House Of The Dragon: 'The Exiled Prince'

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| Author's Note:

Why, hello beautiful people!

Shall we go for round two? I promise to give it my best this time,— but remember that life is full of bad, wrong choices, as well as setbacks, so I can't guarantee perfection in any way.

Regardless, enjoy and have fun!

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"Before the mortal world stirred to the sound of war,— the ancient beings that many call the 'Valyrian Gods',— stirred in their silent vigil, eyes fixed on the tide of the chaotic dragon's blood that was to come."

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— Dragonstone (Year 75 AC):

The island of Dragonstone, the famously known home of the Targaryen family, rises from the depths of the narrow sea like a colossal, natural stone fortress.

Its sheer, volcanic cliffs,— pitted and scarred by centuries of eruptions,— reign over a restless coastline where dark, basaltic waves crash with relentless fury.

Beneath a perpetually storm-dark sky, the island exudes a brooding majesty, as if the very bones of the earth pulsed with the primordial power of dragons and their lords.

Each jagged rock and scorched outcrop seems to whisper tales of what was once a lost empire and fierce, unyielding magic,— a place where fire and legend intertwine at every moment of the planet's history, evoking both awe and foreboding in the hearts of those who dare approach.

And as the rain falls from the storm-bringing clouds, something very special is about to take place inside the island's one and only dark-stone castle,— for today, the Targaryens would welcome another addition to their numbers, a much-needed respite amidst their damnable, recent losses of kin.

Today, Aenys Targaryen, the son of Baelon Targaryen, "The Brave", and his sister-wife, Alyssa Targaryen, would open his eyes for the very first time.

And that, without a doubt, would be something to celebrate.

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The timeless roar of the volcanic waters slowly fades outside the stone window of Alyssa's birthing chamber. In that same warm and rainy, waning afternoon, the low-lit hearth glows with a flickering flame,— fed by embers that seem to burn with the memory of dragons,— that does little to quiet the princess's anguished cries, slicing through the tense silence maintained by the busy midwives hurrying to and fro.

The air inside remains thick with the acrid scent of sweat and blood, mingling with the earthy tang of basalt and ash. Here, upon a cold, unadorned stone slab, every heartbeat is a battle, every gasp and pained cry from a future mother, a desperate struggle against fate.

Alyssa Targaryen, lying in her bed, bears the mark of her unique lineage: a long, thin face, tangled dirty-blonde hair, unusually mismatched eyes,— one violet, the other green,— and a crooked nose from a small injury sustained at age six.

And yet, today, her usually lopsided smile is absent, replaced by an expression contorted in pain, while her prominent ears,— normally contributing to her unconventional charm,— seem to droop with exhaustion and suffering.

Around her stand various midwives, a maester, and her deeply loved mother, Queen Alysanne Targaryen.

"Mother!" Alyssa screams, sweat running down her still-lovely, exhausted features.

In response, Queen Alysanne squeezes her hand with a mix of tenderness and urgency.

"I am here, my darling. Tell me, how are you feeling?" she asks in a gentle, yet determined tone. But the pain is unbearable and ever-mounting, and Alyssa manages only a halting, "I'm in pain,—… fuck!"

Alysanne, ignores her daughter's harsh expletive yet is unable to hide her worry, furrowing her brows in familiar concern.

"Alyssa, be strong, my dear. You will get past this, I am sure of it." Alysanne murmurs, her voice trembling with both anxiety and resolve. At that moment, the present maester,— Maester Aldric,— approaches with a focused, worried expression.

"Please, keep pushing, Princess. The babe should be coming out soon enough." he instructs in a calm, measured tone as his hands move with slow precision, aiding the process of bringing forth the new Targaryen babe.

"Someone fetch me an unused cloth already, for the Seven's sake!" he calls to one of the various midwives around him, and a nearby young midwife hurries over, "Here you go, Maester Aldric."

"About time. And keep cleaning the princess's body,— she is in enough discomfort as it stands." he adds curtly.

Meanwhile, Alyssa's face remains a mask of pain, her eyes unfocused and clouded by agony. "Was I... so damned hard to birth, Mother?!" she cries, her voice a mix of terror and bitter humor. Alysanne shakes her head in exasperation and fear, though a trace of humor lingers in her eyes as well. "One of the hardest, my dear. Now, keep pushing as Maester Aldric told you,— you can do it, I believe in you." she urges.

