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Sixteen years ago the royal babe was stolen away in the night.
Princess Rheanyra Targaryen was just a wee thing, not yet a week old. Her wispy silver hair and purple eyes all but screamed out her bloodline. The shimmery golden egg pressed tight against her stomach certainly led to a similar conclusion.
She slept easily, warmed by the scaled exterior of her crib mate.
The King and Queen did not share this peace. Queen Aemma had labored long and hard, still requiring the careful watch of maesters and the gentle lull granted only by the milk of the poppy. The King as well, recently cut upon the throne, required similar efforts.
As such the young Targaryen was alone, guarded at her door by orders of the King’s Hand, Lord Otto Hightower.
Yet when the wetnurse arrived for her late feeding, the crib was empty.
That morning the King ordered the closing of every port and road in Kings Landing.
After a week, several smugglers were found and put to death.
After two weeks, the King promised a reward of lordship and one thousand Gold Dragons to whoever may return the Princess alive.
After a month, the young Alicent Hightower gained audience with the grieving King and Queen, producing a crimson stained cloak cradling the remains of a shattered golden egg and soft silver hair, unearthed from the shelter of the Weirwood grove’s roots..
It was that night that the King promised the hand of his daughter to whoever may return her to him. Her hand and her Targaryen name.
…
Nyra screamed with all her might, feeling that her chest might burst at the seams. Tears streamed across her face, windswept and furiously hot like dragonfire.
Her smile stretched near painful as her mount roared out with her.
Riding atop Syrax was like riding the sun, she thought. The great golden beast seemed larger than life, ran warm like stone under steady light, and provided a protection Nyra could not help but crave.
Another, shorter but equally amused, giggle burst from between her lips.
Nyra pressed her thighs tighter to the scales of her dragon’s neck, leaning forwards to touch her forehead to her chosen sister.
“Beautiful work Syrax.”
She could no longer hear the roaring flames or cries from the sea’s waves. They’d flown too high for the sound to carry. Yet, when peering over Syrax’ side, she could see the remains of the pirates' ships as they were swallowed up by the sea.
Seven of them this time. A lucky number in Westeros, yet she thought cruelly, not lucky enough to save them from a cold grave. It was what they deserved, for trading in souls.
There was much pleasure to be found in burning the vessels of men who sold their equals. Even more pleasure to be found in the reallocation of coin to those relocated against their will.
To her, coin held little value, she was content to sleep under Syrax’ wings and eat meat charred by her fire. Yet as she soared over the small coast, cries of joy met her and she could not help but think that if coin could buy her such warmth it may not be entirely useless.
The heavy bags and trunks fell from Syrax’ claws onto the beach. Gold spilled like water from a broke dam onto the sands.
Nyra put her weight into her arms and jump to a careful crouch on the dragons bare back, without hesitation she launched herself to the ground, landing with grace on her feet. Idly she noted the shake of the ground when the dragon made landfall behind her.
From her belt she pulled a dagger, brandishing the sharp edge comfortably while striding towards a child still bound in rope. She smiled gently and crouched to cut him free. She could not help but stumble slightly when she was thanked with a swift embrace.
After the boy released her and ran to collapse into the arms of an aged man, Nyra began to comprehend the cheers of the voices around her.
“Praise our Lady!”
“The Realm’s Delight provides!”
“The Dragon Maiden is true!”
She quite liked the cheers. The people did not approach her, they never did, but they rejoiced in her. They gave her pretty titles and spoke of her as though she was more than mortal.
Sheathing her blade she did not fight back her grin. Full of teeth and with a feral edge.
Yes she thought, let them share tales of the silver woman who brought death to evil from atop her golden scaled sister. Let them write of the child who slew their own captors and took to the skies.
Let them sing of the girl and her dragon.
…
Alicent was not annoyed.
No, a lady was not to be annoyed. Discontent perhaps. Yes, she thought amidst her needlepoint, I am discontent. I am discontent to know that I have practically been bound and delivered to the enemy.
