If I had a flower
for every time I thought
of you, I could walk
in my garden forever

– Alfred Lord Tennyson

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103 AC

A vast mass of black scales rippled beneath him, moving him through the air at an alarming pace. It was too dark to see anything in front of him, but Rhaegon could make out the warm orange glow of roaring flames beneath them. Morghul made a low growl in the back of his throat, echoing through the open space around them like a warning. A heavy sense of dread swam in the pit of his stomach, and Rhaegon tried to look over the edge of Morghul's wings so he could see what was going on beneath him.

But Morghul's wings were too large, his body even larger, and all Rhaegon could make out were the screams of people dying and the smell of burning flesh. He wondered in the back of his mind if this is how the Conqueror felt on the back of the Black Dread when they flew into battle. Mounted upon a being too large for him so see anything below him, but the knowledge that he was causing destruction and mass death all too apparent.

Rhaegon did not quite know where he was, and he could not see anything apart from the large curling shape of Morghul's horns in front of him. His eyes watered from the smoke around them, and he rapidly blinked to try and fight of the burning in them. And then he heard it, the booming sound of foreign wings beating through the air. Something akin to fear gripped his heart and he looked up above him to try and catch the slightest glimpse of anything in the air. A roar so loud it had the power to bring men to their knees broke through the air – hoarse and deep, as if the creature was from a time long passed. And perhaps it was, because in the next few moments a dragon with bronze scales broke through the mass of darkness and into the glow of fire, its jaws open wide and flames gathering at the back of its throat, prepared to strike.

Morghul's answering roar was just as terrifying as the other creature's, and he banked to right at such speed that Rhaegon could feel the air pressing him into his dragon's body. The bronze creature missed with its flames, but he could still feel the burning heat from it. When Morghul rightened, he could finally get a clear look at the creature as it turned in the air for another strike. Something in his lungs tightened so painfully it was a wonder he was breathing at all.

The bronze creature – Vhagar, his father's dragon – roared once more, a threat of doom. For but a moment, Rhaegon spotted the sheen of long silver locks upon the she-dragon's back. That could not be his father, Rhaegon rationally argued, for his father was dead. Had been for almost a year now, and Baelon would never attack him like Vhagar was doing now. No, this was someone different. It had to be.

"Ao daor dakogon, kepus!" the rider shouted into the open space between them, a male voice, relatively young. "Istia udligon syt aōha skoros emā gaomagon!" Rhaegon frowned, not knowing what the stranger was talking about in the slightest. You cannot run, uncle, the stranger had said, as if Rhaegon had any nephew. You must answer for what you have done. Furrowing his brows in confusion, Rhaegon commanded Morghul to breath fire. He would not die upon his dragon without fighting back.

The sky lit up with bright orange flames, both Morghul's and Vhagar's. The heat was practically unbearable, and Rhaegon did not realise why until he looked down at the sleeve of his riding clothes. The leather was burning. Brightly, painfully. Rhaegon opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out. The last thing he saw was Vhagar opening her mighty jaws again, and then he was completely enveloped in flame.

With a jerk of his body, Rhaegon woke, fingers curled into the sheets beneath him with a death grip. It is fine, he told himself, everything was fine. It was just another dream. A body shifted beside his own, and then a gentle finger was running down his bare chest soothingly. He shuddered at the sudden contrast of a cold touch upon his hot skin.

"Another nightmare?" Aella asked softly, looking up at him with bright blue eyes. Rhaegon exhaled loudly, willing his heart to calm to a frequency far more bearable for him. He nodded, pursing his lips. This had been a nightly occurrence for years now. They would fall asleep in the same bed, and then he would wake them both with his reoccurring dreams. Aella never seemed to mind though, and she didn't seem to care now either as she shifted her position so she was splayed atop of him, her bare breasts pressed to his chest as rested her head in her palms. "Do you wish to speak about it?"

Rhaegon shook his head. "No," he sighed, and Aella nodded. They stayed silent for a few minutes, Aella tracing shapes into his skin with her finger. When Rhaegon's mind and body was calm enough, he willed himself to speak. "Is everything prepared for Viserys to take the throne?" He asked, though he already knew the answer. He himself had spent hours sitting with the council, discussing the inevitable.