But the pain intensifies, drawing more anguished contortions and nausea from Alyssa. "Argh,— fuck, it hurts so much!" she cries out again.

"You are doing great, Princess! Please, be strong for your coming child." Maester Aldric reasons, his tone imbued with both encouragement and genuine concern.

"H-how much time has… passed?" Alyssa asks, her voice edged with worry, and a nearby midwife answers, "It has been a few hours since you began your labor, Princess."

At that moment, Queen Alysanne rises from her seat near the head of the bed and pulls Maester Aldric aside, her aged, regal face set in a stern, worried expression. "My daughter is losing too much blood. Be sure to do something about it, or I will have your head, do you understand, Aldric?" she declares, her eyes turning cold and her fingers trembling. "Of course I do, Your Grace." Aldric replies, his voice steady as he resumes his work.

Meanwhile, the mattress grows increasingly stained with red, and Alyssa's cries only intensify. "Argh! Mother, I'm... scared! What if I can't do it? What if I die in this damned bed?!" she screams, her voice cracking with fear. Her mother, resolute and protective, rebukes her harshly, "Alyssa! Never say such things ever again. You are a strong woman, and you will be all right! The babe will come out healthy, it will be loved and cared for,— and you will continue to live, do you understand me?"

"I-... I do." Alyssa weakly answers.

In that moment, as the world narrows to the fierce agony and wild hope of birth, destiny itself seems to claw its way into being.

Amid the chaos of whispered prayers and the urgent murmur of attendants, a newborn's first cry is about to echoe like a promise,— brutal, unrefined, and heralding a future written in fire and blood.

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At the beckoning of a midwife, who opened the door for them, both brothers, Baelon and Aemon, stepped into the birthing chamber,— one after the other.

Aemon maintained his dignified composure, lingering behind as he approached their mother, who stood by the window, taking in a rare breath of fresh air. Baelon, however, wasted no time, as he strode forward with urgency, kneeling beside Alyssa's bed, his face etched with concern.

"Alyssa! How are you feeling?" he asked, sweeping a hand gently through her damp hair, tucking a stray strand behind her ear.

Their eyes met, and despite her exhaustion, she smiled softly. "I'm alright, love." she murmured. Baelon exhaled deeply, his forehead nearly resting against the mattress as he cupped her face.

A beat passed before his gaze flickered toward the small bundle nestled against her chest. His voice was quieter when he finally spoke. "Is that him?"

"Him?" she repeated with amusement, her mismatched eyes drifting toward the tiny, swaddled figure in her arms. "Our child…" Baelon clarified, his tone thick with wonder.

Alyssa chuckled, warmth and pride brimming in her gaze. "It is a him,— our little dragonling." She turned the bundle slightly, allowing her husband a better look.

Baelon studied the newborn intently. "So small... and ugly!" he quipped, his lips twitching into a teasing smirk, and Alyssa shot him a playful, scornful glare, while across the room, Aemon,— who had remained respectfully distant,— let out a quiet chuckle, relief softening his usually composed expression.

"Have you chosen a name, sister?" Aemon asked as he stepped closer, while Alyssa glanced up at him,— their future king, their brother,— before nodding. "We have."

"And?" he prompted, anticipation evident in his tone. "Aenys." she announced, and at that very moment, in the warm glow of familial closeness, the newborn stirred.

Then, before anyone could react, Aenys Targaryen opened his eyes for the first time.

A collective hush fell over the chamber as every Targaryen, midwife, and even the Maester stood frozen in silent awe,— though the Maester quickly fumbled for his quill, hastily scribbling something on a nearby parchment.

For when the tiny babe of Fire and Blood first opened his eyes, the room was bathed in a dim, flickering violet light coming from them.

Alysanne, standing by the window, merely smiled,— serene, knowing. She turned her gaze toward the sky, her hands pressed against the cold stone.

Outside, the storm had begun to wane,— an odd thing, considering it had only begun the day before.

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"And in the silent, continuous watch of the gods, destiny had changed for the very first time, in the form of a child,— a change that may well come to decide the fate of 'Fire and Blood' for generations to come."

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| Fire & Blood |

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