Queen of Ashes [ASOIAF]

―prologue.

          "𝓦e'll go East," his mother had promised, while rubbing her swollen belly. She painted beautiful pictures of the land across the Narrow Sea. Tales of the beauty in Lys, the Lyseni had the same Valyrian blood in their veins as House Targaryen. Promises of the safety they would find behind the Black Wall of Old Volantis that housed any noble who could trace their lineage back to Valyria before the Doom. Rhaella had planted many dreams into her son's head, but Rhaella Targaryen had lied.

          Viserys had known the truth of it the night the storm raged on Dragonstone. There would be no "we" that included his mother. He'd been summoned to Rhaella's chambers in the midst of her labor, much to the dismay of the midwife and maester. There was blood, so much blood. But still, Rhaella had grasped his hand tightly and called him "my dear boy," even as she screamed in pain. The storm outside cast eerie shadows on the stones. Flashes of lightning lit the room in bursts, and the claps of thunder that followed echoed through the bedchamber.

           He was frozen, still as stone. He hardly noticed when his mother let go of his hand and a moment later a tiny babe was pressed into his arms. "Hold her, there's another coming," the midwife had said, her mud-brown eyes as grave as if Rhaella was already dead. He looked down at the infant. She was robust, with tiny toes plump as berries and eyes as bright and purple as lilacs. "Rhaenyra," his mother whispered. The maester had only shaken his head and muttered, "May she reign for more than half a year."

          Viserys thought of his brother, slain at the Trident if the rumors were to be believed. Rhaegar should have been King. He would have made a good king. Instead his son would be heir to King Aerys. Aegon was only a boy, but already Prince of Dragonstone. Rhaenyra would be his Queen one day, when the war ended. And the war will end. Viserys had said it so many times he almost believed it.

          But Rhaella Targaryen would not be there to see that day, that much had become clear. The second child would rob them all of a mother. Outside the storm raged on, though the lightning had stopped. Viserys looked down at his sister, her purple eyes starring up at him. The lightning is in her eyes, he thought.

          The second girl burst into the world with a wail, her cries so loud he thought surely she must be dying. Rhaella's voice could hardly be heard over the screams as she spoke the child's name. Then she took her son's hand again. Her violet eyes were sad, they were always so sad. It was as if she saw the horrors of the world in her very dreams. "You must protect them," she said, her voice barely a whisper on the wind. And then, like a candle going out, Rhaella Targaryen died.

           A tear rolled down his chin, dropping on his sister's forehead. Rhaenyra didn't cry. She only stared with her big purple eyes. Daenerys wailed enough for everyone in the room.

           He couldn't be sure how long he'd sat there before the wet nurse came for Rhaenyra. Viserys wouldn't leave her side, however. He hovered making the woman uncomfortable, until she was done and Rhaenyra was returned to his arms. The first Rhaenyra was the daughter of King Viserys I Targaryen. "When we're in the East, I'll be like your father," he whispered in her ear. "You'll learn from me, like she learned from him." But that was yet another thing Rhaella had lied about.

           The day the maester brought the raven from King's Landing, the wet nurse cried. Viserys might have too, but he was the last son of King Aerys II Targaryen and princes did not cry. "We're to go East. Mother promised," he said, though those were a boy's words. He was almost a man grown. "It isn't safe in King's Landing, everyone knows that."

          "The King commands it," the maester said regretfully. "It isn't my place to question him."

          "He can't have her, she's mine," Viserys said, turning his back to shield the girl. "Mother said I must protect her." The light through the window, reflected in Rhaenyra's purple eyes. They were light, so light they seemed blue in some lights. It was the color of the pale lilac of dawn. Her hair stuck up in little tufts of white, like soft clouds. Dawn. It was a commoner's name. For a moment he almost considered spiriting her away and disguising her as a milkmaids' daughter. The Dawn Princess. But that would never do. Not even the dragonseeds of the island showed the Targaryen coloring like she did. Perhaps he could switch the girls, send Daenerys to King's Landing instead. But the maester and the wet nurse would know right away. Rhaenyra was more robust and so much quieter. Daenerys would wail half way to the Red Keep.

          In the end he relinquished Rhaenyra to the maester's hands. "We will usher in a new dawn for House Targaryen," Aerys had written. Viserys tried to hold onto the words. Maybe they were true. The King could win the war and have his family back together before year's end. But the servants whispered otherwise. "The city will burn," they said. "Aerys will see his daughter burn beside him." A part of him wanted to shout back, fire cannot kill the dragon! They would rise from the ashes better and stronger and take their fire to the usurper and his dogs.

          But still, tears glimmered in his eyes when dawn came and his sister was taken away. The wet nurse had the compassion to shove Daenerys into his arms, but the girl only took up her wailing again. She was hot to the touch as if fire burned under her skin. Daenerys is fire, but fires can be put out. Rhaenyra was lighting, sharp and uncontrollable, and she had the sun in her eyes.

♔ ♔ ♔ ♔

          Viserys woke in a tangle of blankets wrapped so tightly around him he could hardly breathe. The hot Pentoshi sun beat down on him through the window. The silhouette of a girl stood on the balcony, long silver hair cascading down her back. "Dawn," the name was a whisper on his lips, but the girl turned. It wasn't Rhaenyra. It was only a silver-haired bed-slave from Lys. Her eyes weren't even purple.

          "You missed dawn, m'lord," she chided, her voice sultry and smooth. She sauntered toward him, hands lifting to push the bedrobe from her shoulders.

          Viserys held a hand up to stop her. "Not now. I have matters to discuss with Illyrio. Have him brought to my solar, with wine." The whore frowned, but hurried off. Viserys walked to the balcony, overlooking the Magister's gardens. Dawn was gone, and Rhaenyra was dead. But he had long ago pushed his regrets aside. He was the last dragon, and there was a crown waiting for him across the Narrow Sea.