Jaehaerys Targaryen had been bedridden for weeks now, and each day he toed the line of death. It had been hard the first few days, to look upon his grandfather and see nothing more than a ghostly skeletal face, the man delirious and calling him Baelon, and then Aemon and then finally Alyssa. Rhaegon could not stay in the room then, not when his lungs felt like they were plunged beneath water and his skin too taut across his bones.

It was obvious to everyone that by the weeks end, the Conciliator would be dead, and a new king would take the throne. Rhaegon had never seen Viserys be so jittery than now. Not that he could blame him. Viserys had not been raised to become the king. No, that had been Rhaenys, but she was no longer the heir. For better or for worse.

"Yes," Aella answered, running her hand through his hair and kissing his collarbone. "Aemma is worried though. Her last pregnancy ended in a stillbirth and Viserys is already pushing for another child." Rhaegon could only scoff.

"He does not need a son." He frowned, feeling tension form at his temple. "He has two brothers and a nephew. He has plenty of heirs." Aella hummed in agreement, but then she look him straight in the eyes, as if looking for some hidden truth that she could pull from the depths of his indigo irises.

"But would you want to be the heir?" she asked with a small raise of her eyebrow. Rhaegon heavily exhaled. No, he wouldn't want to be the heir. He was content helping his family rule, but he did not think he would be able to fill the role of king in the way the realm would need him to. Besides, he did not want such a fate for his son either. Anyone who ventured a bit too close to the throne ended up dead. Maegor, Aegon the Uncrowned, Aemon, Baelon, Viserra, they were all dead and buried, not truly ever reaching what they wanted to. And then there were those who did not die, but who suffered at the crown's hands regardless. Saera, Daella, Alyssane, Rhaenys, Aella and even himself. Even Daemon. His thoughts must have been etched onto his face all too vividly, because Aella hummed and nodded. "I did not think so."

After that, all they could do was try and sleep.

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The chambers of Aella's grandfather were pungent with herbs and incense, irritating her nose from the moment she walked in. Even after hours of sitting beside her dying grandfather's bed, she could not grow used to it, often times pressing a cloth to her nose as her eyes watered. She had long dismissed the Lady Ceryse, the hour too late to ask her to stay here with her.

The wheezing breaths of King Jaehaerys was the only sound that accompanied the quiet, and for hours it had been a mantra that Aella had listed to as she drafted a letter that she meant to send. To her sister, for it surely would not be long – perhaps days, perhaps hours – before the King submitted to death as all men eventually did. But as she picked up the quill to write, she realised that she did not know what to put down on the paper. The letters exchanged between her and Rhaenys had never been formal, their relationship too close, too friendly, for such things. But now there was only hostility between them – no matter how one-sided it was – and Aella knew that she could not address the letter to her 'dear Rhae' anymore. Now, the only words that were etched onto the blank paper – so black they appeared to be just two spaces where the world stopped existing – were Princess Rhaenys.

Perhaps she should have just left the job to the council, to the Hand or to her husband. With each passing hour, it became harder and harder to think of meaningful words or empty apologies. Because although Aella was sorry for the pain and loss that her sister had endured, she was not sorry for her choice. Her son – and now her daughter as well – came before all.

With a heavy huff, Aella placed down the quill onto the portable little table that Rhaegon so often used on nights when he could not sleep. Whereas Aella would long be curled up in the blankets and buried deep in the land of dreams, he would sit awake, that little table placed over his lap as he went over documents that could most definitely wait until the next day.

"Saera." The wheezed words caught Aella's attention, and she realised only then that her grandfather had been repeating them for a few minutes now. Saera, the name of his estranged and disowned daughter. His favorite, from what she had been told, and also one of the most rebellious. She had never known her aunt, being born the very year that she had been sent away from court. A year later, she had escaped Westeros altogether, and from what Aella had heard, she had found immense wealth in the free cities. "Saera, my dear girl."

Aella almost scoffed at the words. It was just like Jaehaerys to say such things. Never when he was lucid, never when he was not drugged up on milk of the poppy. No, these words were hidden deep in his mind, meant only for him. Only for scenarios that would remain in his imagination. Because Gods forbid he ever admit he did anything wrong. Gods forbid he actually make up with his daughter.

