The history books will remember Rheanrya as a horror, as a nightmare, as an evil thing. The artists would render her stocky, a caricature of who she was. The songs would exploit her, finding malicious deeds with every sideways glance. They would lab...
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They say Aegon the Conquerer married Visenya out of duty, but Rhaenys out of desire. They say she burned down cities, made them all bow to her, only for her to give the crown she earned to her brother. A younger brother at that. Rheanrya often wondered what Visenya had been thinking on her deathbed. Her brother and sister were dead, the kingdoms sizzling, her son Maegar away on campaign, and despite being of good health, her skin was practically melting from her bones.
Rhaenyra Targaryen had thought of Visenya often in the moments when she had spied Vhagar above the dragon pit on the days when she would ordain to show in Kings Landing. She, the unclaimed beast that Visenya had ridden to victory—had burned Dorne—and now would lounge around lazy, eating goats.
What was she doing here? The whisperers around the castle would ask. For two weeks, Vhagar had finally appeared to rest upon the beach of King's Landing. But today, she was atop the Dragon Pit as if she were waiting and perhaps Rhaenyra was brazen enough to think it meant something.
Rhaenyra had barely reached out her hand when the great big eyes snapped over to her, the bright green irises almost completely constricted in black. Her scales were dark as bronze, but with highlights of blue that shimmered in the light when she moved. A horse could fit down her gullet, Rhaenyra had thought as she held up dark sister in her hands. The breath was so hot that she didn't have a hard time believing that it could melt a knight's armor, roasting him.
Rhaenyra lowered to her knees, and even in the dead of night, she felt no coolness of the clouds. There was only Vhagar's breath, brushing along a little girl's face.
"The egg hasn't hatched," Rhaenyra had screamed to her father. She was the only child, his only child, and a dragon. How could she be a dragon and not ride one?
"You recognize it?" Rhaenyra asked in High Valyrian. It was a language they both shared, something she knew they could match. Vhagar came from old Valyria and her father said that one day, all dragons returned there. She didn't know what she believed regarding that.
She had crept along the winding stairs, the great bounds of the castle where ghosts lingered in the walls, or so the legends say. The lewd tapestries seemed to move in the dark, beckoning her past the culture that she inherited. The voices always whispered to Rhaenyra, scheming and telling her where to go, where to turn, and when to stop. Be it madness or the dusk clouds ahead, she did not know. But she had made it here and it meant something.
She would be asked, one day, how a little girl made it out of the Red Keep and to the Dragon Pit. She would be asked and integrated, but Rhaenyra did not know. She did not remember anything of that long and winding path where not a soul had caught her. She had vanished like a rat, scurrying the grounds.
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