head. "No, no, Princess. Its far too much for one manticore."

She giggles. "I have more than enough, good ser. You need these far more than any Targaryen Princess. Please, I insist."

When he smiles at her, a golden tooth gleams in his mouth. The merchant accepts her offer with a million "thank you"s spilling from his lips.

The man lifts the silver cage to place in Maela's awaiting hands, but Ser Melvan steps forth to grab the cage, himself. He wouldn't let a little insect be the end of his oath to the Targaryens.

Maela gives her sworn shield a confused look as they continue along the market. "I would fall on my sword if you met your end by a damned bug."

Maela just giggles. "You need not worry yourself, Ser Melvan. The manticore is a gift to Helaena."

He grunts. "Somehow, that still worries me." She chuckles, shaking her head with a light-hearted roll of her dark plum eyes.

By the end of her walk, Maela is clutching an emerald green peafowl pelt stitched unto smooth doeskin, a bouquet of flowers, pink and purple and red, wrapped in bronze leather bound by a dark leather band, as well as, pieces of the finest silver jewelry. All gifts from generous merchants wishing to get into the good graces of the new Targaryen Princess bonded to Balerion the Dread with starlight in her hair.

The last of the hundreds of stalls is full of books Maela sees with excitement gleaming in her eyes and the merchant beckons her over. She approaches with a smile that shines like the stars with all the warmth of the sun above.

The elderly man smiles, bowing his head in respect. "You are Princess Maelera Bloodmoon." His voice is thick with the accent of Essos. Maela only recognizes it because Salna has one just like it. Though, she speaks better Common Tongue. She nods.

"You have the honor of addressing the Princess Maelera of House Targaryen, of the Blood of Old Valyria, the Silver Dragon and Child of the Blood Moon, Rider of Balerion the Black Dread."

The voice of her lovely maiden, herself, suddenly speaks from behind and Maela turns to Salna with her lips parted in surprise, but then she smiles, nodding at her friend as she stands beside the loyal knight.

"My Princess." The man steps into a low bow, but Maela only giggles. "Rise, good man. What books are you selling this day?"

Ser Melvan observes with predatory eyes, hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword, as the merchant shows the young princess his wares. From the smallest book to the thickest. When the man shows Maelera a rather thick book, bound by the finest leathers with gold threading, written about all man knew of old Valyria before and well after the Doom, the young girl asks how much.

But the old merchant waves her off with a warm grin, "A gift, for the new princess."

"Are you certain? This book is far too fine to merely be given away."

"I insist, Princess."

She softly smiles, "Your kindness will not be forgotten." He bows his head and Salna steps forward to take the book for her princess.

And together, the three return to the Princess' tent to put away the gifts and caged manticore before Maelera ventures out once again. This time, she wonders into the Great Tent, she decided to call the big red tent, where she finds Queen Alicent sitting with the gossiping ladies.

Alicent's beautiful features seem to brighten at the appearance of Maelera, beckoning her over.

Maela takes her seat beside the Queen on the settee, noticing the babe Daeron being tended to by Alicent's maidens on a bundle of blankets behind them. She smiles at the little Targaryen babe.

   Resting her feet after several hours of walking through the camp, Maela tunes out most of what the ladies were talking of, instead telling Alicent of all she'd been gifted in the market.

   "I even found a manticore for Helaena."

   Alicent grins, "Did you now?" Maela nods. "It's a rather unsettling looking creature, but I hope it makes her happy."

   "I'm sure it will, Maela. She's only been searching for one for months now." They share a chuckle.

   But then, a conversation starts that gathers Maelera's attention. Her father... and the Lady he married.

   "... but Daemon killed the Braavosi with Dark Sister for her hand."

   Whose hand?

"I say the Prince fell in love with Lady Laena's beauty at first sight."

Lady Laena? The sister of Ser Laenor?

"Nonsense. The madman only married into the mighty House Velaryon to check his own descent from power. He's been pushed too far down the line for his own liking."

"I hear, because the King did not consent the marriage, they have left Westeros for Essos."

Left Westeros?

Maelera silently stirs in her rage at the "news". Her father, husband to her late mother, his late wife, has gone off and married another not even a year after Rhea's passing.

The mere thought sets Maela's blood on fire.

But not only has her father married another woman, he's left the shores of Westeros with her. He has now, truly, completely, abandoned her, his daughter.

She doesn't care for him, she shouldn't, she couldn't, so why does it all hurt so much?

Excusing herself, Maela hastily leaves for her tent, needing to be alone.

༻ •𖢻• ༺

𝕿he hunting party had returned in the hour the sun dipped beneath the horizon, and after a grand feast she reluctantly attended, Maela now lay upon the chaise in her royal tent as the moon lights up the night's sky. So lost within her tumultuous thoughts, she does not hear the snap of a twig outside of her tent, only registering their approach as the flap is pushed aside.

   She inhales a sharp breath as she sits up only to relax at the sight of Aegon.

   "Is everything alright, my Princess?" Ser Melvan asks from his post. "'Tis alright, Ser." She calls back.