The man's violet eyes were staring right at her, sparkling with wonder. For only a moment, Aella felt a pang of pity in the pit of her stomach. Her grandfather truly believed that she was here, that Saera had sailed from Essos to see him. But that would never happen. The only thing he would ever see of her was the ghost he thought he saw in Aella's own form. It might've wounded her once, to be replaced in her grandfather's mind by a woman she had never even known. Not now, though. She was far too used to receiving hurt from him.

Perhaps if Aella had more fight in her years ago, she would have ended up like Saera. Banished from court, then exiled from the realm. Or perhaps she would be like her poor Aunt Viserra, dead and cold beneath Dragonstone, ashes gathered in an urn. Instead, she had submitted, if only because she had lost all will to fight. And so she had ended up like her Aunt Daella instead. Married to a man she did not want to be married to – the love she bore for him not the least bit romantic or lustful – and made to carry children. She had yet to bleed out during childbirth, but who said that would not happen eventually?

"You came back," Jaehaerys continued in his state of delirium. Aella bit the inside of her cheek, gathering her emotions in the palm of her hands and squandering them before they had any chance of surfacing. Despite the anger she bore for her grandfather, she would not unleash it upon him. Not in what could be his final moments.

Instead, she leaned forward in her seat beside his bed, and grasped his old wrinkled hand. "Yes, father," she whispered, the word heavy like lead and foreign on her tongue. "I am here." The sigh he let out was one of pure relief. Of ecstasy, even. He grinned weakly at her as he searched her face.

"You look just like your brother, do you know that?" he wheezed, brows furrowing a little. "How come I never saw how much you resembled Aemon?" At that, her throat tightened, and she swallowed around the lump that quickly formed. Because I am not her, Aella thought, though she did not have the courage to destroy the last bit of happiness  her grandfather was experiencing. She did not know how her aunt looked like. All of reminders of her had been torn from the walls of the Red Keep, the only paintings she could be seen in were family portraits, for even Jaehaerys could not take them down. One of Saera's bastard sons looked like her father, or at least, what Aella imagined her father looked like. The image of his face was muddled in her mind. But when she had seen him at the Great Council, when he and his other two brothers had come to put down their claim to the throne (a nonexistent one, Aella could only think) she had been stunned speechless. As if there had been life breathed into that very memory, triggering a hidden remembrance that Aella did not even know she had.

One of the other sons looked exactly like Jaehaerys himself, and then the last did not bear any Valyrian features at all, sporting darker skin and black hair that would often found in Essos.

"You must," Jaehaerys paused to breath, even so few words taking their toll, "you must go see your mother! She has been begging for you to come back to us. You must- you must..." No words came out after that, only short wheezes and puffs of air as his eyes fell closed. Tears gathered in Aella's eyes. Yes, Alyssane had wanted so badly for her daughter to be brought back. It was a request Jaehaerys had never fulfilled, and so Alyssane had died with only her son Baelon by her side – Saera not even responding to letters, Vaegon too deeply buried in his studies to care much.

"Of course, father, I will go do that," Aella complied, taking her hand out of Jaehaerys' weak hold. Carefully, she stood up, gathering her skirts in her arms as she stepped around the chair carefully. With a heavy exhale, she took the unwritten letter she had discarded and tossed it into the hearth, watching only a short moment to make sure it caught aflame before she turned towards the door and walked out of the room.

The maids found the Old King dead in his bed come morn.

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The Velaryon ships had docked at dawn, announced by the loud roars of Princess Rhaenys' dragon Meleys and her son's hatchling Seasmoke. Rhaegon had never seen Aella be as tense as she was now – perhaps only during the Great Council. Her milky white skin shone brightly in the sun as they waited on the steps before the Red Keep, most of it disappearing behind black embroidered silk and Myrish lace. The only thing that was keeping her from the direct line of her sister's sight was the the place they were standing, slightly off to the left. It was Viserys and Aemma that stood front and center, a place they had never been before.

But it was there place now, because King Jaehaerys was dead and Viserys was now king, though still uncrowned. His brother's silver hair billowed in the wind as he waited, face uncharacteristically pale and worried. Rhaegon could not blame him, for he had no doubt that burden of the crown was a heavy one.

