AN: My update schedule will probably be 2-3 a week. But for the first week, I will update 7 chapters. ^v^b
RHAELLA
Queen Rhaella Targaryen stood at the window of the Stone Drum, watching storm clouds gather over the Narrow Sea. Dragonstone, the ancestral seat of House Targaryen, loomed dark and foreboding against the angry sky. The dragon-shaped gargoyles that adorned the castle seemed alive in the strange pre-storm light, their stone eyes following her every move.
"The worst storm in living memory, they're saying," Ser Willem Darry remarked at her side. The master-at-arms of Dragonstone was a stalwart presence, one of the few people Rhaella truly trusted. "The fishermen have all come in. They claim the weather has an unnatural feel to it."
"Perhaps it does," Rhaella murmured, one hand absently stroking her rounded belly where her fourth child grew. Her third son, Viserys, now a year old, slept peacefully in the nursery despite the distant rumble of thunder. "The smallfolk say storms over Dragonstone are the dragons of old, returning to their first home in Westeros."
Willem smiled indulgently. "Old wives' tales, Your Grace."
"Perhaps." Rhaella turned away from the window. "Where is Prince Thalor?"
"In the Chamber of the Painted Table with Maester Gyldayn. The prince was quite insistent on studying the eastern coastlines."
Rhaella nodded, unsurprised. Her second son, not yet four namedays old, displayed a curiosity and focus that unnerved many at court. Unlike her eldest, Rhaegar, whose melancholy and scholarly nature had developed gradually, Thalor seemed to have been born with an old soul. His green eyes—so unlike the traditional Targaryen violet—often held a knowledge that sent shivers down her spine.
"I shall collect him myself," she said. "The storm approaches quickly. I want the family together until it passes."
As she made her way through the twisting corridors of Dragonstone, Rhaella reflected on the true purpose of this visit. Officially, they had come so she might enjoy the island's fresh air during her pregnancy. Unofficially, Aerys had sent them away while he dealt with increasing tensions with his Hand, Tywin Lannister.
But Rhaella had her own reasons for wanting distance from King's Landing. Away from the Red Keep, away from Aerys's increasingly erratic behavior, she could observe Thalor properly, away from her husband's unnerving obsession with the boy.
She found her son where Willem had indicated, standing on a chair beside the Painted Table. The massive stone table, carved in the shape of Westeros, had been commissioned by Aegon the Conqueror to plan his invasion three centuries earlier. Thalor was leaning over the eastern edge, studying the carved coastline with intense concentration.
"There are islands here," he was saying to Maester Gyldayn, pointing to a spot in the Narrow Sea. "Many islands. Not just these few you've marked."
The aging maester looked bemused. "The charts show only the major islands, my prince. The smaller ones are of little consequence to navigation or—"
"They're important," Thalor insisted with a vehemence that seemed incongruous coming from his childish voice. "People could live there. Dragons could live there."
"Dragons, indeed," Rhaella interjected gently. Both Thalor and the maester turned, the latter bowing deeply while her son merely gave her that penetrating stare of his. "It's time to come away, Thalor. A storm approaches."
"Mother." Thalor climbed down from his chair with surprising grace for a child his age. "I've been studying the maps. The eastern coastline doesn't match my—" He paused, a sudden wariness crossing his features. "It doesn't match what I thought it would look like."
Rhaella exchanged a glance with Maester Gyldayn, who gave a slight shrug. This was not the first time Thalor had shown knowledge he couldn't possibly possess.
"The world is full of surprises," she said diplomatically. "Come now. We should be together when the storm hits."
As they walked, Thalor slipped his small hand into hers, a rare gesture of childish affection from her usually self-contained son.
"The egg should be with me during the storm," he said suddenly.
Rhaella looked down at him. "It's safely stored in your chambers, dear one."
"No." Thalor's grip on her hand tightened. "It needs to be with me. Tonight is important."
There was something in his tone—not a child's petulance, but a certainty that gave Rhaella pause. "Why is tonight important, Thalor?"
He looked up at her, those unnervingly intelligent green eyes meeting hers directly. "Because the lightning will wake him."
