"Dragons. The grief and glory of my House, they were."
―Maester Aemon
…
Night hung heavily over Dragonstone, its basalt towers looming stark and black against a moonless sky. A chill wind hissed across the sea, rattling the shutters of the keep's narrow windows. In her small bedchamber, Rhaena sat with her head bowed over a worn book. A single candle sputtered in a brass sconce at her elbow, shedding a wavering glow on the pages.
She hardly read the words. Outside, the wind lashed the battlements, and she thought of her sister Baela, held captive in King's Landing—alongside their grandsire, Lord Corlys. In the gloom, Rhaena shifted, drawing her cloak about her shoulders. Her eyes flicked to the dragon's egg resting on the table before her.
It was a sad little thing, this egg. Dull and cold, its once-vibrant shell faded to a grayish hue. She had carried it with her since childhood, convinced it might hatch in time, if only she wanted it hard enough. But year upon year had passed, and the egg had remained lifeless. Now it served more as a memento of all she yearned for but could not possess.
She sighed, turned another page, and tried to lose herself in the old histories: tales of the first Targaryens who had conquered these Seven Kingdoms with fire in their veins and dragons beneath them. A line or two caught her eye—some mention of the Old King and his mighty Vermithor—but her heart clenched at the thought of what had transpired mere days past. Too many would-be dragonriders, convinced that blood alone would grant them mastery, had paid in gore for their overreach.
A soft rapping on her door jerked her from her reverie. Before she could rise her father stepped into the chamber. He had not bothered with ceremony. He seldom did these days.
"Rhaena," he said, shutting the door behind him. His face was all sharp angles in the candle's uncertain light, and he looked weary, drawn. "Are you well?"
She nodded, though she did not quite meet his eyes. "As well as can be expected, Father. I was only…reading."
"Good. You should read. Words are too often undervalued among our family, overshadowed by steel and flame." Daemon paused a moment, as if searching for the right words. "Though I suspect your thoughts stray to other matters."
He crossed to where she sat, the flickering candle illuminating the silver in his hair. There was a warmth in his voice, beneath the gruff edge—a fondness reserved for his children, especially in these dark times.
Rhaena set aside her book. "It is Baela, Father. I cannot help but wonder if she's truly safe, locked away in the Red Keep. And Grandfather Corlys—will he withstand Aemond's wrath? What if—"
Daemon stilled her with a light touch on her arm. "I cannot speak to their conditions, but know this: we dragonlords endure. Baela, Corlys, Rhaenys—they know the consequences of this war. The best we can do is bring it to a swift end."
She tried to find solace in that, though anxiety still gnawed at her. After a silence, he eyed the old egg upon the table. His brow furrowed. "You still keep that close?"
Rhaena forced a small smile. "It offers a sort of comfort…perhaps foolishly so."
"It is not foolish," Daemon said. Then, after a moment, he exhaled, as though bracing himself. "I come bearing news—and a request. I have spoken to your mother."
His tone told her at once this was no trifling matter. She set her shoulders, prepared for whatever words might follow.
"You recall how we sought to bind Vermithor again," Daemon began, "only to see men of proud houses left as so much charred bone. Vermithor is an old beast, and not kindly to strangers." His mouth tightened. "But Silverwing was once a gentler creature, or so we are told. Rhaenyra and I would have you try again, come the morrow."
Rhaena's stomach lurched. She had known the day might come when she'd be asked to attempt such a claim. Yet the memory of those charred and broken bodies lay fresh in her mind. "Silverwing has gone riderless for so long… perhaps she does not wish for another."
Daemon inclined his head. "She might not. But she might. The truth is, we have too few dragons—and fewer riders still. Silverwing may be more amenable than Vermithor, and you have the blood, Rhaena. Better you than the next fool who fancies himself a dragonlord."
She twisted her fingers in her lap. A part of her felt sudden, heart-thudding fear. Another part felt the faintest thrill. A living dragon. A bond that might make a difference in the war. She wanted to be brave, for herself, for Baela, for their house. But the tales of those scorched in their attempts…
Daemon squeezed her hand, as though sensing her turmoil. "Have courage. I will not force you, but I think it well worth the risk. Think on it tonight, and be ready by dawn."
His voice gentled. "We cannot leave all to chance. We must try. You must try."
Rhaena swallowed hard, then nodded. "Yes. Very well."
Satisfied, Daemon rose. He touched a hand briefly to her shoulder. "Rest, daughter. May the gods grant you a kinder dream than they have me these last months."
He was gone before she could summon another word.
...
She attempted to settle herself after Daemon's departure, but the castle's stillness grew oppressive. She heard the distant sigh of the wind through narrow windows, the soft scrape of scales from beyond—dragonish murmurs, perhaps. Sleep did not come easily.
