Chapter Text
Watching her half-brothers being carted away by their nursemaids, bound for a ship to Pentos, Rhaena grew desperate. She had no desire to be exiled to Essos, entrusted with the care of young Aegon III and Viserys and their hatchling dragons with none of her own. She wanted to join the war and fight alongside Baela and Jace, preferably on a dragon.
Seizing her chance, she broke away from the small procession and rushed sideways, following the path of scorched earth and charred bones, watching as the grass on the hill below the Eyrie grew scantier and the dark, burnt patches of earth grew bigger. The wild dragon—it had to be here somewhere.
Rhaena’s heart raced. She was no fool. She had heard of what happened when dragons rejected the people who attempted to claim them—they let out a bellow of fiery wrath, destroying everyone in their path. Nevertheless, she persisted. She was desperate to get out of her gilded prison, plied with food and wine and clothes, spending endless hours babysitting Daemon and Rhaenyra’s sons, away from the thick of battle, away from the rest of her family. She thought of the hateful Lady Jeyne Arryn—mistress of the Eyrie and her jailer as of the last few weeks—and ran faster.
A vast shadow swooped overhead and she stumbled, falling painfully and skinning her knees through the thick fabric of her gown. She gazed up at the blazing sun, and the shadow appeared again—the vast underbelly of a young dragon, its mottled, iron-grey surface dark and uneven, its massive wings flapping as it swooped low over her. She heard screams from the party of nursemaids, and heard the knights draw their swords, shouting to them to get to cover.
“NO!” shouted Rhaena, her pale dreadlocks swinging as she turned to face them, “It is useless to draw your sword against a dragon! Stand back!”
“Princess!” bellowed the whitecloaks, one of them beginning to stumble over the hill towards her to drag her to safety.
“I SAID STAND BACK!” she shouted, and the dragon swooped dangerously low, its massive body forming a barrier between her and the knight, forcing him to fall back. The beast turned towards her, its yellow slit eyes unblinking, nostrils twitching as it faced her. She stood utterly still, breaking out in gooseflesh. Her heart raced, but she stood her ground, determined not to show fear. It was the first thing her father had taught her about dragons—they could smell fear.
The beast made its way slowly towards her, its massive claws planting themselves one by one on the scorched earth, making the hillside shake. She heard the distant screams of the shiphands waiting to put them on a ship to Pentos.
“It’s the rogue dragon!” one of them shouted, “Sheepstealer!”
The dragon approached, breathing heavily as it neared her, taking in her scent. She kept an eye on its closed maw, ever vigilant. At the first sight of a building fire, she would flee.
The beast’s wet, reptilian scent enveloped her as it stopped just before her. She could see every iron-grey scale on its nose, every fleck of gold in its yellow eyes. For a moment, they stood utterly still—girl and beast—simply staring at each other.
Finally, Rhaena reached out a hand to him.
“Lykiri,” she said in High Valyrian, echoing the words her sister Baela so often spoke to her dragon, “Dohaeris.” Calm. Serve.
To her intense relief, the dragon bowed its mighty head, presenting her with its spiked crown as it bent before her.
She stepped forward, allowing her hand to make contact with its cool grey scales.
“Hello, Sheepstealer,” she said softly.
*
On Dragonstone, Rhaenyra stood on the battlements, watching the sky. She had sent Addam of Hull on his first mission as a dragonrider, and awaited his return with great trepidation. Jace’s words echoed in her mind.
If you put bastards on dragons, what is to stop them from claiming the Iron Throne? he had raged, What sets them apart from us? Everyone knows we look like Harwin Strong…
Rhaenyra’s eyes closed at his implication. Addam was a bastard, no different from Jace. If one had a valid claim to the Iron Throne, why not the other?
She had to do something to convince Jace that his place as heir of the Iron Throne was secure, while simultaneously giving Addam a proper place at court and in her Queensguard, to further cement his loyalty. When she had first seen the young man, his resemblance to Laenor had been striking. Despite Corlys’s claims that the boy was likely a bastard Laenor had sired on a local shiphand, Rhaenyra knew better. Laenor had been unable to stomach lying with her during their marriage, unable to perform even during the customary bedding ceremony. He had tried, his fingers moving clumsily over her body, his lips meeting hers in a closed-mouthed kiss, but had been unable to enter her, to spill his seed. After a few attempts at this, Rhaenyra—frustrated and still heartbroken over Daemon’s departure—had found comfort in the arms of Ser Harwin Strong. And Laenor had taken another male lover. There was no way he would have been able to perform with a shiphand if he had been unable to do his duty by his wife.