A chill ran down Rhaella's spine that had nothing to do with the drafty corridors of Dragonstone. She thought of Aerys's increasingly frequent talk of prophecies, of "the prince that was promised," of dragons returning—and how those ravings always centered on Thalor.
"Very well," she said after a moment. "We'll collect the egg and bring it to the royal apartments."
Relief washed over Thalor's face. "Thank you, Mother."
By the time they reached the royal wing of the castle, the storm had fully descended upon Dragonstone. Rain lashed against the windows with violent fury, and lightning illuminated the chamber in brilliant flashes, followed by thunder that seemed to shake the very foundations of the ancient fortress.
Rhaella had arranged for them to dine in her private solar, away from the Great Hall's drafts. Crown Prince Rhaegar, ten years old and already showing the solemn dignity that would later define him, sat quietly reading a book of poetry. Little Viserys had been brought from the nursery and now sat on his nurse's lap, wide-eyed at the storm's fury. And Thalor...
Thalor sat cross-legged on the floor beside the hearth, the black dragon egg nestled in his lap. His silver-gold hair shone in the firelight as he bent over the egg, whispering words too soft for Rhaella to hear. His hands caressed the stone surface with a tenderness that might have been touching if it weren't so peculiar in one so young.
"He should eat something, Your Grace," Septa Merilene murmured, watching the boy with concern.
"Let him be," Rhaella replied, though her own worry grew as she observed her second son's strange communion with the petrified egg. "He'll come to the table when he's hungry."
But Thalor showed no interest in food, even as the evening progressed and the storm intensified. Outside, the wind howled like a living thing, and the sea crashed against Dragonstone's cliffs with such force that spray occasionally reached even the high windows of the royal apartments.
Rhaegar eventually closed his book and approached his younger brother. At ten, the crown prince was already showing signs of the striking beauty he would possess as a man, his classic Targaryen features set in a perpetual thoughtfulness.
"What are you doing?" he asked, kneeling beside Thalor.
Thalor looked up, seeming almost surprised to find others in the room. "Waiting," he said simply.
"For what?"
A particularly violent flash of lightning illuminated the chamber, followed almost instantly by a deafening crack of thunder that made even Rhaella flinch. In that moment, Thalor's eyes seemed to reflect the lightning itself.
"For that," he said.
Before anyone could respond, a servant burst into the chamber, face pale with fright. "Your Grace! The east tower has been struck by lightning!"
Rhaella rose immediately. "Is there fire?"
"No, Your Grace, but the top of the tower is damaged. And—" The servant hesitated.
"Speak," Rhaella commanded.
"It's Prince Thalor's chamber that's been hit, Your Grace. The roof is partially collapsed."
All eyes turned to Thalor, who remained unnervingly calm. "It's starting," he said, hugging the egg closer to his chest.
Once again, Rhaella felt a chill that had nothing to do with the draft. "Rhaegar, stay with your brothers. Ser Willem, come with me."
Despite protests from her household, Rhaella insisted on seeing the damage herself. With Ser Willem and two guards flanking her, she made her way through the rain-slicked corridors to the eastern tower. The storm seemed to have centered itself directly over Dragonstone, as if some malevolent god had taken aim at the ancient Targaryen stronghold.
When they reached Thalor's chambers, the destruction was immediately apparent. The domed ceiling had partially caved in, allowing rain to pour into the room. The ornate dragon-carved bed was crushed beneath stone debris. Had Thalor been sleeping there as usual...
"The gods have been merciful," Ser Willem muttered, clearly thinking the same.
"Or something guided their hand," Rhaella replied softly. She turned to the captain of the guard. "Post men at the base of the tower. No one is to enter until the masons can assess the structural damage."
As they made their way back to her apartments, another servant intercepted them, his expression urgent. "Your Grace, Prince Thalor has taken ill. The septa sent me to find you immediately."
Fear clutched at Rhaella's heart. "What's happened?"
"A fever, she said. It came on suddenly. The prince collapsed."
Rhaella gathered her skirts and hurried, pregnancy forgotten in her maternal panic. When she burst into her solar, she found chaos. Septa Merilene was bent over Thalor, who lay pale and still on a settee. Rhaegar hovered nearby, his usual composure replaced by genuine concern. Servants rushed about with cloths and water.
