A Tale of Two Dragons

By Belisarius55

Prologue

Visenya - 24 AC

The boy only had eyes for one Dragon, Visenya thought with a smirk. Soon to be a man, she corrected herself silently. He was celebrating his twelfth name-day, in a manner only
he could have envisioned. The sparring continued in the courtyard below, and he continued to dominate his foes. The muffled cries of one of the younger men-at-arms could still be heard from wherever the attendants had carried him; to Visenya's eyes it appeared Maegor had broken his arm. Shattered morelike, she thought with a vicious grin. The
blood of the dragon had little concern for the sheep that surrounded it, and Maegor had little and less concern than could be expected from a Targaryen. He had always been a
cold boy, she thought. She could still remember the look he had given her when presented with the grandest of his presents, after he had broken his fast. She allowed herself a
moment to amusedly reflect on the events that had transpired earlier. She had carried it in herself; feeling its heat through the red and black folds of the cloak she had wrapped it in.

While small, its teeth and talons could still rend terrible wounds in an unsuspecting arm. Whilst they were willing to carry others, it could not be said that dragons enjoyed being carried themselves. As she approached the hall where Maegor was seated (at the head of the table, as was his want) Visenya took a moment to examine her choice of gift. It could not be considered beautiful, by any means, like sweet Rhaenys' Meraxes, with its scales of silver and eyes of gold. But the potential for it to be a worthy mount was unmistakable. It had eyes of baleful green, and scales as black as night. Within those eyes one could catch glimpses of a predatory cunning, and any who may have harbored doubts regarding its killer instinct would have been proven wrong the moment they had entered the cavern where it had hatched.

When Visenya had gone to examine the new hatchlings, she had detected a smell slightly different from the traditional smell of smoke and brimstone that so characterized Dragonstone (the very smell Aegon claimed to love so well). Smoke and brimstone had been present, but there was also the unmistakable hint of blood, as well. That had been the first sign that this hatchling was different, which for her son, meant promising. Sometimes the best things could only accompany the spilling of blood. Visenya suppressed a knowing smile at that errant thought- a concept she was familiar with all too well.

When she entered the hatching chamber, there was little light, aside from two braziers lit on either side of the chamber. But the scene before her was something even she herself had not seen previously. A small black hatchling lay curled contentedly underneath one of the braziers. Towards the center of the room was the other hatchling, or what remained of it. It was plain to see they had fought, but the larger of the two had immediately gained the upper hand- judging from the lack of any significant wounds. The other hatchling had been gnawed almost in half, and eaten raw. Both had been too young to produce flame. She turned her gaze to the hatchling beneath the brazier. "You're a vicious little thing, aren't you?" She asked. Regarding her with one green eye, it opened its mouth to reveal a blood caked row of razor sharp teeth. Hissing, it beat its wings in her directly, stirring the light layer of ash up the cavern floor. While others may have found this display intimidating, Visenya found it promising. "Perhaps, little one, you may finally catch my son's attention." She japed. It's only response was to vent dark curls of smoke from its nostrils. She approached it slowly, and took it into her arms within a blanket emblazoned with the colors of her house. She relished in the low, smoldering heat its small form gave off, the feeling only a dragon could produce. A small reminder that some day, this beast could prove as beautiful and terrifying as her on Vhagar… if it were to survive that long.

So Visenya, eldest of the children of Aenar, found herself carrying this small beast into the hall in which her son (and what a son he was) had just finished his meal. "Maegor, my son, I present you with a final gift on this day. I present you with fire made flesh, a companion, and most of all, a symbol of our house's power." Maegor raised his eyes to regard the creature. Without saying a word, he stood, and left to gaze out into the courtyard. "Mother, of all people, I did not expect to be disappointed by you. You know well I won't take any of those tiny, pathetic creatures." Visenya's eyes narrowed. "Mastery of a dragon is key to demonstrating your worthiness. To be king, you must needs have such proof." Maegor turned once more to regard the creature before him, his deep purple eyes nearly dripping malice. "There is but one dragon in all the known world worthy of me. Father will not be his rider forever. Now get that pathetic thing out of my sight, before I twist its tiny head off." Sighing, Visenya turned, and left the hall, taking her small charge back to its diminutive lair. When she had arrived, she placed it back beneath the brazier in which she found it. She briefly considered removing the corpse of the cave's previous occupant, but decided against it. She knew the little dragon before her was likely to grow hungry again soon. As she left, she swore she could feel those baleful green eyes burning small twin holes in her back.

It was only days later that she received word the hatchling had escaped. Only the most trusted servants had access to the hatcheries, and thus it had presumably been gone for some time by the time its absence was noted. After ordering a search, the half eaten body of a cat had been found beneath a tapestry, and slight blood stains led from there out a window. It appeared Dragonstone's newest hatchling had not taken its rejection well, Visenya thought with a smirk. After considering whether to order it to be retrieved, she decided against it. It was well-known that truly wild dragons did not survive for long on the Dragonmont, after all.

Marys - 112 AC

Placing a hand atop her swollen belly, she had smiled. Her own little Prince, she thought. How many women are so blessed? To carry the seed of dragons was a gift bestowed only upon the most beautiful and deserving girls on Dragonstone, her mother had told her with a slight smile. My own da had eyes of lilac, and hair of beaten gold, she thought to herself with a proud smirk. Our family had always carried a bit o' the dragon in us. Dragons lay with dragons, mayhaps the Prince saw a bit of the fire in your own blood when he took you into his bed? Marys had hoped so, thinking back to that night, when the prince had bid her to follow him to his room. His eyes had been purple, his hair silver, and his body lithe yet hard with muscle. His breath had smelled of the finest wines. Her cheeks burned at the thought of him. A prince fit for any maiden in the Seven Kingdoms. After he had spilt his seed within her he had made to leave, but not before placing a golden dragon beside her. Marys hated that part of the memory, the look of indifference in his eyes, how uninterested they had been in regarding her after she surrendered her maidenhead to him. At first, she had been eager to do so, to be the envy of all of the shepherds' daughters and fishermen's wives of Dragonstone. Marys, the Prince's lover, Marys, the fair. Instead he had humiliated her, naming her a whore without a word. Perhaps she had a drop of dragon blood in her, as she had flown into a rage then, proclaiming to him that she "was no whore". He had regarded her with those indifferent eyes one last time, only to respond with the words that still turned her stomach to remember. "You are now."