The carriage carrying the Princess Rhaenys and her daughter rode through the gates, quickly followed by Lord Corlys and Laenor on horseback. Viserys quickly stepped forward with a tight-lipped smile, holding his arms out in greeting. When Rhaenys stepped out of the carriage, she did not return the smile. Neither did her husband. The council had expected such a thing, and so Viserys had been prepared for such a greeting. Still, it was obvious he had hoped that the Velaryons would at least feign happiness at seeing him.

"Lord Corlys, Princess Rhaenys, we welcome you to King's Landing," he greeted them with carefully recited words. "I only wish it could be under better circumstances." Rhaegon quickly tuned out what they were saying, his attention drawn away by a nimble hand taking ahold of his. He turned his head slightly to his right, so it was barely noticeable. Aella was visibly fidgeting, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth. Already, he could see a small drop of blood pooling on her lips from where her teeth had sunk into her flesh. Squeezing her hand tightly, hoping it would bring her some small comfort, he turned back to his brother.

He was already done with his greeting, leading Corlys and Rhaenys inside of the Keep. Not that they needed to be introduced to the castle, having lived there longer than even Viserys had. Rhaenys did not even look in his and Aella's direction as she walked passed them. Her husband gave them an apologetic look. From his peripheral vision, Rhaegon could see that Aella gave him a dismissive nod. She too had been prepared for a cold shoulder.

The moment that Corlys and Rhaenys disappeared behind the door, Aella shoulders sagged, and Rhaegon would have drawn her into his embrace had a body not come barreling towards them. A girl tackled his wife in a hug, her wild silver curls bouncing as she squealed.

"Aunt Aella!" Laena cried excitedly, beaming when she pulled back from the hug. Aella's frown was completely gone, replaced by a bright grin of her own. Rhaegon felt a weight be lifted off his heart at the sight of it. "It has been so long!"

Aella nodded. "Yes, it has," she agreed, "you have grown so much, Laena." The girl smiled brightly at that, practically bouncing in her spot. "And your gown! I have never seen anything quite like it!" And if that wasn't the truest thing Rhaegon had her heard. The gown that Laena wore was one of lighter silks, all billowing in the wind. Blue, violet and sea green swept over each other with every move, creating the illusion of shimmering water during a bright summer day. Gemstones were embroidered onto the bodice – sapphires, diamonds aquamarine and even a few opals. It was so very differently cut from Westerosi fashion. Instead of overly large and heavy skirts made of brocade, velvet and other luxurious fabrics, wide and puffed sleeves and jeweled hairnets of ribbons that tied the hair of noblewomen into extravagant and complicated updos.

Laena's seemed to be the complete opposite, with a layer of sheer silver and pale blue gossamer covering her relatively light skirts – though there were still at least three layers of the green, blue and purple silks – and the sleeves were made up of two loose sheets of fabric (also of gossamer) that only created an illusion of a sleeve, leaving the actual arm bare if Laena moved it upright. Her hair was only pulled back by a sea green ribbon encrusted with jewels.

Despite the girl's apparel not following the typical Westerosi fashion, which was often more of a battlefield than simply dressing up, as the richness of one's clothing symbolized their status and power, Laena's gown was still visibly expensive. Whether it be simply because the girl herself exuded a regal aura or because the materials and style of the gown were that of Essosi nobility – mainly seen in Myr or Tyrosh – it did not matter, because her gown would still appear far more extravagant than those of other ladies of the court save a few.

"I assume your father brought him home for you from one of his many voyages?" Rhaegon asked, smiling at the way Laena nodded with pure excitement. It was clear she found great joy in any present her father brought home from her.

"Yes, he did! I've never worn anything like it before!" she mused, stepping back and twirling so she could show Aella how the fabric moved just like the ocean did. Rhaegon thought distantly that Corlys had commissioned such a design on purpose, to symbolize his house's most prized asset. Aella grinned happily at her niece, offering her arm which Laena took graciously.

"Come, there is so much you must tell me!" she told her, leading the girl inside of the Red Keep. Despite the day of mourning, Rhaegon found himself smiling genuinely as he followed.

