Chapter Two (Patreon)

When Rhaena Targaryen took control of her monstrous uncle’s scaled son, she hadn’t fully understood why. Truth be told, she still didn’t. She had already shown the boy more mercy than his lineage warranted, a few words keeping him alive from the cruel beast that sat her father’s throne.

Perhaps that was the reason. Some forlorn hope that, just as Maegor’s silver hair and purple eyes belied a nature more monstrous than any creature of the Seven Hells, his disfigured child could be more human than appearances indicated. Or perhaps Rhaena was simply tired of death, and wished nothing more than for it all to end. Only one more death was needed to bring an end to Westeros’ suffering, and once she figured out how kinslaying was a price she would gladly pay.

“Is this him?”

Rhaena smiled at her daughter. She was like Aegon in so many ways, just as rash and bold, just as hopeful. Rhaena hoped it was never beaten out of her. Rhaena never wanted to see Aerea with doom and resignation upon her face, the look Aegon bore as he sallied forth to meet Maegor over the God’s Eye.

“His name is Aenar,” Rhaena told her daughter.

“Everyone says he looks ugly,” Aerea said, leaning over the crib. “But his scales are so shiny. Like dragonglass mirrors.”

The babe stirred, reptilian eyes blinking. They were slitted vertically, like those of a dragon, yet carried the purple hue of a true Targaryen. Slowly, carefully, Aenar pushed himself off the crib. Rhaena watched carefully. He was only a few moons old. Was he . . .

“Muna?”

Rhaena’s heart stopped. Aerea turned to look at her. “Did he just–”

“He did,” Rhaena agreed.

“Are–”

“Muna,” Aenar repeated, bouncing slightly in the crib. His hands flexed against the wood.

Rhaena could resist for only so long. She swooped in, plucking him from the crib into her arms. “My little drakeling,” she whispered.

“I have a little brother!” Aerea crowed. “Does this mean I get to show him the passages?”

Rhaena froze. “Only the ones that–”

“Won’t get me into trouble,” Aerea pouted. “I know.”

“You can read to him if you want,” Rhaena said.

“I hate reading,” Aerea whined.

“Don’t you want Aenar to know about his ancestry?” Rhaena asked. “You know your uncle thinks he isn’t worthy.”

“I’ll teach him everything!” Aerea declared, sprinting off towards the door. “I’ll get the books right now!”

Rhaena shook her head. Her daughter was a whirlwind, yet she’d not trade her for the world. “I hope you prove a calmer head,” she told the dragonling in her arms. He shifted slightly, wiggling. “You want to be put down? Alright.”

Once on the floor, Aenar hesitated. He started to move. He stood. He took a step, then fell. He giggled, then stood, falling before he could stand. Then he stood again. Rhaena frowned. She was certain babes weren’t supposed to stand so soon, let alone walk. But the dragonblood was clearly strong in him, and dragons were ready to walk as soon as they hatched. Perhaps it was some effect of his mutation, or so absorption of the magic Tyanna had used to curse his birth?

Aenar tripped again, falling onto the stone floor with a heavy thud. He began to cry. Rhaena pushed the thoughts from her mind and rushed over to tend to him. Fortunately his scales seemed thicker than skin, and his tears dried swiftly. By the time Aerea returned, histories of House Targaryen and the Freehold under her arm, Aenar’s eyes were dry.

*

By his twenty thousandth nap cycle, Aenar had learned much. He knew his name. He knew his age (eight moons, which he hoped were roughly equivalent to months). He had, after a great deal of heavy breathing, come to accept where and when he was (Westeros during the rule of Maegor the Cruel). He had learned of his mother, Jeyne Farman, and heard whispers of Tyanna’s black magics that Aenar assumed had something to do with his half-dragon predicament. He had even gotten his first few skill point, in Knowledge (History). It was all thanks to Aerea’s reading. While Aenar was literate and able to carefully toddle around, he was still working on turning pages without tearing them thanks to his claws.

Truly, this new body was an exercise in patience. To practice, Aenar was standing up on his cot, trying not to cut through the thin cloth sheets. It was harder than one would think. His body was swift-growing and heavy-set, having made a transition from milk to minced meats and pates in recent weeks. Well-cooked, of course. Slowly, carefully, he pressed against the straw mattress. He stood, weight cautiously balanced on both–

–rrrrrippppp—

Gods damn it, Aenar thought, pouting. He flopped onto the mattress and started again.

BANG!

Aenar turned suddenly, toe-claws tearing through the sheets. Rhaena burst through the room, Aerea clutched in one hand and a ruby-hilted sword grasped in the other.

“Aerea–” she said nothing more as her daughter quickly picked Aenar up, scooping him out of the crib.

“Ga–”

“There’s no time,” Rhaena said. She moved swiftly, pulling them both along. They did not leave the room through the door, but another corridor that emerged from between a pair of empty bookshelves. Aenar stared in amazement at his first secret passage. He swore it would not be the last. “Hold this.”

Aerea grasped the sword. Aenar stared at it. He looked up at Aerea. “Wha happnin?” he asked. Not quite the King’s English, but in Aenar’s defense the King hardly deserved good English.

“We’re escaping,” Aerea grinned.

Aenar grinned back.

“Come.” Rhaena demanded. She held a torch, the bright orange-yellow light glowing. “We must away.”

The corridors were dark and musty. The streets of King’s Landing were crowded with mud-covered peasants in onion-yellowed tunics. Yet none bothered the three as they passed. Perhaps they saw the fire in Rhaena’s eyes. Many may desire to tangle with such a woman, but few would think it a wise decision.

At last they made it to the dragon pit. The grand structure was unfinished, four great spires reaching towards nothingness. Yet in the caves resided dragons. Only two, yet even one had been enough to cow a continent.

There was a rumble, a great thud of scaled flesh upon earth. A sniff as yellow-black eyes and blue-pink scales near.

“Dreamfyre,” Rhaena smiled. The angel touched fire made flesh, and the world sang. “We must leave. Quickly.”

Dreamfyre huffed, but knelt upon the dirt. Aerea scrambled up the saddle, strapping herself in. Aenar watched with sharp eyes as the chains were locked and belts slid into place. He himself was then handed up, more a package than a babe. Dreamfyre huffed at his presence, hate of old foes buried in contempt for the new generation. It was not speaking, yet close enough. Aenar tried to say something back, though it came out more like a cough. At last Rhaena came up the dragon, all grace and haste as she scaled the rope ladder and secured her place in the saddle.

“Ready?” Rhaena asked.

“Ready!” Aerea cheered.

“Eady!” Aenar shouted.

“Soves!” Rhaena declared, though Dreamfyre’s roar drowned out all three voices.

Dreamfyre leapt into the air. The force pushed wind from Aenar’s lungs. He saw the whole of King’s Landing shrinking beneath him, the people turning to ants as Dreamfyre’s wings beat, steadily climbing into the sky.

“To Storm’s End,” Rhaena declared.

“Storm’s End?” Aerea asked.

“Your uncle Jaehaerys has declared himself King, against Maegor,” Rhaena revealed as they turned south. A sparkle of mischief grew in her eye. “Unless either of you want to take the throne?”

“No!” Aenar shouted. “No crown! No no no!” Maegor’s son taking the crown? he thought, mind panicked. Maegor’s scaled son? They’d kill me the next day! I want to have fun and play and find a dragon and stop Aerea from getting killed by Valyria, not die at the age of one!

“Alright little one,” Rhaena laughed. “No crown for you.”

“Nor for me,” Aerea agreed. “I want to be free, not stuck in stupid dresses with stupid courtiers all day long.”

Long live King Jaehaerys.