When she had discovered she was carrying his child, she had finally been able to put aside the humiliation and the wrath. Such feelings were no good for the child growing within her, and even the Prince couldn't take him from her. And it is a 'he' - she thought to herself. I carry a dragon within me, and will be one of the few women to bring such a man into the world, she thought with a fierce smile. Brushing her hair aside, she stood as tall as her feet would allow, still placing a hand upon her belly, her son, as she waited for a glimpse of the man who had given her this gift.

He had returned earlier that day, the fisherman had said. His characteristic blood red dragon had circled the citadel thrice before landing within his courtyard. Many suspected he would grace their village sooner rather than later; to walk amongst the common folk, enjoy an ale, and perhaps find another willing maiden, Marys thought to herself with pursed lips. Their predictions had proven correct, as he had come down along the footpaths in the foothills of the Dragonmount to her village, later that evening, clad in black ringmail, black dyed leather, and a black cloak with a red three headed dragon sewn into its folds. Her heart leapt into her throat at the sight of him, for imagining this moment was proving quite different than the experience of living it. He was headed for the tavern, she saw. Now! I must speak now, or forever miss my chance! She pushed through the crowd, desperate to get as close as possible, the other small folk grumbling and shoving in return. Malda, the innkeeper's wife, shoved her so hard in retaliation that Marys fell to her knees, before realizing she had made it through the crowd. Remaining knelt, she raised her face to look up at the Prince. His eyes remained mostly disinterested, with only a slight look of annoyance flickering across his face at the sight of this disruption. Raising her hands in a gesture akin to that of a supplicant, Marys found herself calling out: "I carry your son, m'lord, and I prithee, what name should I bestow upon him?" She remained upon her knees, and clasped her hands together. Her stomach was turning in knots, resisting uproariously to the stress she was subjecting herself too. She even began to feel her son stir within her, clawing at the prison that was her womb. The prince turned to regard her, and she began to fear he may not even remember her, or what they shared. She regretted even coming to this moment, feared for herself and her child. What if I am punished for this insolence? Terror gripped her. She was so fearful she almost missed the response from the Prince. "Name him for Gaemon the Glorious for all I care."

The first to chortle was a man-at-arms that was accompanying the Prince. Second to do so was big, toothless, Malda. Soon laughter rang through the crowd, and despite herself, hot, stinging tears began to run down Marys' cheeks. That same humiliation returned, and hate burned hot within her breast. She stood, turned and ran without a word. Reaching the stone cottage which she shared with her parents and siblings, she finally allowed herself to truly cry, her tears and frustration pouring out through her fingers. Clenching her fists, she forced herself to stop. Anger began to boil within her, hot as a kettle above the hearth. Gaemon, then. She thought. Laugh and jape all you wish, but I WILL name him Gaemon. He will be a bastard, but a dragon nonetheless. Your jealousy and japes will turn to ashes in your mouths. My dragon will burn you all.

The midwife had warned her it would be pain the likes of which she couldn't imagine. It would feel as though she was being ripped in two. Marys couldn't remember the last time she had stopped screaming; her voice had grown as ragged and hoarse as her breathing. Her mother and the midwife were busy running this way and that throughout the cottage, placing cool rags upon her brow and calling for her to push. "I AM pushing!" She screamed, cursing the Prince who'd given her his seed and this pain. She had taken to holding an old wooden chair behind her head to give her something, anything, to hold onto. Blood was slick on her legs, and beneath her, the smell of smoke from the fire boiling water on the hearth almost overwhelming. Drenched in sweat, Marys began to cry. She would give anything for this to be over.

Hours had past and it seemed her labors were getting her no closer to bringing her son into the world. The midwife was crouched before her, looking for any sign of her child's head to make an appearance. After what seemed like ages, Marys wished she could simply sleep. Her heart felt like it was going to burst out from her chest, and she was beyond exhausted from the exertions of the birthing bed. "Marys, you must push harder now, I see your child's head!" Cried the midwife. With tears in her eyes, her mother thanked the seven, her knuckles white from clutching Marys' hand so tightly. Marys pushed, as hard as she could. Then she did again, after the babe's head slipped from the midwife's fingers back inside her. Finally, something gave. It was done, she could feel it. The midwife raised the child for her to see. Giving it a light slap, she prompted it to begin squealing, its cries and ragged breaths, filling the room. Marys reached out her hands to hold it, sobbing tears of relief and joy. She felt so tired, and taking her child into her hands, she clutched him (it was a boy!) to her breast as tightly as she could, caring little and less for the blood or other birthing bits that still clung to him. Kissing his head, she saw a small tuft of hair was already present, slick with blood. Hair like hers, red and thick. Not like that of the Prince, she thought, but mayhaps it is better that way. It was only after she had handed him to her mother that she began to feel strange. She had trouble focusing, and her hands, despite wishing to hold him once more, would not obey her commands to rise. Her heart, which had beat so powerfully within her, seemed to grow faint. Marys could barely hear what seemed to be cries around her. She let herself close her eyes.