"What happened?" Rhaella demanded, pushing through to reach her son.
"He was fine one moment, Your Grace," the septa explained frantically. "Then another lightning strike hit—closer than before—and he just... collapsed. He's burning with fever."
Rhaella placed her hand on Thalor's forehead and gasped at the heat radiating from him. His skin was not merely feverish; it was searing hot, as if dragon fire ran through his veins instead of blood.
"Where is the egg?" she asked suddenly, noticing its absence.
"Here, Mother." Rhaegar pointed to the hearth, where the black egg sat in the very center of the flames. "He placed it there just before he fell. No one could reach it."
Rhaella stared at the egg, visible through the dancing flames. Was it her imagination, or was there movement within those flames? A shifting of the egg's position?
"Send for Maester Gyldayn," she commanded, turning her attention back to Thalor. His breathing was shallow, his pulse rapid. "And bring ice from the winter stores. We must lower his temperature."
Through the long hours of the night, as the storm continued its assault on Dragonstone, Rhaella sat vigil beside her son. The maester administered what remedies he could, but admitted he had never seen a fever rise so quickly or burn so hot.
"By all rights, he should not survive such heat," the old man confessed quietly. "It's as if he's burning from within."
But Thalor clung to life with the same stubborn determination he showed in all things. Occasionally, his eyes would flicker open—unseeing, unfocused—and he would murmur strange words in that unknown language he sometimes used.
"Toothless," he called once, his voice clearer than before. "Ready, bud?"
And each time he spoke, the egg in the hearth seemed to shift, just slightly, just enough for Rhaella to question her tired eyes.
Toward dawn, the storm finally began to abate. The thunder grew more distant, the lightning less frequent. Rain still fell, but the murderous wind had calmed to mere gusts. Exhausted, Rhaella had sent most of the household to bed, keeping only Maester Gyldayn and Septa Merilene with her.
It was in that quiet hour, as the first hint of dawn lightened the eastern sky, that Thalor suddenly sat bolt upright, his eyes flying open.
"Now!" he cried, in a voice too powerful for his small frame.
At the same moment, a sharp cracking sound came from the hearth. All eyes turned to see the black egg rocking violently amidst the glowing embers.
"Seven save us," whispered Septa Merilene, making the sign of the Seven-Pointed Star over her chest.
"Get back," Rhaella commanded, though she herself moved closer, drawn by an irresistible curiosity.
Another crack, louder than the first, and a piece of the stone-like shell fell away. Through the gap, something gleamed—not the dull scales of a lizard or the leathery hide one might expect from the histories of dragons, but something sleek and midnight-black that seemed to absorb the very light around it.
Thalor slid from the settee, shaking off the septa's restraining hand with surprising strength. The fever that had nearly claimed his life seemed to have vanished completely. He approached the hearth without fear, kneeling before the cracking egg.
"Thalor, no!" Rhaella reached for him, but Maester Gyldayn caught her arm.
"Wait, Your Grace," he urged, his eyes wide with wonder. "Watch."
The egg gave one final, resounding crack and split entirely. From within emerged a creature that stole the breath from Rhaella's lungs.
It was a dragon—there could be no doubt about that—but unlike any dragon depicted in the histories of their house. This beast was sleek and streamlined, its scales a black so pure they seemed to drink in the surrounding light. Its head was flatter, more aerodynamic than the reptilian snouts shown in tapestries. And its eyes...
Its eyes were a vibrant, intelligent green that matched Thalor's exactly.
The hatchling shook itself free of the last shell fragments and chirped—a high, inquisitive sound nothing like the roars dragons were said to make. It looked around the chamber with obvious curiosity before its gaze settled on Thalor.
For a long moment, boy and dragon simply stared at each other. Then Thalor extended his hand, palm out, and spoke softly.
"Hey there, bud. Remember me?"
The dragon cocked its head, studying the boy. Then, with a movement of surprising grace for a newly hatched creature, it leapt from the hearth and landed directly before Thalor. It sniffed his outstretched hand, made a soft purring sound deep in its throat, and then butted its head against his palm.
Thalor laughed—a sound of pure joy such as Rhaella had never heard from her serious son.
"I knew you'd come back," he said, tears streaming unchecked down his face. "I knew you'd find me again."
