Pre-Chapter A/N:Another chapter on time? Guess my lock-in is going pretty well. If you haven't already, I recommend turning on notifications for my stuff so you can see when new stuff drops right as it drops. Next four chapters on my patreon(https://www.patreon.com/c/Oghenevwogaga)— same username as here and link in bio.
XXXXX- RHAENYRA TARGARYEN
She was late. Well, late was one way to put it. She, and her father she suspected, had been invited to arrive a week before the ceremony was going to take place. The point? Allegedly to partake in the pleasures of the Stepstones with House Velaryon. More likely, Laenor Velaryon wanted to woo her father and knew it would be rude for him to omit an invitation for her as well as the heir. She, however, was not bound by such considerations, and so she had rejected the invitation in favour of arriving the day before.
The less time she had to spend watching Laenor Velaryon lord his relationship over her, the better. She wondered how she had not seen it earlier. The way the siblings whispered in each other's ears during feasts. The way he held her when they danced, the way they just folded into each other. Looking at it with the benefit of hindsight made her feel a fool, and she realised now that Laenor Velaryon had never truly wanted her. His sister was not the second choice that some would think she was. It had been her. It had always been her.
And now Rhaenyra wondered if he had done it intentionally. Did he know about her and Criston? Had he killed him to force her hand into setting any chance of a betrothal between them on fire? She felt like she was running mad with the thoughts in her mind. Surely there was no way he could have known for sure about Criston? But would a suspicion have been enough. She had shown her level of care for him during the melee. She had realised that convincing her father to delay the joust by a day had been a mistake. She had shown her hand then, and Laenor Velaryon had taken advantage of it.
She could not for a second believe that it had been an accident. Criston had ridden in lists all his life. Never once had his horse done such. And the look on Laenor Velaryon's face afterwards. It hadn't been shock. There had been guilt there, for sure. And something else. But there had been no shock. She was sure of it. Laenor Velaryon had intentionally killed Criston Cole and now she knew he had done it to force her to break a betrothal. The thought enraged her even more.
Syrax roared beneath her, chiding her for being an inattentive master. She smiled and snapped her wing, telling the dragon who had been with her from her youngest days to begin veering left. She took all the worries she had and bottled them into a package in the bottom of her stomach and allowed them be blown away by the wind as Syrax accelerated on her request.
For all she hated the Velaryons, she could not deny that there was some love for them in her heart. She had thought there could have been something there. A marriage to Laenor Velaryon would not have been a bad thing. Criston would have remained as her lover, and they would have been careful never to have any children. She would give Laenor children, an heir for the Iron Throne, and one for Driftmark. The wealth of House Velaryon— and its dragons— would have backed her reign against all comers and in exchange she would have allowed them to remain the second most powerful house in the realm. Houses Velaryon and Targaryen, standing together at the precipice. Targaryen at the peak, and Velaryon just that rung below.
They had been the only others her age who understood what it was to be a Dragonlord. To be the greatest legacies of Valyria— the greatest civilisation mankind had ever known. Especially after she had lost Daemon, someone else who had understood. She remembered multiple flights with Laena and Vhagar. Learning tricks from the older girl as she navigated flying on a level she hadn't been aware of even existed. They could have been one family.
And then Laenor Velaryon had gone and killed Criston Cole. If he had done it to break a betrothal, she knew she would see it that he died screaming in the end. Because he could always have just asked her. It was not that hard— asking her. Laena would have had to find a husband of her own, of course. And she could never have borne any children for Laenor for bastards could never be born to compete with her own children, but she could have had parts of him still. He could have had her as well.
He would have been the closest person to the throne. A Queen's most trusted adviser. That was one point against him having done it purposefully with that intention. Laenor Velaryon was a famously practical man, and he was a smart one as well. The first man to mastermind a journey to Valyria and to actually return. She knew her father would have been bursting with questions throughout his journey to Driftmark. Valyria was his dream, after all.
Rhaenyra would not even be surprised if her father had posed the idea of another trip to him. The small council and his Queen would advise against it. But his blood would call for a return to Valyria. They would never understand just what Valyrian blood meant. Her uncle Daemon had taught her bits and pieces of it. Their passions ran hot as the dragons they rode, and everyone had a different one.
She spotted the first of the islands and noted the strange construction that Maester Allard had mentioned. A tower stretching high into the sky. Almost as high as Dragonstone did at its peak. It was just that though, a tower. No walls, no defences. Just a tower with a massive flame burning at its peak. But that was not the most notable fact about it. That was the fact that she could not see the individual stones used in its construction. It was the same sort of fused stone the Valyrians had used. Except here, the stone was a pale white and not the deep black of Dragonstone.
