༻♕༺

𝕿𝐇𝐄 𝕸𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐂 𝐎𝐅 𝕯𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐒

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 || 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆'𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆
𝟐ⁿᵈ 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧 || 𝟏𝟐𝟖 𝐀𝐂

༻ •𖢻• ༺

𝕬𝖒𝖎𝖉𝖘𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕶𝖎𝖓𝖌'𝖘 𝖘𝖚𝖓𝖑𝖎𝖙 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖒𝖇𝖊𝖗, 𝖆 𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖒 summer's breeze spilling through the opened windows, by the chiseled model of the ancient yet glorious city of centuries past, Valyria, sits Viserys with his niece on the cushioned stool beside him.

"Why do you think Valyria truly fell, Uncle?" Maela wonders, fiddling with the marble dragon in her grasp, tracing the spikes trailing down its smooth back.

Viserys sighs to himself, his masonry tools clinking against the white marble with every gentle whack as he carves another building within its walls, "There has been much speculation as to what caused the Doom. The gods, our ancestors' greed, or perhaps it was just the nature of all powerful things eventually falling. Why do you think Valyria fell, Maela?"

Maela tilts her head, brows bending over dark purple eyes, "Our ancestors thought themselves invincible," she huffs an amused breath, "why wouldn't they? No power in the world could stand against them. I think they grew too greedy, they grew thoughtless. They played with dangerous magic, and it cost them everything they held dear."

With pride swirling through his bloodstream, lifting his cracked lips into a smile, Viserys laughs softly, "You will have your voice on the council soon yet, my dear niece."

   She smiles. "It pleases me to hear you say this, Uncle. I hope I'll prove worthy of your devotion."

   "Oh, I believe you will, Maelera," he winks, and she giggles. "Did you fly with Balerion today?"

At the mention of her boy, Maela's smile brightens like the sun breaking through a thick bout of clouds, eagerly nodding, "I did. We flew all the way to Crackclaw Point."

"My, that's such a long way. And," he grins, "did you see anything interesting on your flight?"

She chuckles, "Other than crab infested shores," their bout of soft laughter echoes through the room as gilded rays bathe the chamber in their ethereal golden glow, "not really."

Looking to ancient city beside her, white marble drenched in the light of the sun and glimmering, her brows bend in thought. "Do you think Balerion ever longs for it?"

   Viserys meets her curious gaze, "For what, my dear?"

   "Home."

   The King sets his tools aside with a furrowed brow. "I don't suppose I've ever thought of it. Dragons seem to be nonmigratory creatures, for seldom do they leave their nests," he sighs, "But Balerion had to leave his own when the Doom threatened to consume it. I suppose he very well could."

   Forlorn painting itself across her ethereal features, Maela hums to herself, 'tis a sad thought to think of her dread longing for the one place he could no longer call home–even if the stories are true, and he lived there in the decades between Aegon the Conqueror's death and the night of her birth.

"I wonder if mayhaps he might take me there," she says softly, more to herself but nonetheless her uncle heard.

"I would hope not, Maela," he frets. "They say the Doom is impassable. The sailors even say 'tis cursed and riddled with Stone Men. And I believe you know of what befell Princess Aerea when she flew there upon Valyron?"

   Of course, Maela knew the story, for together–if it 'tweren't with Aemond–they would sit on the daybed by the hearth behind them beneath flickering candlelight with the moon's silvery beams pouring through the windows whilst reading through the histories. 

   "Neither girl nor dragon returned unscathed," her uncle continued, "and passed shortly after of a strange affliction not even the wisest maester can explain."

   Maela nods. "Yes, Uncle, I know. But Aerea was young and foolish, only my own age at four-and-ten when she leapt onto Valyron's back and flew to Valyria without thought to the dangers that awaited in those ruins."

   "I suppose," Viserys agrees.

   "And if the tales are to be believed, Balerion lived there for over a century without so much as a scratch on him from what I could tell from the old paintings and tapestries in the gallery."

   Throughout these eight years, she'd spend hours upon hours within the gallery hall with her cousins, admiring the depictions of her ancestors with their dragons and the battles of old, thread and cloth and paint telling the curious children the story of their ancient and glorious house.

   Viserys chuckles. "Well, perhaps it is different for Balerion. He is the last remnant of Valyria, for a time, before it fell, he belonged there. It was his home as much as Runestone is to you."

With a smirk upon her soft lips, Maela mirrors his earlier words, "I suppose."

