𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀𝐒𝐇
❝I would like to burn them to the ground and stand on their ashes.❞
in which the eldest child of viserys targaryen and aemma arryn is a little too violent, a little too wild, and a little too lost.
HOUSE OF THE DRAGON...
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DREAMS HAD OFTEN BEEN THE PURE IMAGINATION for Rhaenerys Targaryen, of wonders that could not have been possible. She dreamt of sitting atop a dragon with scarlet scales and copper horns, a writhing babe in her arm while her other held the reigns that controlled the dragon. The babe was small, a tiny thing that let out a laugh the higher the dragon climbed.
She dreamt of lands of fire. Broken and bent towers of stone protruded from the ground like fingers. Pieces of the stones became illuminated like fire running through their insides, like veins of blood inside a body. Remnants of giant beasts loitered the grounds like pieces of jewellery on her mother's vanity table. A reminder that something great had once ruled that land and it had disappeared with something so easily handled like fire.
She dreamt of lands of snow as far as the eye could see, blues and whites that made it almost impossible to see. Mountains taller than the Dragonmont in Dragonstone, their peaks almost touching the skies. Trees sprung from the ground like giant flowers, their trunks a fresh and healthy brown and thin leaves a wild green. Creatures that appeared to be made of the very ice they stood upon roamed the lands, teetering as they moved toward the mountains. Those lands were more impossible than the lands of fire.
She dreamt of the dark cavern where she claimed the Cannibal, the very mounds of bones and burnt flesh she had seen becoming bigger and changing with each dream. The scent of something rotten was always there, underneath the burnt wood and wet ground.
Those nights, when the dreams decided to wrap themselves around her, she would leave her room and sneak toward the Tower of the Hand where her grandfather made his rooms. He replaced Ser Ryam Redwyne as the Hand of the King at the beginning of the year, a few weeks before their travel to Dragonstone and before she claimed the Cannibal as hers. It was difficult for her to sneak in the middle of the night without the guards notifying her parents, but she made it.
The room was dimly illuminated from the fireplace. The stone sconces against the walls were turned off, candles had been blown before he went to sleep. A grand bed was against the wall, a body asleep on top of it.
She ambled toward the sofa in front of the fireplace and grabbed the blanket folded at the corner. It was soft and warm as she wrapped it around herself and lay down. In her grandsire's room, it was easy for her to succumb to a sleep where she dreamt of dragons soaring through the skies and fire running through her veins. A red dragon with copper horns, a babe in one hand while she held the reigns in the other—laughter bubbled from both of their mouths.
A hand fell on her shoulder and shook her until she opened her eyes. Rhaenyra stood in front of her, green eyes staring down while her hand still lay on her shoulder. "Mother said you need to wake up," she said. "If you don't, you won't get breakfast."
