Chapter 3: Blessed by the Gods Pt.2

259AC

In the aftermath of the Summerhall tragedy, the royal family of House Targaryen was a shattered remnant of its former self. The Seven Kingdoms were thrown into chaos by the news of the disaster. King Aegon V, his son and heir Duncan, and Ser Duncan the Tall, the revered Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, had perished in the fire. The realm mourned deeply, and the past week had been a somber period of grief and hurried political maneuvering to ensure stability.

Jaehaerys Targaryen, the Second of His Name, the new King, sat heavily on the Iron Throne. His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion and sorrow. The responsibilities of the crown now weighed heavily on his frail shoulders, and the future of the Targaryen dynasty seemed uncertain. The tragic incident had not only taken the lives of beloved family members but also left a dark cloud hanging over the realm.

Amidst this turmoil, the newborn grandchild, Rhaemon Targaryen, lay in what was known as the "Sleep of Dragons," a deep coma that had persisted for an entire week. The infant, who was born and miraculously untouched by the fire that had claimed so many lives, was now the subject of much speculation, believers, and hope. 

They call him 'The Fireborne Prince'. 

The courtiers whispered of divine favor, of a child blessed by the gods, but the reality was that Rhaemon Targaryen had not stirred since the tragedy.

.

.

.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a place of somber grandeur, its towering pillars and stained glass windows casting long shadows across the stone floors. King Jaehaerys sat at the head of a large, oak table, his face set with resolve. Beside him stood Maester Corso, newly appointed after the tragic death of Maester Will at Summerhall, and Lord Ormund Baratheon, his steadfast Hand of the King.

Jaehaerys' mind was occupied with thoughts, drifting back to the prophecy whispered by the woods witch Jenny of Oldstones had brought to court a few years ago. "The prince that was promised will be born from the line of Aerys and Rhaella." These words never left him, and they had driven him to make decisions that weighed heavily on his conscience.

While he himself had married for love, the prophecy had compelled him to command his son, Prince Aerys, and his daughter, Princess Rhaella, to wed against their wishes. It had been a decision born of necessity, not desire, and the recent birth of Rhaemon and his survival made him reaffirm his beliefs of the witch's foresight.

"Thank you for coming," Jaehaerys began, his voice echoing through the hall. "We face a critical moment in the history of our house and our realm. As you both know, my grandchild Rhaemon survived the flames of Summerhall, a miracle witnessed by few, including you, Maester Corso."

Maester Corso, a man of middle years with a scholarly demeanor, nodded fervently. "Indeed, Your Grace. It was a sight unlike any other. The flames licked at the child, yet he remained unharmed, as if the fire recognized him as kin."

Jaehaerys turned his gaze to Lord Ormund Baratheon, a man of imposing stature and a pragmatic mind. "Lord Ormund, I know we had already discussed hiding the remaining dragon eggs, but I have decided that I will grant them to Rhaemon. There is an ... ancient belief that a Targaryen who bonds with a dragon gains enhanced immunity to illness, including the Dragon Sleep."

Ormund's brow furrowed in skepticism. "Your Grace, with all due respect, this belief is little more than a rumored claim. The dragons have been gone for many years, and the eggs have shown no signs of hatching. Placing our hopes on these dormant relics seems... imprudent."

Before Jaehaerys could respond, Maester Corso interjected. "My lord, Prince Rhaemon's survival is already a sign that he is no ordinary child. If there is even a chance that the eggs could respond to him, we must take it. The restoration of dragons would not only save Prince Rhaemon but also strengthen the Targaryen house immeasurably."

Ormund shifted in his seat, his brow furrowed with concern. "Granting Prince Rhaemon the remaining dragon eggs will spark endless rumors and speculation. Not to mention the Highborns of Noble houses. They will talk, especially after what has happened. The memory of Summerhall is still fresh in the minds of many, and the loss of many lives was a deep wound."

Jaehaerys raised his hand, calling for silence. His voice carried a weight of conviction as he spoke. "Lord Ormund, I understand your reservations, and I appreciate your pragmatism. But let us not dismiss the power of ancient beliefs and the whispers of magic that still linger in our world," Jaehaerys began, his voice steady and resolute. "The day the last dragon died, magic began to recede from our realm. The seasons, once predictable, grew erratic. Summers became shorter, and winters longer and crueler. The world lost its balance."