The soft laughter of the uncle and his niece rings through the sun-drenched room, warming the hearts of the servants passing by the double doors.

༻ •𖢻• ༺

     𝕷ate that night, Maelera finds herself sitting on her haunches by the crackling hearth with the bronze egg in her hands and flickering shadows dancing on her ethereal features.

   Admiring the reflection of the flames shimmering on the surface of the egg, Maelera traces the texture of the egg, the scales layering into the next above them in an intricate pattern beneath her fingertips.

Beautiful things, the dragon eggs are, and still warm even after all these years.

   She begins to hum, a long forgottten hymn in the Old Valyrian tongue, and reaches out to hold the bronze egg within the flames. The orange-and-yellow heat caresses her porcelain skin, the warmth of its breath soothing some unknown instinct within the young princess.

   So entranced the girl was, she did not hear the door creak on its iron hinges. Carrying a basket with folded laundry, Salna saunters into her princess' chambers, only to gasp in horror at the sight.

   "Princess!" Salna cries as she abandons the basket on the floor, rushing over to her young princess and all but yanking the egg from her grasp.

   But 'twere too hot, thus she drops it with a yelp of agony before grabbing Maelera's hands. But where she expected to find sizzling skin torn apart, she finds the flames left neither burnt nor pink skin in its wake.

   Salna gasps softly beneath her breath. "Princess?" Lifting her gaze to Maela's deep violet eyes, a mixture of awe and confusion crosses her features.

   Maela brought her maiden's hands into her own and saw the burn marks shaped in the scales of the egg sprawled across her palms, raw and blistering.

   "You're hurt," she frets. "Wait here, I shall summon the maester."

   "Princess," Salna is breathless, "you reached into the flames and yet... you are unhurt."

   "Fire has never harmed me." 'Tis all Maela spoke before rushing from her chambers to summon the grand maester from his quarters.

   Hours after her maiden had been tended to, the young girl born drenched in her mother's blood like it 'twere war paint with fire seering through in her bloodstream sleeps peacefully.

   Moonbeams penetrate the gently swaying curtains, spilling their silvery luminescence across the still and silent room whilst the breeze whispers all the world's secrets.

   The stillness is broken, though, when the old tapestry behind the bed ripples with sudden movement.

   A prince with hair as silver as the moonlit rays dripping across the chambers and eyes like plums with glittering speckles like violet flowers slips through the narrow passageway behind the tapestry, pushing the slab of stone closed once more.

   Bare feet padding softly against the stone floor, cold beneath his ivory skin, Aemond, now a boy of one-and-ten, saunters over to the canopy bed and slips beneath the turquoise sheets with hardly a sound aside from the slight creak of the bed's wooden frame.

   But Maela did not stir, not even when the young prince nestled against her, tucking his head beneath her chin until all Aemond Targaryen knew was Maelera.

   Her heavenly scent of citrus and dragonsmoke filling his every breath with bliss, the sweet lullaby of her beating heart soothing his wary mind, and her familiar warmth so unlike anyone else's in this wide world cradling him like a dragonmother cradles their hatchlings.

   He's never known a peace such like the kind Maelera Targaryen brings to his body, his mind, his soul. And he never wants to know any other... because that 'twould mean she's gone.

   The thought alone frightens him so, thus Aemond curls deeper into her until nothing is left between their bodies, between their entwined souls, not even air.

   Maela hums softly in her sleep, shifting slightly. Her body seems to recognize the feel of Aemond beside her, for it weren't uncommon for him to slip into bed beside her in the darkest hours of the night, when her arm winds around him, holding her prince closer.

   Something akin to a whine, a sound so soft not even the walls, themselves, heard, falls past his lips. "Don't ever leave me, Maela."

   Although so deep in slumber he knows she couldn't have heard him, the arm around his waist tightens.

   It assures him, comforts him. And so, descending into a slumber, Aemond's worries are shielded by the bliss of Maela's presence and strange dreams.

   He knew not of what the princess began to dream of... nor how it 'twould change the fate of their house and family in the long years to come.

༻ •𖢻• ༺

   In a field of flowers, Maelera stands beneath a brilliant night sky, dressed in nothing but a nightgown pale as the moonlight that sways softly in the blowing breeze, whispering in her ears.

The chill seeps into her bones, rising bumps across her bare, porcelain flesh and she shivers.

But then, a light flickers ahead of her and its warmth beckons her like the embrace of an old friend. Maelera heeds its silent call, walking through the flowers of all kinds and colors toward the fire.