As she spotted the tower, someone from within must have spotted her as well. She hadn't passed it by the time the fires turned a brilliant blue. Something had been added to it. By the time she reached the next one, she found it burning blue as well. And so was the case for the next and all the others she passed on the way to the island. It was some sort of messaging system.
Different coloured flames meaning different things. Chances were that blue was used to signify her approach. She felt some of her satisfaction at springing her presence on the Velaryons die a quick death. He would have more than enough forewarning of her approach. Even at Syrax's fastest, she would still be a good hour or two from Bloodstone, and she would not tire out her dragon before approaching. That would make her entrance a somewhat pathetic sight. The people of Bloodstone would be no stranger to seeing dragons.
Igneel, Vhagar, Meleys, all of them roosted there. Syrax was lesser to none of them when it came to splendour and beauty, and she would hate to send a message like that from her being tired. And so she slowed her pace a bit. She would make Laenor Velaryon wait and enjoy the flight. The flight and the view.
Because the Stepstones were truly beautiful. Perhaps no one had noticed it before the Velaryon reign because the place was crawling with pirates and sellsails, but the waters were a deep blue and the islands stood out like small bits of respite in the deep blue expanse that matched the sky above it. She chuckled as she remembered a tale Criston had once told her. Do you know why the sky is blue, Rhaenyra? He had asked her one day as they laid in bed and the sun cast its rays in through her window. He should have left and returned to his post at her door already, but she had begged him to stay and he could never refuse her. I don't know, she had said, not repeating the lesson she had learned from the Grandmaester about the sky being blue because of the brightness of the sun's light and the darkness of the vast expanse beyond.
It's because we live in the eye of a blue eyed giant named Macumber, he had said a second later and she remembered bursting into laughter. He had pouted in that way he did where he sulked and pretended that he did not sulk because he was a big strong man and men did not sulk under any circumstances whatever. It was funny, and it had made her happy because she had gotten to apologise to him in the best way.
Those memories were snatched as a cold breeze blew out from the left and the man behind her tightened his grip. She felt the weight of his armour, that oh so familiar armour of the Kingsguard, and was tempted to take solace in it for a moment but she could not allow herself that weakness. Because the man behind her was not her Criston. Even the thought of replacing him brought rage to her heart.
When they could finally see Bloodstone in the distance, she felt all her previous thoughts flee. What have you done, Laenor Velaryon? She asked with a sinking feeling. It was a beautiful city. Too beautiful. Cities did not get built in a matter of years. She had lived in King's Landing all her life. She knew her histories as well as she knew the back of her hand. A city was the work of decades, not years. So how had this man managed to build one in a fraction of that time.
It was small, that was the only thing her sanity could latch on to for solace, but even that did not give her much respite. Yes, the city was small, but even small cities could not just sprout from nowhere. Especially small cities with such massive structures.
Beyond the imposing castle that sat at the end of the city, some distance away from it but not so far as to be a journey of much note, there were three other things she could see. One had—one, two, five, seven, she counted— seven towers and a glass domed roof that reflected the sun. It was the Grand Sept of Bloodstone that the wedding would take place in. The second was also easy to identify. The roofless construction, and the large footprint said enough.
He had built his own dragonpit. One of the symbols of Targaryen strength and dominance, and he had just copied it. Would the insults see no end, she wondered? Surely, her father would not just allow their glory to be taken by a lesser house. Their legacy claimed, spread and diluted. It was an insult of the highest order. To build one of the symbols of their house without so much as a 'by your leave'. Sure, House Velaryon had dragons, but only Targaryens roosted in the dragonpit. It also said something. If Laenor Velaryon was building a dragonpit, did he expect his house to continue to have dragons.
Rhaenyra cursed her Great-Grandfather right there and then. Rhaenys Targaryen should never have been allowed to place dragons in her children's cribs. Because Laenor and Laena would have children of their own, and everyone knew how fertile Meleys was. She had memories of when she was younger, accompanying Daemon down to the docks to retrieve shipments of eggs from Driftmark which the Red Queen had laid.
Now those eggs would be stored in their own Dragonpit. They would hatch and Laenor and Laena's brood would have their pick. House Velaryon was the foremost dragon-riding house with three dragons and experienced riders to House Targaryen's one. And even their one was shaky. Rhaenyra knew she was a skilled rider, the match of any of the Velaryons, but she had only ridden Syrax for pleasure and transportation. Never for war.
All three of the Velaryon dragons were war tested. The same was true for their riders. If they challenged them today, House Targaryen would not be able to win alone. It was only the fact that the realm would never bow to a Velaryon— they did not have the true right of blood like she did— that would stop them from claiming the throne. How long would that last. She finally saw the famous Velaryon fleet as she passed another of the islands. Hundreds of ships all bearing the same sail.