Eventually, she banked the small hearthfire and climbed into bed, wearing only a thin shift beneath her blankets. Yet still her pulse drummed. Giving in to the old habit, she reached for the lifeless egg and drew it close, cradling it against her belly. She listened to her own breath and let the candle gutter out.
Her thoughts spun: Baela caged in the Red Keep. Silverwing waiting, or refusing. Her father's eyes, lined with worry. Her mother's counsel. She prayed, in that fumbling way of the uncertain, that tomorrow might bring some hope.
...
Rhaena did not know she had slept until the pale edges of dawn lit her chamber. She stirred, half-dreaming of dragons. Warmth pressed against her side, more tangible than any dream. A gentle snuffling sound reached her ears.
Blinking away the blur of slumber, she sat upright—and froze. Nestled in the sheets where the egg had been was a creature the color of pale rose, with slender limbs and tiny black horns. A hatchling.
For an instant, she scarcely drew breath. The little dragon blinked up at her with eyes like polished onyx. Its skin gleamed faintly in the weak morning glow, so impossibly alive and delicate.
"My dragon," Rhaena whispered, wonderstruck. She slid carefully off the bed and scooped the hatchling into her arms. The creature let out a soft chirp, fragile wings fanning. How had this come to pass? After all these years of nothing…
Her heart hammered in her chest. She had to tell someone—no, she had to tell everyone. She rushed to the washbasin, splashing water on her face, scarcely able to contain her joy. Then, with trembling hands, she gathered her cloak about her shoulders, perched the hatchling against her breast, and hurried from the room.
...
She made her way through Dragonstone's dark passages with an eager step. Servants she passed looked upon the little beast with expressions ranging from awe to unease, but she did not slow. Soon, she arrived at the doors to her parents' chamber and knocked, breathless.
It was Rhaenyra who answered, voice heavy with sleep. "Enter."
Rhaena pushed open the door. Within, she found her mother stirring, propped on one elbow, hair unbound, while Prince Daemon rose from the bed in a loose-fitting robe. At the sight of his daughter, disheveled and holding a pinkish dragon hatchling, Daemon's eyes went wide. Rhaenyra sat upright.
"Seven save us," she said in a hushed voice, her gaze sweeping over the tiny creature. "Rhaena…"
"It hatched," Rhaena said, hardly knowing how else to speak. "I—found it this morning."
Rhaenyra's face broke into a radiant smile. "Truly? After all this time… Let me see." She reached out, wonder in her eyes. The hatchling flicked its forked tongue, seemingly unafraid.
Daemon, however, seemed more cautious than marveling. He approached, brow furrowed, as if uncertain whether to celebrate or fear some dire omen. When he spoke, his voice was tight. "A new hatchling, days or even years from flight."
Rhaena lifted her gaze to him, expecting pride. Instead, she saw something close to anger flicker across his face. "Father?"
The prince turned away, running a hand through his silver hair. "The Greens have six grown dragons—six. Vhagar, Sunfyre, Dreamfyre, Tessarion… and they've new riders for Seasmoke and that damned Sheepstealer. We have only four: Caraxes, Syrax, Vermax, Arrax." His lips curled in frustration. "Now that your egg's hatched, you are bound to this hatchling, Rhaena, and that means you cannot claim Silverwing. That was what we needed—one more adult in the sky."
Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed at him. "Surely this is still good news. Another Targaryen bonding with a dragon is no small thing."
But Daemon let out a harsh breath. "A miracle that wins us no battles. It may be grown in ten years—or never, for all we know." He looked again upon his daughter and her new dragon, as though he wanted to rejoice but could not. "Now we must pin our hopes on peasants, half-blood bastards who claim Targaryen descent, to bind themselves to Vermithor or Silverwing. Pray the gods they succeed where others failed."
Rhaena shrank back, clutching the hatchling protectively. "I… I did not ask for this, Father."
Her words hung in the air, raw as an open wound. Rhaenyra shot Daemon a glare, but he only turned and strode toward the tall window at the far side of the chamber, shoulders taut with pent-up fury.
"What use is it?" he murmured, scarcely directing the question at anyone. "What good is another infant dragon, when we are losing this war by the day?"
His bitterness left the room stifling. Rhaena felt tears prick her eyes, but she blinked them away, unwilling to cry before her father.
Rhaenyra reached for her daughter, guiding her a step aside. "This is a blessing, Rhaena. Do not doubt it. Your father's anger is not with you—he is weary of the war, of defeat after defeat. But in time, he will see the wonder of this moment."
Her mother placed a comforting hand on her back. Daemon still lingered by the window, staring out across the churning sea, as though longing to take flight himself and punish their foes. Without a word, he pushed open the shutters and stepped onto the narrow balcony, letting the wind whip at his robe.
At last, Rhaenyra sighed. "Let him sulk. He will come around, or he won't—but this is your dragon, Rhaena. Yours." She brushed a strand of hair from the girl's face and offered a reassuring smile. "I am proud of you, Rhaena."