He paused, allowing his words to sink in, before continuing. "And now, here we stand, witnessing a miracle. My grandson, Rhaemon, survived the flames of Summerhall unscathed and unburnt. How can we ignore the significance of this event? How can we dismiss it as mere chance?"

Jaehaerys' gaze swept across the room, meeting the eyes of both men present. "Rhaemon's immunity to fire is a sign, a glimmer of hope that magic is finally returning to our world. It is a symbol of the ancient bond between House Targaryen and dragons. A bond that once brought us strength and prosperity."

He leaned forward, his voice filled with a quiet intensity. "What if this is the first spark, the beginning of a new era? What if Rhaemon's survival is not just luck, but a testament to the resurgence of magic? The dragons may be gone, but their legacy lives on within us. And if there is even a chance that the dragon eggs can awaken, that they can bring forth new life, we must seize it."

Jaehaerys' words hung in the air, the weight of history and destiny heavy upon them. He looked at Maester Corso, his eyes filled with determination. "Maester, you have seen the miracle with your own eyes. Tell me, how else would you explain Rhaemon's survival? How else can we account for his unscathed body amidst the flames? It is magic, my lord. Magic that has been absent for far too long." 

Jaehaerys paused and leaned back on his chair, "Let the people talk, my decision is made. Maester Corso, if you please, bring the dragon eggs."

~~~

Rhaella Targaryen sat beside the small, ornate cradle where her firstborn son, Rhaemon, lay in an unyielding Dragon Sleep. The dim light of the chamber flickered from the candles, casting long shadows on the walls. Her eyes, red-rimmed from sleepless nights and constant tears, never left her child. She clutched his tiny hand, feeling the faint warmth of his skin but receiving no response. Her mind was a whirlwind of fear and hope, clinging to the fragile belief that her son was destined for greatness and would awaken.

Rhaegar, her second-born, cooed quietly in the arms of her mother, Queen Shaera. The sight of her healthy, serene younger son only deepened Rhaella's anguish. She knew she should be grateful for Rhaegar's well-being, but her heart ached for Rhaemon. Each day that passed without change felt like an eternity.

"Rhaella, you need to eat," Shaera implored, her voice gentle yet firm as she tried to coax her daughter into taking some nourishment.

"You need your strength, for both your sons."

Rhaella shook her head, her voice barely a whisper. "I cannot, Mother. Not while Rhaemon lies like this. My heart cannot bear it."

Shaera sighed, her own worry etched deeply on her face. She glanced at Rhaegar, who looked up at her with wide, innocent eyes. "He is special, Rhaella. We all know it. But you must take care of yourself too."

Before Rhaella could respond, the heavy wooden doors of the chamber swung open. Her father, King Jaehaerys II, entered, his presence commanding the room. He was flanked by four Kingsguard, their armor gleaming in the candlelight. The Hand of the King, Lord Ormund Baratheon, followed, along with Maester Corso, Prince Aerys, and several servants carrying a large, intricately carved chest.

Rhaella's heart leapt in her chest as she stood, still clutching Rhaemon's hand. "Father," she said, her voice trembling with both hope and fear. "What is happening?"

Jaehaerys approached his daughter, his expression a blend of stern resolve and deep compassion. He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Rhaella, my dear, we have not given up on Rhaemon. There is still hope."

He nodded to the servants, who carefully set the chest down and opened it. Inside lay five dragon eggs, each one a masterpiece of nature's artistry. One egg was green and bronze, shimmering like a forest canopy in the sunlight. Another was cream and gold, glowing with the warmth of a summer's day. The third was black and red, dark and foreboding like a stormy night. The fourth was black and blue, a deep, mysterious hue that suggested hidden depths. The last egg was black and violet, an alluring blend of darkness and royalty.

As Maester Corso carefully arranged the five dragon eggs around the cradle where the infant Rhaemon lay, the room seemed to hold its breath. Each egg, with its unique colors and patterns, was placed with reverence, their presence both a reminder of the Targaryen legacy and a last hope.