°•~━━✥❖✥━━~•°

The funeral of King Jaehaerys I Targaryen was a grand affair. A procession took place, going from the Red Keep to the Dragonpit where his corpse would be burned in a traditional Valyrian funeral. The citizens of King's Landing watched as the procession – led by their new king, the uncrowned Prince Viserys – made its way through the streets. It was one of the few times events that brought all of the members of the royal family together. A funeral, or perhaps a wedding, but the latter had not taken place in a very long time.

The commoners watched with amazement as the Targaryens passed them in the streets, their silver hair flowing their backs and their black clothing richer than anything they had ever laid their eyes upon. It made them look down at their own clothing, usually ragged and dirty, but for that day decorated by little bronze pins in the shape of a dragon. A commemoration of the Old Kings own mount. Vermithor, the great bronze beast, soared over the city multiple times, crying out in what the one would describe as sorrow for the only rider he had ever known.

When the procession had reached the Dragonpit , the crowd had been allowed to filter into the great structure in a regulated amount. They watched as the Old King's body – wrapped in pure white linens – was brought up onto a pyre that had already been prepared. Then, for what seemed like ages, they all stood in silence and watched. The High Septon said a few words, passing the King's soul into the hands of the Seven.

After that, it was Prince Viserys' turn to speak. His words were not one of faith, nor of mourning. Rather they celebrated his grandsire's life, spoke of the great sadness he held at his passing, but gave assurances that he would continue the same rule the Conciliator had. That the realm would not fall into disarray, but would continue to flourish in peace and prosperity. The crowd had cheered at that, despite the wrongful feeling it might have brought up in some, as this was still a funeral. After that lengthy speech, it was finally time for the burning.

When the Good Queen Alyssane's funeral had taken place three years back, it had been King Jaehaerys who had done the honors, commanding his dragon to spew fire over the pyre. He had done it as her brother, as her husband of many years, and as her greatest love. But it was his turn to be burned now, and there was no great love left alive, and the only child that was present and alive did not have a dragon of his own. Vaegon Targaryen did not even look interested in what was happening around him. The King's grandson, his heir, did not have a mount either, the Black Dread having died years ago.

There was of course the Princess Rhaenys who could have done it, but she did not step forward, and so the crowd waited with bated breath. Princess Aella stayed just as still as her sister, each of her hands occupied by one of her small children. That left only two royals with a dragon who could do it. The commoners looked between Prince Daemon and Prince Rhaegon, wondering which one it would be.

Finally, as the silence was broken by the clashing and clanking of large chains, and from the black shadows behind the pure appeared a great large head with black scales and cat-like yellow eyes. Morghul roared, his cry shaking the very foundations of the Dragonpit. Some commoners cowered at the sight of him, most probably only seeing him from afar when the Prince would go flying. The great beast dipped his head, looking directly at his rider.

When Prince Rhaegon stepped forward, many in the crowd had to suppress their cheers. They all knew their prince, the man often going down into the city to sort out whatever problems had arisen. In that, he had taken after his grandmother, the Queen Alyssane, who had improved the lives of many in the city with not only her laws, but also her willingness to change and be proactive. This quickly made him a favorite among the people, for who would not favor a prince who cared for the people?

Prince Rhaegon looked up at the great beast that was his dragon – so similar to the Black Dread – and shouted the word for dragon fire loud and clear, so everyone heard it.

Morghul opened his jaws, and everyone stared with amazement as a great ball of fire gathered at the back of his throat. And then the fire was enveloping the pyre. And the Old King burned. And Gods, was there ever anything more purifying than a dragon's flame?

Author's Note

I edited this at like 2 am so I apologize for any mistakes I may have missed.

I've had a few people ask me about the ages of the actual show characters in this book, so I'm going to clear up the confusion very quickly!

Laena and Laenor are the same age as they are in the book (born 92 AC and 94 AC respectively), Rhaenyra is also the same age as she was in the book (born 97 AC) while Alicent's birth year is the same as in the show so she is the same age as Rhaenyra (97 AC according to the game of thrones wiki)!

Morghul is a dragon that hatched before Aegon's conquest, but he was only a hatchling when Aegon I was crowned king, making him around 100 years old. He is the second largest dragon after Vhagar and is the same breed as Dany's dragons and Dreamfyre because those are my favorite 😌