"Embrace the flames, my child." The voice, neither old nor young, echoes across the stillness, and the flowers tremble at its might.

Maela halts in her path with a hitch of her breath. Slowly spinning in a circle, "Who are you?" she asks, and her voice resounds throughout the field.

The voice chuckles, but 'twere not a sinister sound as she might've expected, no, it felt like the fondness of the old and ancient beings in this world.

It sounded familiar, felt familiar.

"You know me, child. For I am as much apart of you as you are of me."

The flames glow brighter and stronger behind her as a cold wind sweeps from the darkness ahead of her... and piercing blue eyes shone in the cold shadows.

She sharply exhales as the voice urges her toward the flames once more, and Maelera obeys.

"What are those things?" She asks the ancient being whose been at her side since birth once she reaches the sanctuary of the rippling flames forming the familiar shape of a dragon thrice-headed.

"The cold gods. The ones in the night. The white shadows. They have been called many things for many long years, but their purpose is only known as one thing; death."

"Death," Maela breathes. "When will they come?"

"All in time, my child." The voice soothes. "You must embrace the flames now."

She looks to the night sky where stars shimmer and dance. "Why?"

The voice does not answer, but the warmth of the presence remains, unyielding and eternal.

Maela looks to the orange-and-yellow fires in front of her, its seering breath running across her skin, staring deeply into the blaze and hears the sound of a hiss... children calling out to their mother.

She looses her breath. "My children..."

The voice hums. "Go now, child. Welcome them into the world."

And so, Maelera Bloodmoon ventures into the great fire... and emerges from the flames with three winged shadows, crying out to the world.

As dawn breaks through the cold night, she wakes with Aemond in her arms, still sleeping soundly, and knows in her heart burning with secret fire what she must do.

༻ •𖢻• ༺

      𝕬fter Maelera broke her fast with Alicent and her children in the queen's solar, speaking nothing of her plan all 'twould think mad, the young girl left and ventured to her uncle's royal quarters.

   Gilded light drenching the chambers, the smell of herbs and incense sweetening the room, Maela found Viserys by the hearth, sitting on one of the armchairs whilst gazing into the flickering flames casting shadows across his pale face.

   And his eyes held such sorrow, overcome with grief.

   She wonders if he 'twere thinking of his lost and only love, the aunt Maela'd never known, Queen Aemma.

   Maela has heard of her, in hushed tales whispered through the halls–how beautiful and kind Aemma had been... and how horrible the sound of her screams as the maester cut into her womb when her last babe would not come.

   "Uncle?" She calls softly from the door, now closed behind her.

   Viserys blinks out of his somber musings, looking to the one whom spoke and finds his dear niece. A smile greets her, "Oh, Maela. What brings you here, my dear?"

   She mirrors his smile, twisting and turning her silver rings. "Might I sit with you?"

   "Of course. You need not ask so, niece."

   And so, Maela joins her uncle-king by the hearth, sitting upon the cushioned armchair beside Viserys' own as she fiddles with her rings on her lap.

   "What troubles you so, dear girl?"

   She meets his lilac gaze with a breath. "I had another dream last night," she tells him.

   Viserys knew all about the dragon dreams that 'twould plague her young mind through the past eight years, as she often went to him afterwards–seeking a hand to guide or an ear to listen. And her uncle always did with rapt curiosity and fascination, for he knew his brother's daughter 'tis the dreamer he always wished he could've been.

"'Tis the same I've had for many weeks now. Though last night, 'twas the strongest it's ever been."

"Tell me," he asks.

Thus Maelera does, she tells Viserys of the field of flowers beneath a brilliant night sky, the darkness and those piercing blue eyes, then the flames she is always beckoned toward by an ancient voice, and how those very flames awaken her children, and herself.

Through the years, Maela has come to understand the ancient language of her dreams sent from the old dragons, and this dream 'tis clear as a crystal to Maelera Targaryen.

It left her with an instinct she could not resist, something ancient and powerful guiding her.

Looking into the flames of the hearth before she asks of her uncle the impossible, Maelera could hear mingled whispers in her ears, growing louder the longer she did not listen to their foreign tongue.

She knows what she must do, 'twas instinct, so she asks the King, "I know what I must do. All I ask is that you trust me, Uncle. How many men are in the Black Cells?"

Viserys' brows crinkle at the odd question. "I couldn't know for certain, but there are several down there, I believe."