Enemy, she understood, was a strong word for the Prince.
Though it certainly suited him. Daemon was adorned in full chain and plate, armed with his blade, Dark Sister, and a frown so severe she feared he would find himself unable to express anything besides anger in the future.
When her father had instructed her to make herself a comfort to the King following the Queen’s death, she had feared embarrassment beyond all else. Alicent understood that her father hoped she could seduce the King, but instead their relationship had grown in a paternal and protective direction. The turn of events was undoubtedly aided by the fact she was of a similar age to what the Lost Princess should have been.
So her surprise was immense when her King had asked her to visit with Daemon and convince him to return to Kings Landing to be nearer to his Grace.
“Alicent, my dear,” the King had said, “you have been a support I have truly valued. You have a skill about you, to see the cracks in a man and help mend them with gentle care. I should like you to be a guiding hand to my brother, to steer him home and away from his search.”
“You flatter me, your Grace. It is you who’ve healed yourself and I who was naught but a quiet companion.” Internally she’d been pressed to beg, furiously sorting through possible excuses.
The sick King had only shaken his head, something unreadable written across his face. “In a fortnight ships will come to deliver you to Dragonstone alongside a collection of maids and guards. You will be safe and well cared for. And should you succeed in your task of bringing my brother home, I shall personally see to it that you be allowed to select your own husband and I will personally pay your dowry.”
Now sitting in a cold stone room Alicent was filled with emotions unbefitting a lady.
She was little more than a pretty vase to the men in the room, something to be looked at and forgotten shortly after. Listening in on the conversation was useless as well.
Daemon had no thoughts beyond finding his niece. Even now he discussed a newly found dragon who’d made the caves on the far side of the island a home. Gold, he’d said, apparently it could have been the Princess’s dragon.
Without thought, her free hand reached to her throat to pull at her necklace. As a thank you for finding evidence of the Princess’s kidnapping all those years ago, she had been given a shard of golden egg. Her father had seen to making it into a necklace, ‘So that all who see you will know you have our King’s favor.’. A fat lot of help it did her here.
Alicent slowly rose from her seat, leaving her project behind her. Certainly is was safe. No one held any interest in needlework here, herself included.
Fresh air would do her some good she reasoned, even if Dragonstone was always foggy and carried a sulfurous scent.
Meandering aimlessly across the grounds was her most interesting hobby of late. There were areas she was not permitted to adventure to, several feral dragons made the island a home, but with such a small population of guards she was left to her own devices without a constant babysitter.
It was nice, she thought, a taste of an independence she was unlikely to be awarded again.
She walked alongside the outer walls of the keep, veering away at a familiar outcropping.
Beyond a large rough boulder was a smooth, mossy stone cavern. It was flooded with light from a large gap in the stone and always dry. Alicent had tripped into it her first time fleeing the monotony of the keep, a thick tree keeping her from tumbling down the sheer cliffside and into the sea. After the initial panicking she had found the place quite charming.
She’d taken to leaving a bag tucked into the tree's roots, filled with parchment, charcoal, and several travel safe books gifted to her from the King. Her cavern was just that, hers. Never had she found someone else there and never had someone bothered her from the cavern.
Thoughtlessly she lowered herself into the cavern, ready to spend a few hours reading without being forced to face the silver haired man her father hated.
Yet, as she straightened up she was met with the very silver hair she sought to avoid.
Her mouth opened instinctually to apologize for her being there only to free before the first syllable escaped.
The silver haired person was a girl.
She was beautiful with tanned skin and brilliant purple eyes. Strong muscled forearms were visible as the loose shirt she wore had rolled sleeves and her neck was long and elegant, highlighted by her blouse's deep cut. There was a belt holding a small sheath around her hips and worn boots hugged her knees. The girl must have been only a few years younger than her.
She also had, clutched in a crimson stained hand, Alicent’s book of Valerian histories.