The Birth of Fire
The wind had risen from the sea the night before, rattling the shutters of Dragonstone and tugging at banners that clung to the cliffs. No one noticed the first signs of the storm—the clouds hanging heavy, restless, black as old smoke—but Aemma had welcomed it. The island's isolation had been her desire through these last months, away from the court's plotting, the endless whispers of the Red Keep. Neither Viserys nor Gemma understood why she insisted, though they had complied, humoring her.
By early morning, Aemma had gone into labor. The labor dragged on, relentless, and Dragonstone pulsed with her screams. Midday came and went, yet the sound did not falter. Viserys' hands clenched, the signet ring on his finger biting into his palm, thin lines of blood forming from nervous pressure. He muttered prayers to the gods under his breath. "Give her strength. Give them life. Let them live." He did not yet bear the crown, but he carried its weight in every anxious breath.
The nursery became a battlefield, as the old saying went: the battlefield of women. Blood soaked into the stone floor, mingling with salt, smoke, and sweat. Midwives scurried, voices sharp, hands steady, coaxing life from Aemma with gestures honed by decades of births. The eldest, a woman with Valyrian features softened by time, leaned close to Aemma.
"It must come now, my lady," she urged. "Push. We can see the head. Just a few more pushes."
The first child emerged: a girl, hair soft, silver-gold, fine as spun light. Eyes lilac, lungs strong, crying with the insistence of a dragon. Even the storm paused, as if to listen.
Then came the boy. Another push, another scream, another battle, and he emerged pale, wailing, a mirror of his sister. They were alike enough to make the maids whisper in astonishment. Aemma, despite exhaustion, gave him a soft smile, brushing damp curls from her face.
Viserys stepped forward, finally allowed into the room. Two babes, two small forms pressed against blankets, near mirror images. He swallowed, voice catching. "Rhaenyra… Maekar…" He barely dared say their names aloud, as if saying them would make them vanish.
"They are alive," Aemma said quietly, voice strained, fingers trembling, yet strong. "We are alive. And so are they."
Viserys nodded, bending close to press his lips to her temple. "Rest, my love," he murmured. "You've done well."
I pressed against the blankets, feeling the warmth, the life, and the weight of it. I had died once, a foolish, pitiful fall from a balcony in another life, and now I was pressed into this body, this family, this world. Every limb, every heartbeat, was new, yet familiar. Observation became instinct immediately.
Syrax hissed softly, wings folded. Vaerath stirred faintly beneath his shell, a flicker of fire pulsing through the egg. I pressed my fingers against the smooth surface, feeling a promise. Fire waits, but it is patient. I smiled, inwardly. Soon, he would know me. Soon, he would awaken.
Daemon arrived, boots damp from the morning walk along the cliffs, cloak still wet. He crouched near Rhaenyra, lifting her tiny hands in imitation of a sword, moving her slowly, carefully. She laughed, wriggled, and squealed with delight. Syrax hissed, warning, tail flicking in rhythm. Daemon grinned, unapologetic, teasing. Already, I noted the way he commanded attention without effort, bending her will with patience and play. Later, I would practice it, perfect it, sharpen it.
Laenor appeared next, crooked smile dragging a small toy behind him. Laena followed, holding Rhaenyra's hand, guiding her unsteady steps. Laughter spilled through the room, light as wind, but I noticed the rhythm, the calculations beneath each movement. Even children were lessons. Observation, patience, timing.
Aemma's gaze found me several times. Wary. Curious. Perhaps aware of something in my silence. She did not speak, but her eyes said enough: a mixture of caution, pride, and faint unease. She did not yet know me, but I understood her. Every flicker of attention, every breath, every pause was data. Every human was a book, and I had begun reading.
Viserys knelt at the side of the crib. "Grow strong, Maekar… grow strong, both of you," he whispered, fingers brushing my small hand. "The world will watch, and we must be ready for it." Not yet king, but a man already thinking of duty, of the weight that would one day rest on shoulders too young for it. I noted the tremor in his voice, the shift in his gaze, the care laced with unease. One day, that would be useful.
Night fell, carrying the storm with it only in the whispers of the waves. Dragonstone settled into shadows, the hearth flickering, casting long shapes across the floor. Rhaenyra curled against Syrax's neck, chest rising and falling with her tiny breaths. Vaerath stirred again, warm beneath my fingers.
I rose slowly, moving to the window, feeling the wind tug at my hair. Dragonstone's cliffs loomed, black and jagged, relentless. Beyond them, the sea roared with a wildness that demanded respect. I understood even at this age that life would be measured by observation, by patience, by timing. Fire waited for those who could see it, and I would be one of them.
The world was vast. Dragons slept. Storms raged. And I, Maekar Targaryen, had arrived to see it all, awake and unafraid.