   Maela crosses her legs as Aegon joins her on the chaise, fiddling with her hands on her lap. "I noticed you were rather quiet at supper. What bothers you?" He asks.

   She wishes not to talk about the matter, yet when she looks into his lilac eyes, Maelera feels the need to spill to Aegon all her secrets and woes.

   And so she does. She tells him of what she overheard earlier that day.

   "It hasn't even been a year since... since Mother's passing." She sniffs, looking away from his gaze. "I... I should hate him, I do hate him, but... but, it..." She expels a breath.

   "But it still hurts to hear."

   She nods, still not meeting his eyes. And Aegon thinks he hates to see her like this, anything but full of joy and her reckless spirit. He'd do anything in the world to keep her smiling forever.

   "I'm sorry, Maela. He's an arse. And a fool not to see your worth." His cheeks flush pink when he says it.

   At those words, Maela finally looks at Aegon again. And the gentle grin she gifts him with madly flutters his young heart. "Thank you, Aeg."

   In the comfortable silence filled with the crackling brazier, Maela thinks of only one that will awaken her joy, unburden her shoulders of all her troubles, and thus she takes Aegon's hand and sneaks them out of the camp–giggling only to shush one another.

   Bounding off into the depths of the Kingswood, she need no light as she follows the string that connects her to him until they find their dragons lounging within a clearing in the dense woodlands.

   Their scales shimmer under the moonlight beaming through the evergreen leaves and gnarly branches. Day and Night, Sun and Death, Sunfyre the Golden and Balerion the God of Death.

   The sheer beauty of the Black Dread stops Aegon in place. Sure, he's seen Maelera flying with Balerion too many times to count, but he's never been so close to the largest dragon in the world.

   It's a daunting prospect, yet he feels no fear. This is the dragon of the man whose name he bears–Aegon the Conqueror. The mount of the girl he couldn't imagine living without.

   Balerion stirs ahead of them, smoldering red pits blinking open and glowing hauntingly in the pitch darkness of the night.

   The very earth beneath their feet trembles when the dragon purrs at the sight of his rider, his spiked tail flicking upward and catching one of the lower-hanging branches. The limb falls to the ground with a crash.

   Maela gently squeezes Aegon's hand still interwoven with hers, a silent assurance she wouldn't let Balerion harm him, then approaches her boy with a smile.

   "𝐑𝐲𝐭𝐬𝐚𝐬, 𝐁𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐁𝐢𝐬𝐚 𝐢𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐬 𝐀𝐞𝐠𝐨𝐧, 𝐥𝐞̄𝐤𝐢𝐚 𝐧̃𝐮𝐡𝐚. 𝐕𝐞̄𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐳𝐲𝐬 𝐤𝐢𝐩𝐚𝐠𝐢̄𝐫𝐨𝐬." ( hello, balerion. this is aegon, my cousin. sunfyre's rider )

The Black Dread grumbles, lazily shifting his snout across the grass to look at the young boy. His nostrils flare as he scents the prince, then a humid gust of pale steam engulfs the young pair as Balerion exhales.

Maela chuckles, "He likes you." She mirrors his words from the night he introduced her to his beloved Sunfyre, whom observes them with curious sunrise eyes across the clearing.

She lays their conjoined hands upon her Dread's snout with hers atop Aegon's.

And Aegon marvels at the sheer power in the muscles rippling beneath these onyx scales, the mighty prowess of Balerion the Black Dread. The greatest power this world has ever known.

The beast whom brought the world to heel, right at his fingertips.

'Tis... awe-inspiring, to say the least.

"𝐍𝐞̄𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐤𝐚." He whispers. ( mighty )

A rumbling purr rattles his bones, and Maela giggles, "He is." Then she smiles at him. "Do you want to fly tonight?" He eagerly nods.

And so, the young Targaryens mount their dragons and ascend into the sky speckled with stars a heartbeat later, the dragons trilling as they float above the Kingswood together.

A mischievous grin quirks at Aegon's lips as he veers his glorious Sunfyre towards the much larger Balerion, and the adolescent dragon playfully smacks his wing against the mere tip of his elder's.

As Balerion grumbles beneath her, Maela gawks at Aegon, who winks one of his lilac eyes at her.

She giggles, shaking her head.

White clouds seen from above. Deer small as ants thundering through the foliage below. A silver moon, almost close enough to touch. Rivers running bright and blue, glimmering in the moon. On Balerion's back, she felt whole. With Aegon beside her, she felt free. Up in the sky the woes of the world could not touch her.

   How could she ever abandon this?

   All through the night, until the light of dawn broke through the darkness of the night, Maelera and Aegon Targaryen flew, all of their woes and duties carried away with the breeze.

__________༻♕༺___________

Another, here and done! This story is my baby, I love it so much 🤧. Some Maegon at the end there, 🥰. We're nearly halfway done with Part I of Act I, only eight chapters left, I think. And then we'll get onto episodes 6 & 7 where the fun truly begins!! Uh, I can't wait 🤩.

I hope life has been treating u lovely readers well, 😘 and lets hope for more chapters soon!! ( I honestly don't know how long this writing splurge is gonna last so I'm trying to shove out as many chapters as I can, lol )