King Jaehaerys took the moment to address his daughter Rhaella and his wife, Queen Shaera, who stood nearby. His voice was both solemn and hopeful. "Rhaella, Shaera, I want to explain the significance of what we are attempting here. The bond between Targaryens and dragons is ancient and powerful. It is said that our bloodline is intertwined with that of dragons, granting us protection and strength. After the tragedy at Summerhall, I had intended to hide these eggs, to keep them safe from further loss. But now, with Rhaemon's miraculous survival, it does not hurt to try and see if we might be blessed by another miracle."

Rhaella, her eyes still red from days of worry, listened intently, her heart pounding with fear and hope. Shaera held Rhaegar close, the healthy baby's quiet presence a small comfort amidst the uncertainty. While Maester Corso did not take his eyes off Rhaemon and the dragon eggs. His scholarly mind raced with the possibilities and the ancient lore he had studied. The air seemed charged with an almost electric anticipation. And he wasn't disappointed.

Suddenly, a faint glow began to emanate from the eggs. Maester Corso's breath caught in his throat, and he gasped audibly, drawing the attention of everyone in the room.

All eyes turned to the cradle. The room fell into a hushed silence as they watched the miraculous sight unfold. The stone eggs, long thought to be lifeless relics, continued to glow brighter, their colors becoming more vivid and intense.

The glow grew until, startlingly and frightfully, flames erupted from Rhaemon, enveloping both him and the eggs in a blazing inferno.

Rhaella screamed in terror, her instincts pulling her towards her son, but Jaehaerys held her back, his grip firm yet gentle.

As the flames consumed the cradle, the room fell into a tense silence. All they could do was watch, caught between horror and fascination. The Kingsguard, their hands on their sword hilts, stood ready to take action at the first sign of danger. The servants, nervously clutching buckets of water, waited for any cue to douse the fire. The air was thick with anticipation, the flickering light of the flames casting eerie shadows on the walls.

Time seemed to stretch, each second feeling like an eternity. Just when it seemed the fire would never relent, a piercing cry shattered the oppressive silence. The sound jolted everyone out of their stunned forms; it was the cry of a baby. Rhaemon.

Rhaella's heart leapt as she heard her son's wail. "Rhaemon!" she cried out, her voice breaking with fear and hope. 

All eyes turned back to the cradle, where they saw movement within the blazing inferno. The baby's cries turned to whimpers, and then, miraculously, the fire began to fade. The intense heat receded, the flames dying down until they were nothing but embers.

As the smoke cleared, the room filled with gasps and curses of disbelief. There, amidst the still-glowing embers, they saw a sight that defied reason and filled them with awe.

Three of the five dragon eggs had hatched. Tiny dragons, their scales shimmering with hues of black mixed with red, blue, and violet, crawled around Rhaemon. They cooed softly, their small, reptilian eyes full of curiosity and affection.

King Jaehaerys stepped forward, his face a mask of stunned reverence. "By the gods," he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion.

And there, in the center of this extraordinary scene, lay Rhaemon, finally awakened, blinking at the dragons.

One of the servants fainted after a brief mutter of, "Dragons!"

The Kingsguard, usually stoic and unflinching, looked on with expressions of awe and disbelief, reacted with their own words, "Seven hells…." Or "Gods be good!"

Rhaella, tears streaming down her face, rushed to her son's side. She scooped Rhaemon into her arms, holding him close as he continued to blink at the dragons. The tiny dragons clung to Rhaemon and nuzzled against her, their warmth a comforting presence.

"Rhaemon," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. "My precious Rhaemon. You are truly blessed."

The room, still bathed in the soft glow of the dying embers, was filled with a renewed sense of purpose and hope. They knew they were witnessing something monumental, something that would change the course of history. And at the heart of it all was Prince Rhaemon Targaryen, the child who had survived the flames and brought dragons back to the world.

In that moment, they all understood that their destinies were now inextricably linked with the tiny prince and his dragons. The future of House Targaryen, and perhaps all of Westeros, lay in the hands of Rhaemon and the dragons that now nestled around him. The Fireborne Prince.