The young girl born of fire and blood reaches across the distance to bring her uncle's hands into hers, dark violet eyes unrelenting and so knowing. "I ask that three of them be brought to the outer yard at dusk. I understand your reign is one of peace, and I respect that, Your Grace. So choose the lowliest of these men, murderers and rapers, and bring them to the pyre."

"Maela," he shakes his head, "you ask the impossible."

She gently squeezes his hands with a gentle grin, "I know, Uncle. But you know of my power, so trust me now."

For some unknown reason to himself, although knowing this is nothing but madness, her uncle does.

And thus, by dusk, a pyre had been built within the entry yard of the Red Keep, wood and dry grass shaped into the three-headed dragon of the Targaryens with the body as the structure of the pyre.

And hundreds of nobility encircle the pyre, curiosity drawing their attention. Though some believed this to be the moment Maelera, the Spawn of the Rouge Prince, went mad and perished.

For her intentions whispered through the halls... utterly barbaric.

The girl, herself, kneels on the ground within the body of the pyre in nothing but a thin shift, clutching the three dragon eggs to her bosom whilst she murmurs soft nothings to them.

   "You must be my children," she told the eggs. "My three fierce children. They say dragons live longer than men, so you will go on long after I am dead."

   She looks ahead, to where Balerion the Dread perches upon the gates of the keep, smoldering red pits meeting her gaze with a soft knowing and she hears the old voice once more, telling her 'tis time as the sinking sun touches the sea beyond the red walls.

   I am the blood of the dragon, she told herself. I am Maelera Bloodmoon, of the blood and seed of Aegon the Conqueror. She will not fear, will not falter.

   Maela places the eggs upon the ground, close so in birth they will be together, then stands and walks over to her family, whom all stand huddled at the forefront of the whispering crowd with weeping hearts.

   She smiles gently at them, the people whom have come to love her and she them, with all the fire in her beating heart. "Do not weep for me. By the dawn, my children will be born, and the fires shall cleanse my flesh into something new."

   'Tisn't a farewell to her, but to them, it surely felt like one... for how could a girl walk into a flame and remain unburnt?

   With gut-wrenching sob, Aemond wrenches out of his mother's grasp and all but throws himself into her arms. "Don't go, Maela! Don't go! Please! Please, please, please," he wails.

   Maela hushes him, combing a hand through his pearlescent hair. "No, no, my sweet love, do not fear for me. The fire is mine. I am Maelera Bloodmoon, daughter of dragons, bride of dragons, mother of dragons, don't you see?"

   But the young prince could not understand her madness, none could.

   'Tis only Alicent whom could pull the poor boy away from Maelera, stroking his back whilst she holds him against her as he weeps into her emerald dress.

   Silent tears streamed down the Queen's cheeks, but she couldn't find her voice... for what could a mother say to her child when she 'tis about to walk into a burning pyre?

   Especially one so stubborn as Maelera Targaryen, whom answers to neither gods nor men.

   Helaena 'twere perhaps the only one amongst the royal family whom held no doubt nor fear for Maela, for perhaps she witnessed this moment in her own visions of stars and prophecies.

   "A dragon thrice-headed soaring beneath the bleeding star," she murmurs to herself.

   Aegon grabs her arm, his grip desperate yet not harsh enough to harm. "Maela, please. Don't ask me to stand aside as you climb on that pyre. I won't watch you burn." It 'twould destroy him.

   She only grins, soft as flowers and warmer than Sunfyre's scales, flattening her palm on his cheek. "Do you not remember, sweet prince? 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐳𝐲𝐬 𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞̄𝐧𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐳𝐚𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐢̄𝐳𝐞𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐨𝐫." ( fire cannot kill a dragon )

Standing upon the tips of her toes, Maela presses a gentle kiss to Aegon's cheekbone before stepping away, turning to Ser Melvan and a pair of Kingsguard whom hold the prisoners she'd asked for.

   "You are mad," one of the filthy men spits.

   Maela tilts her head as Balerion screeches with wisps of smoke emitting from his nostrils, "Is it so far from madness to wisdom?"

   "What wisdom is there in burning men?" Another of the men asks, quivering in fear as the largest dragon in the world flares his wings, blotting out the sun for a moment, whilst he lowly growls.

   "'Tis there when those men are vile cutthroats, preying upon the innocent." The princess nods to the three knights awaiting her command. "And for those horrid crimes, you shall burn."

   Thus, the prisoners are tied unto the pyre with steel chains whilst a torch is passed into Maela's hand.

   Behind the Black Dread, the sun sinks beneath the horizon, thus beginning the hour of the bat, and the young girl touches the torch upon the tail of the pyre and watches the fear grow in the men's eyes as their death inches closer and closer with fiery jaws.