Addam had none of Laenor’s milk-chocolate colour, a blend of Corlys’s ebony and Rhaenys’s pale Targaryen skin. His skin shone onyx, just like that of the Sea Snake.
“He’s your son, isn’t he?” Rhaenyra had asked Corlys the previous night alone in the war room, “He looks nothing like Rhaenys.”
The Sea Snake had looked wretched.
“I—I kept him and his brother away from Rhaenys. She knew of their existence—they were sired on two particularly long and difficult voyages. I tried to do right by them—I gave their mother gold for their upkeep and gave them positions on my ships—but I could never publicly acknowledge them, lest I insult my beloved wife,” he admitted.
Rhaenyra leaned forward, her eyes keen.
“But who was their mother?” she pressed, “Was she a dragonseed? For Velaryon blood alone is not enough to mount a dragon. One must have Targaryen ancestry, too.”
Corlys shrugged.
“It is possible,” he said, “The shores of Driftmark are littered with dozens of silver-haired dragonseeds. There has been plenty of intermarrying among the Velaryons and the Targaryens, too, so it is likely that some of my own Targaryen ancestry came through in the boy.”
“But you do not have enough Targaryen blood to ride a dragon yourself,” persisted Rhaenyra, her eyes determined, “Did the boy’s mother have silver hair?”
“No,” said Corlys, “But she did have violet eyes.”
*
The sky above Rhaenyra darkened as the wings of a young beast flapped overhead. The familiar form of Seasmoke—Laenor’s old dragon, now Addam’s—hovered above her, losing altitude as it made its way to the dragonpit. Her heart in her mouth, Rhaenyra hurried downstairs, awaiting the results of Addam’s mission.
She entered the dragonpit just as he had dismounted, and made her way towards his tall, broad form as he stood, watching in wonder as the handlers calmed the dragon after its long flight, leading it away into the darkness. He seemed oblivious to the suspicious glances they cast his way—a bastard come from nowhere, usurping a dragon of House Targaryen.
Rhaenyra waited till she was directly behind Addam before she spoke.
“Addam.”
The boy spun around, and despite his height, Rhaenyra was once again struck by his obvious youth. He couldn’t be much younger than Aemond, and was probably the same age as Jace.
“My Queen,” he said, dropping to his knee in a bow that mirrored the one he had given her on the beach, soon after he had claimed—nay, been claimed—by Seasmoke.
“You may rise,” she said, “Tell me of your mission to the Baratheons. Have they declared for our cause?”
“Lord Borros Baratheon took some convincing,” said Addam, stretching himself up to his full height, “It appears the Greens have already approached him, seeking a match in one of his daughters for Prince Aemond. However, news of Meleys’s death and the subsequent parading of her head through the streets of King’s Landing have horrified him, and after Aemond’s… violence on leaving Storm’s End, and the whispers of the role he played in the maiming of Aegon, the Baratheons no longer wish to declare for the Greens.”
Rhaenyra forced herself to remain impassive as the pain of losing Lucerys to that one-eyed monster ripped through her. She could not afford to show weakness.
“I have convinced Lord Baratheon to declare for us, your Grace,” said Addam, bowing his head, “He sends his army to Dragonstone as we speak.”
A flood of relief rushed through Rhaenyra, and she staggered forward.
“Well done,” she said, gripping Addam by the arm, “You have performed a great service.”
The boy’s eyes filled with emotion, and he once again knelt before her.
“It is an honour to serve you, my Queen,” he said, his sincerity apparent in the deep timbre of his voice.
Rhaenyra placed her hand fondly on his black dreadlocks, so similar to her step-daughter Rhaena’s silver ones. The plan she had devised with Corlys the previous night came back to her. Now that Addam had proved his worth, it was time.
“Addam, you have time and again proven your loyalty to your Queen,” said Rhaenyra, “As a reward for your continued service, my Hand and I have decided that you are to be legitimised as Ser Addam Velaryon, a son of House Velaryon, and a knight of the realm.”
The boy’s face turned up to her, devotion shining through his black eyes.
They were interrupted by the arrival of a messenger, panting from his long run to the dragonpit.
“Your Grace,” wheezed the middle-aged man, resting his hands on his knees as the paused to draw a breath.
“What is it?” asked Rhaenyra, whipping around to face him, “Is there news from Harrenhal?”
The man shook his head, still breathing hard.
“No, your Grace,” he gasped, “It is the Princess Rhaena. She has arrived on dragonback.”