Year 283 AC, Dragonstone
The storm that night was unlike any other.
The sea roared and tore itself apart against the black cliffs of Dragonstone. Wind howled through the ancient towers, carrying the scent of salt and ash. Thunder cracked above like the anger of old gods, and the rain beat against the castle walls until even stone seemed to tremble.
Inside, Queen Rhaella Targaryen was giving birth.
Her chamber burned with torchlight. Servants hurried with towels and hot water, their faces pale with fear. The midwife's hands shook as she pressed them against the queen's swollen belly.
Rhaella's hair — pale silver, soaked in sweat — clung to her face. She gritted her teeth through each wave of pain, too exhausted to cry out anymore. The Rebellion had taken her husband, her home, her hope. And now the storm demanded her life too.
"Push, Your Grace," whispered the midwife. "Just once more."
Rhaella's breath broke into a sob. Her fingers clutched the blood-soaked sheets.
And then — a sound cut through the storm.
A baby's cry.
The midwife gasped and lifted the small, wriggling child into the candlelight. "A boy, my queen! A prince!"
Rhaella turned her head weakly. The sight of him drew a trembling smile to her lips. He was pale as milk, slick with blood, his small fists waving as though to fight the air itself.
"Daemon," she whispered. "He shall be Daemon… after the Prince who dared to dream."
The midwife wrapped him in crimson cloth. The boy's cries echoed through the room, bright and alive. For a moment, Rhaella forgot the thunder and the war beyond the sea.
But before she could rest, another sharp pain ripped through her.
The midwife froze. "Your Grace… there's another."
The storm raged harder. Lightning turned the sky white. The castle shook.
Minutes later, another cry rose — softer, steadier.
"It's a girl," said the midwife, voice trembling. "Twins."
Rhaella's breath came shallow and broken, but her smile returned. "Daenerys," she murmured. "Daemon and Daenerys… my children of storm and fire."
She pulled them close, one in each arm. Daemon squirmed and cried. Daenerys blinked quietly at the candlelight. Thunder rolled above, as if the world itself answered their birth.
For the first time in years, Rhaella felt something like peace.
---
The next morning
The storm had passed, leaving the castle scarred. Fallen branches lay across the courtyard; waves still crashed below. In her chamber, Rhaella lay propped against pillows, her face pale but her eyes calm.
By her side stood young Prince Viserys — small, nervous, barely old enough to understand what had happened. His hands twisted the hem of his tunic as he stared at the newborn twins sleeping in their cradle.
"They're so tiny," he murmured.
Rhaella smiled faintly. "So were you, once."
He looked at her, fear in his eyes. "Mother… will Father come back now?"
Her gaze dropped. The question cut like a knife, but she smoothed his hair gently. "No, my sweet boy. He won't."
Viserys swallowed hard and said nothing. His lips trembled, but he tried not to cry. He looked again at his brother and sister, the new heirs to a throne they no longer had.
Rhaella took his small hand and squeezed it. "You must be kind to them," she whispered. "They have only us now."
Viserys nodded, though his eyes darted toward the window — toward the grey sky and the endless sea beyond, as if fearing the storm might return.
---
Weeks later
Ravens came bearing news of fire and death.
King's Landing had fallen. The Mad King was dead. Robert Baratheon now ruled the Seven Kingdoms. Dragonstone was the last piece left of a dying house.
Ser Willem Darry came to the queen's chambers, his beard damp with rain. "Your Grace," he said softly, "the usurper's men are coming. We must flee before they reach the island."
Rhaella turned weakly in bed. Her strength was fading, but her spirit was not. "The babes are too small," she murmured.
"They'll die if we stay," said Darry. "I've secured ships. We can reach Braavos if the gods are kind."
Her eyes fell on the cradle beside her. Daemon stirred in his sleep; Daenerys lay curled beside him. Viserys stood near the door, pale and frightened, clutching a toy dragon carved from wood.
The queen's voice cracked. "Gather what you can. We go tonight."
---
That night
The moon hung low over the sea. Wind hissed through the stone corridors as Ser Willem led them toward the hidden docks. Two servants carried the sleeping twins, wrapped in warm cloth. Rhaella walked slowly, every step a struggle.
Viserys followed close behind, eyes wide, his small hand gripping the queen's gown. "Mother," he whispered, "will they hurt us?"
"No," she lied softly. "Not while I breathe."
When they reached the shore, the waves were black and angry. Ser Willem's ship waited, its sails half-torn by the wind. Men worked in silence, faces pale with fear. They had seen what became of those who defied Robert Baratheon.
Rhaella stopped and turned to look back at Dragonstone. The castle stood against the storm like a dying dragon — proud, broken, and ancient. Its towers still smoked from the fires of the rebellion.
"Goodbye," she whispered. "Goodbye to the house of fire and blood."
Her hair whipped across her face as the wind rose again. She clutched Daemon to her chest and held Daenerys close with the other arm. Viserys pressed himself against her side, trembling.
"Come, Your Grace," urged Ser Willem. "We've no time."
She nodded and followed him aboard.
The ship pulled away from the shore. Rain began to fall once more — not a storm this time, but a steady drizzle that blurred the world into grey. Dragonstone faded behind them, swallowed by mist and memory.
Rhaella sat below deck, the twins in her arms. Daemon stirred and began to cry, his small hands reaching toward her. She hushed him softly.
"Hush now, my little dragon," she whispered. "The storm cannot touch you anymore."
Viserys sat curled in the corner, knees to his chest. He was silent, eyes wide with fear, watching the sea rock and churn beyond the window. Every crash of thunder made him flinch.
Rhaella reached out and touched his hair. "Be brave, my son."
"I'm scared," he whispered. "I don't want to go."
"I know," she said gently. "But we must."
---
Essos — Months later
They reached Braavos at last, the city of fog and bells. Ser Willem found them shelter — a modest house near the harbor, hidden among the maze of canals. It was not a palace, but it was safe.
Rhaella never regained her full strength, yet she lived. She walked slowly now, often coughing, but her eyes stayed sharp and kind. She spent her days caring for her twins and keeping Viserys close, afraid of losing another child.
Sometimes, she would sit by the window, the sea breeze touching her hair, and whisper stories of dragons to Daenerys as she slept. Daemon would lie beside them, restless even as a baby, fists always clenched.
Ser Willem watched over them with quiet devotion. His loyalty was the last gift of a dying kingdom.
Viserys grew pale and thin, frightened of every knock at the door, every shadow on the street. He clung to his mother's skirts, unwilling to stray far. "Will they find us here?" he asked one evening, voice trembling.
"No," said Rhaella softly, brushing his hair aside. "Not here. Not while I breathe."
Her words comforted him, though his fear never truly left.
And so the days passed — quietly, painfully, but alive.
Three children of fire and one fading queen, living like ghosts in a foreign land.
The world forgot them.
But the blood of the dragon still burned, waiting to awaken.