   She smirks.

   The pyre rages, and the girl's gaze collides with the dragon's ahead of her.

   The spikes rippling down his neck tremble. It is time, she knows. And Maelera does not look back as she walks toward the fire. If I look back I am lost.

   Walking through the flames, stepping over the twigs and branches, the fire catches her dress, burning away the silky fabric as the blazing inferno envelopes her within the warmth of its embrace.

And Aegon Targaryen watched with a broken heart, he just saw the girl he loves walk into a burning pyre.

But within the fire, she heard a crack, the sound of shattering stone. The platform of wood and brush and grass began to shift and collapse in upon itself. Bits of burning wood slid down at her, and Maela was showered with ash and cinders. And something else came crashing down, bouncing and rolling, to land at her feet; a chunk of curved rock, purple and veined with black, broken and smoldering.

And there came a second crack, loud and sharp as thunder, and the smoke stirred and whirled around her and the pyre shifted, the logs exploding as the fire touched their secret hearts.

Unafraid, Maela stepped forward into the firestorm, calling to her children. The third crack was as loud and sharp as the breaking of the world.

༻ •𖢻• ༺

     '𝕿wasn't until the breakage of dawn when the fire burnt out, the sky as red as blood as the sun rose and still the crowd of nobility remained by the sizzling pyre, a ruin of ash and smoke.

   The princess' sworn sword, Ser Melvan, 'twas the brave soul whom ventured into the blackened ruin in search of the girl's remains... for none could have survived a fire so great.

   But something amidst the ruin caught his eye and his breath hitched. A glisten of silver hair.

   When he approached, the hunched figure shifted and lifted its head.

   Dark violet eyes collided with the knight's as Balerion the Dread roared, so loud the people 'twere certain all of the Seven Kingdoms could hear him, and all the dragons joined him, roaring as one.

   Ser Melvan fell to his knees in awe, for he had witnessed no greater wonder. "My Princess."

   But the unburnt princess 'twere not all, and his heart simply stopped when a bronze beast climbed from her back onto her shoulder, hissing softly as it's scales glimmered in the light of the red dawn.

Then he noticed the other hatchlings cradled in her arms, one of red scales like blood and the other purple like melted amethysts as they suckled at her breasts like babes.

The knight could not say anything, thus he merely bowed his head to the Mother of Dragons.

Still surrounding the remains, the nobility had begun to murmur amongst themselves, hearing the soft snarls of the dragons, trying to peer through the thick, gray smoke.

Had the princess survived? They all wondered.

The royal family looked ahead as well, hope shattering the vise around their hearts.

And, as though sent by the gods, a wind swept through the yard and the smoke parted enough for all the people to see Princess Maelera Targaryen, unhurt with three hatchlings clinging to her ash-and-soot stained skin.

And she had never been more beautiful to Aegon than in this moment.

"A miracle! A miracle!" The cry rose from amidst the crowd.

But the Targaryens knew 'twere not so, 'tis the power of a Dragonborn, witnessed by their very eyes.

And a wonder it 'twere to behold.

The Unburnt Princess and the Mother of Dragons, the first in history to bond with four dragons. The girl whom walked into a great fire with three stones and came out with three dragons, the sky red as blood behind her.

As Maelera Targaryen rose to her feet, her bronze hissed, pale smoke venting from its mouth and nostrils. The other two pulled away from her breasts and added their voices to the call, translucent wings unfolding and stirring the air... and the dawn came alive with the music of dragons.

Behind the Daughter of Death, black wings unfurled and in this extraordinary yet haunting sight, the people thought they were gazing upon a dragon, itself.

Balerion joined his children, the Father of Dragons crying out to the world and all the people fell to their knees in wonder and awe.

༻ •𖢻• ༺

𝕱ar across the Narrow Sea, within the palace of Pentos, the gentle sounds of the crashing bay and the culling gulls, Daemon Targaryen sits with Baela in the grand library, teaching the young Velaryon girl the language of their ancestors.

   He slowly traces the inky, black words on the page of the Valyrian book with his finger as Baela reads the words aloud in their mother tongue.