The dragon chirped in response and climbed onto Thalor's lap, curling around itself like a cat might. Its tail wrapped possessively around the boy's wrist, and it closed its eyes in apparent contentment.
Rhaella found herself unable to speak, gripped by emotions too complex to name. Her heart racing wildly. Awe, certainly, at witnessing what no Targaryen had seen in generations. Fear, for what this might mean for her son's future. And beneath it all, a deep, instinctive understanding that she was witnessing something profoundly important—a moment that would change not just House Targaryen, but the entire realm.
Maester Gyldayn was the first to break the silence. "A miracle," he whispered, his chains clinking softly as he knelt for a closer look. "A true dragon, born again to House Targaryen."
The septa remained frozen in shock, her prayers forgotten on her lips.
"Thalor," Rhaella finally managed. "How... how do you feel?"
Her son looked up, and the joy on his face nearly broke her heart. In that moment, he looked truly his age—a child experiencing pure happiness.
"Whole," he said simply. "I feel whole again."
The dragon opened one eye at the sound of his voice, then closed it again with a contented rumble.
"What will you name it?" Maester Gyldayn asked, his scholarly instincts reasserting themselves. "A dragon must have a proper name, befitting its lineage."
Thalor smiled, a secret sort of smile that suggested he already knew the answer. "His name is Nightfury," he said. "He already has a name."
"Nightfury," Rhaella repeated, testing the unfamiliar name. It was not a traditional Targaryen dragon name, not like Balerion or Vhagar or Meraxes. And yet, it suited the sleek black creature perfectly.
"The king must be informed immediately," Maester Gyldayn said, already rising. "A raven—"
"No." Rhaella's voice was sharper than intended. All eyes turned to her in surprise. "No," she repeated more softly. "We will tell my royal husband, of course. But not by raven. Such news could be intercepted. We'll return to King's Landing as soon as the seas calm, and deliver this miracle in person."
In truth, she needed time. Time to understand what had happened here. Time to prepare for Aerys's reaction—for his obsession with Thalor would surely intensify a hundredfold now.
And time to watch her son with this dragon that had looked at him with such obvious recognition.
Thalor seemed to understand her hesitation. "It's alright, Mother," he said. "Father already knows, in a way. He dreamed this would happen." He stroked the dragon's head gently. "But I agree. Let's wait. Nightfury needs to grow a little first. He needs to be strong before we go back."
There was something in his words—a wisdom, a foresight—that reminded Rhaella yet again that her second son was no ordinary child.
As the first true light of dawn spilled into the chamber, illuminating the tableau of the silver-haired boy and his midnight dragon, Rhaella Targaryen knew with absolute certainty that everything had changed. That dragons had returned to Westeros.
And with them, perhaps, the magic that had once made her house great.
"Very well," she said, making her decision. "We stay until the dragon is stronger. But Thalor—" She waited until his green eyes met hers. "This must be handled carefully. A dragon is not a pet. It is power, and power invites danger."
Thalor nodded, but his smile held a confidence beyond his years. "Don't worry, Mother. Nightfury and I have faced danger before." He looked down at the dragon, who had dozed off in his lap. "Haven't we, bud?"
The casual statement, delivered with such certainty, sent another chill through Rhaella. What did he mean, they had faced danger before? The dragon was newly hatched, and Thalor was but a child...
Yet as she watched them together—the perfect harmony in their postures, the way the dragon had recognized Thalor instantly—she couldn't help but wonder if there was more truth to her husband's ravings than she had been willing to admit.
Perhaps Thalor had indeed known this dragon before, in some way beyond mortal understanding. Perhaps he truly was "the prince that was promised," born again through some mystical intervention.
Or perhaps, she thought with a mother's practical concern, her second son was simply an unusual child with an unusual connection to an unusual dragon. And that alone would be miracle enough—and trouble enough—for House Targaryen.
"Rest now," she told him gently. "Both of you. There will be time enough for decisions when we've all recovered from this night."
But as she withdrew to her own chambers to finally seek some sleep, Queen Rhaella Targaryen felt the weight of history settling upon her shoulders. Her son had awakened a dragon from stone. The impossible had happened.
And in her heart, she knew this was only the beginning.