The greatest fleet in all the world, and it did everything to magnify her fears. At the head of a fleet of that size, any man would think himself a King. Laenor Velaryon had been only a few votes away from becoming one. Did he still hunger for it? Was that why he had crashed their betrothal? But if that was the case, would marrying her not have been the right route to follow?
No, he could not want the Iron Throne. He would have left their betrothal in place if that was the case. But then this was all assuming that he had chosen to kill Criston like she suspected. When she eventually reached Bloodstone, her thoughts had turned in on themselves over and over again, and she had tired herself out with all the thinking. She watched as there was a waiting delegation for her. She could see the Velaryon banner flapping in the breeze at the dock.
She considered flying around the island a few times to announce herself, but she was tired and wanted all this to be over. Was her moon blood on its way, she wondered. No. There was a week remaining, at least. She landed her dragon on the pier, noting that the wood barely even creaked from the burden of bearing Syrax's weight. It was well built. Of course it was. Laenor Velaryon did nothing by half measures.
Speaking of Laenor Velaryon…she raked her eyes across the waiting men and while they all bore the look of old Valyria, lithe forms, silver hair, and eyes of the deepest purple, not a single one of them sported his arrogant set to their chin or the way his eyes took in a target like they were a meal he was about to eat. He was not here to welcome her. The insults would never end indeed.
She dismounted, absently noting Ser Cargyll doing the same from his position behind her. It was impressive that he needed little adjustment to begin walking again after having flown for so long. Good for an Andal. He was better with it than Criston had been for sure. That was the only way he did not prove himself her Silver Knight's lesser.
"Ser Vaemond, is it?" She asked, recognising the brother of Corlys Velaryon from when he had been sent to inform them of his brother's death.
"Yes, Princess," he said, bowing as the other men with him did the same.
"House Velaryon welcomes you—"
"Where is Laenor?" She interrupted. She did not care if it was rude. This was an insult. It would be weak of her to take it with a smile.
"Lord Velaryon entertains your father, Princess. They are within the city," he said.
"Are they, hmm? Take me to them, let me see what has kept my host from doing the polite thing and welcoming the Crown Princess," she sniffed before ordering.
"It would be my pleasure, Princess. But first," he said, waving a hand. A servant marched forward with bread and salt. He bowed as he presented it to her and Cargyll. The Andal custom almost made her scoff, but she held it in and partook. It was a guarantee of her safety as much as anything else.
She dipped the bread in the salt and put it in her mouth. She almost gasped. To her side, Cargyll released an appreciative moan. The bread was good. It was better than any she had ever had. Were they importing their bread from the Free Cities? Did bread even have any right to taste so good? She would have suspected it to be some sort of cake if she hadn't felt the texture with her own two fingers. She resisted the urge to ask for more— imagine how good it will taste without the salt ruining things, a traitorous part of her brain wandered— and they were off and into the city. She directed Syrax to fly freely.
She would roost on the island itself no doubt. The Velaryons clearly did not have any dragon keepers of their own. She would scupper any attempt they made to recruit from that loyal order, she decided. Would they be able to hatch and prepare dragons for their children without trained dragon handlers? Unlikely. She knew just how unruly young dragons could be. She'd seen one almost bite off Daemon's nose.
The horses ferried them into the city and she watched from within a surprisingly comfortable wheelhouse— the bumpiness or lack thereof of the ride was worthy of note— as they passed various structures until they reached the third of the large buildings.
She left the wheelhouse just to see her father and Laenor leaving the building. She could see a set of grand steps leading up to a massive set of double doors with the Velaryon seahorse carved into it as the entrance and now this close she could tell the building was still a work in progress.
"Oh Rhaenyra. There you are. I worried when you did not arrive shortly after I did," her father called from the top of the stairs. Velaryon merely inclined his head— far from the proper bow she was due. "Princess. Welcome," he said.
"What is this?" She asked, not too sure what she was asking about when the words left her lips— their arrangement, the building, something else?
"This? It's a bank. Can you believe it, Rhaenyra? Laenor wants to build a bank of all things," he said with audible pride in his voice and Rhaenyra wished the ground could just swallow her whole.
A/N: The Rhaenyra POV was only supposed to be half the chapter. It just got away from me, lol. The Macumber reference is a myth from the North yes, but we know Oberyn referenced it in a conversation with Tyrion so perhaps it has some notoriety. The theory that the sky is blue because of space actually was a thing people used to think. Next four chapters up on patreon(https://www.patreon.com/c/Oghenevwogaga) (same username as here and link in bio), support me there and read them early.