   "𝐍𝐚𝐞𝐣𝐨𝐭 𝐃𝐨̄𝐫𝐨𝐬 𝐀𝐥𝐲𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐞 𝐠𝐮̄𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐧 𝐆𝐞̄𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐭𝐢̄𝐤𝐮𝐧, 𝐲𝐧 𝐣𝐢𝐤𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐝𝐚𝐨𝐫 𝐳𝐚𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐢̄𝐳𝐞𝐬." ( alysanne took silverwing to the wall, but the dragon refused to cross )

   "𝐒ȳ𝐳," Daemon praises. ( good )

   "But why didn't Silverwing cross the Wall?"

   With a sigh, Daemon shrugs. "No one knows. No dragon has ever crossed the Wall, not even one so great as Balerion. Northerners say that ancient magic was imbued into the Wall when it was built."

   His Blood Wyrm, Caraxes, refused to fly across the Wall when he visited the structure built by giants from ice and magic many years ago, as well. It left the Rouge Prince curious, for what hideous thing lay beyond the Wall that keeps even the great dragons away?

   Daemon 'tis broken from his musings when a servant enters the candle-and-moonlit library with a letter in hand, sealed with the sigil of his house from a Westerosi envoy, the young lad told him.

   Breaking the seal and unfurling the letter, the words surprise Daemon Targaryen, for it 'twere written by his brother about the Unburnt Princess... the girl he abandoned eight years ago.

   "Father?" Baela questions when she notices he has gone still like stone and hardly breathes.

   But Daemon doesn't respond, instead he walks away without a word. And the Rouge Prince finds himself on the roof of the grand palace, sitting upon a cushioned bench whilst sipping on amber wine with the letter clutched in his other hand.

   The whistling screeches of his Caraxes carries in the cool breeze as he circles overhead, silvery moonlight sparkling on his scales, red like blood, as his body twists and turns beneath the stars.

And Daemon stirs in his thoughts.

The shock has since faded, replaced by a sense of self-pride.

'Tis his daughter that is the Unburnt; his daughter whom is the first to bond with more than one dragon, now she commands four; his blood that planted her seed within his Bronze Bitch.

The Royces of the Vale have no Valyrian ancestry, 'twas all him that made this extraordinary girl. His own blood that brought such a powerful being into this wide world.

And now, Daemon 'tis overcome with a sudden need, an obsession, a craving.

He craves this girl, his daughter. He craves her power, her dragons.

For they are hers as much as Maelera Targaryen is his.

As Daemon sits there, stirring in these obsessive feelings that threaten to devour him, his pregnant wife saunters onto the rooftop, spotting him. But he does not react to Laena's sudden presence, not until she approaches the bench.

He assorts the cushions for her comfort as his lovely Laena joins him with a breath, cradling her swollen belly beneath her golden nightgown.

They sit in silence for a moment, before she speaks, "I heard. The Princess of Fire, they're calling her."

Daemon merely hums in acknowledgment, drinking his wine in silence as the Blood Wyrm soars above.

Lady Laena looks at her rouge husband beside her, and is filled with such confusion. He isn't a man to be understood, this she knows, but that isn't it.

No. For years, ever since she brought her precious girls into the world, Laena has asked Daemon to return to Westeros, to Driftmark. But always, he denied her.

And that 'tis what confused her so.

She knows Daemon wishes to make amends with his brother and with the daughter he left behind, but he never did.

Whether it 'twere petty stubbornness or perhaps she just misinterpreted it wrong, Laena did not know.

But nonetheless, she tries once again. Tries to make him see the sense in returning home to their families, telling him she wants their children to be raised on Driftmark like she and her brother had been.

Tells him 'tisn't too late to make amends with Maelera.

But, once more, he denies her... and for a sole reason none 'twould ever guess–fear.

Fear of this girl. Fear she will not want to make amends with him.

And hate.

Hate that those green vipers might have stung and sucked Maelera dry. Hate of her rejection.

Maelera Bloodmoon 'tis his and his alone, who would the young girl be to disobey him? To deny him?

And yet, what reason has Daemon given his daughter to accept him when he, himself, had denied her?

And so, they sit there, lost in the thoughts of what could have been... and what could be.

__________༻♕༺___________

And after for-f*cking-ever, it is here! The finale of part i, 🥳🤩!! AND THE BABY DRAGONS ARE HERE!!! Omg, I can't wait to get into the episodes and duh, duh, duh, Maela and Daemon's reunion, 🤗!!!

Thank you for the patience and lovely comments through my turtle updating speed. Honestly, the way the show has been going to utter sh*t kinda dampened my mood to write, but I still love this story and the inspiration is back, so let's hope for more chapters to come, hopefully soon and quick, lol.

Anyway, love yall and see you again in the next part where we begin with episode six, 😘.