Chapter Text
The clearing near a babbling brook with its crystal pool, was the perfect sanctum for Rhaena and her dragon. The latter lay gorged and resting several yards away, his silhouette in repose blending easily against the forest canopy, the piercing onyx of his eyes shuttered.
Rhaena unfurled her bedroll at the mouth of the rocky overhang where she camped. She fed a fire a little at a time from a pile of kindling gathered earlier, keeping the flames small and smokeless.
Nigh one moon had turned since the Bloody Gate closed behind Lady Jeyne and Rhaena ventured away from duty and into the wilderness.
Even still, each night before sleeping she would relive in her mind the six days she passed alone in the mountains of the Vale, sustained by wild mushrooms and berries if she was lucky, or only water from a cold mountain stream when she was not.
Toward the end vultures began to circle the sky above but she pushed forward, halted only by exhaustion when she slept a few fitful hours under the stars with no shelter from the biting wind. The echo of her mother's words had carried through the gales, playing over and again in her mind-
...It is your birthright and there is more than one way to bind yourself to a dragon...you have a harder road... if you wish to be a rider, you must claim that right...
They were gone now; her mother and grandmother. To shrink back and ponder what wisdom they might impart would not serve.
So she forged ahead, drawn to destiny by something in the blood, as one possessed. Not once had she contemplated what she would do if and by the gods, when, she encountered her quarry.
Before that day she only heard tell of Sheepstealer, the riderless wild dragon with a very particular palate.
It was said he hatched on Dragonstone around the time of the Faith militant uprising against Aenys, after he announced his son the Prince of Dragonstone and his daughter were to marry. By that calculation Sheepstealer had as many years as Daemon’s dragon, maybe more.
Lately, she'd thought more how the history painted her forebear and namesake as one who lived in many places, went by many names and had lived a long and storied life.
She could barely hope for herself, Rhaena of Pentos, daughter of Daemon, the dragonless, the unfortunate; to somehow outstrip this senseless war that ripped her family asunder.
Above the tinkling of a nearby stream, a languid purr emanated in the darkness as a warm puff of air rattled low tree branches.
“Are you wearied, old fyre?” she asked, smiling when she felt his contentment- a full and warm sensation in her bosom, amplified through their bond.
It was the third night, and as quiet as the previous ones she'd spent taking respite from days on the road. Rhaena’s eyelids grew heavy with sleep when a crackle of twigs outside her field of vision caused her to sit up, alerted to the possible threat.
She touched the dagger at her waist keenly aware it may be to little effect, and thought quickly what other defense she could employ. She sat with her feet planted but remained still. Cloaked and ever ready to fight or flee.
Unless absolutely necessary, she would not call her dragon’s fire and risk setting the forest ablaze. And surely no animal would come within a half league of his scent though a small unwitting one if she snagged it, could make a welcome change from fish.
The continuing approach signaled something larger, a boar? she wondered, although the gait sounded too uneven.
It was a man rather than beast that emerged from the shadows into the clearing and staggered toward her fire. Instinctively, Rhaena drew her hood, rising quickly when she saw the crusted blood on him, a fresh rivulet still running down his face.
She glanced toward her dragon who had not stirred, then cautiously approached.
“Plea…” his muttered speech trailed.
She crossed the space hastily then, catching him awkwardly just as his legs buckled.
“Thank…y-” he whispered.
“Shh, save your strength, such as you have left,” she said. She struggled to bear his weight by hooking his arm around her neck so her words were strained.
The man, a knight of the Reach, was weak and his breathing ragged. He could barely remain upright as she guided them stumbling onto her sleeping pad. She wondered how far he could have travelled in such condition.
By his pallid complexion beneath the muck, Rhaena knew time was of the essence. She hastily dumped a log on the fire and set about unbuckling the remaining leather fasteners of his tattered jerkin and removing his ripped doublet.
She used her blade to cut away the tunic underneath. It was sticky and stiff where the blood had dried to a deep orange hue.
Reaching for the clean white chemise her sister had packed for her, she rolled it in a wad and pressed it gently but firmly where a sword had driven into his belly, bypassing any armor he might have worn and since discarded.
Eventually the bleeding subsided and Rhaena feared it was because he had run out. She placed an ear over his mouth, near touching. Feeling the faint trails of warmth on her cheek, she was reassured and continued her work.
She closed the wound at his temple with a hooked garment needle purified in the fire and strong silk thread.
It had been nearly ten days since Rhaena arrived unannounced at Dragonstone, straight from her first skirmish with the breakaway Triarchy ship that set upon the cog bearing Rhaenyra's youngest boys to Essos.
Baela had been shocked by her sister's changed appearance and moreso that she rode a dragon.
In secret, Rhaena delivered young Aegon safely to Baela and relayed how his brother, Viserys, was not so fortunate in the rescue attempt. She feared he was captured or worse.
Although she would have been defenseless without a dragon, Rhaena knew her stepmother and Queen would never forgive her for having left in the first place.
She learned then that their new found kin Addam of Hull, prepared to leave for the Stepstones as the fighting there intensified. Rhaenyra had sent the other two seeds, Hugh Hammer and Ulf White to lay in wait for Vhagar near Harrenhal.
Rhaena determined she would join Addam in the campaign and in so doing perhaps assuage Rhaenyra's anger when she inevitably learned Rhaena broke away for a pursuit of her own in the Vale.
Baela had packed her a satchel with things she might need like undergarments, a dagger, sewing kit, good boots and coin. Before they parted, Rhaena made her swear to tell no one she was alive.
Hours passed as she cleaned the rest of the Hightower's injuries using water mixed with a little wine from the flask she kept in her saddle bag, then covered them with moistened nettle leaves.
Having done all she could for him, Rhaena went to the stream to wash herself and fetch fresh water before returning to the camp. She straightened out the area where she slept and crawled on top of the rough blanket, past ready for rest.
As she lay beside the stranger who now shared her only bed, the surrounding wood was slowly draped in milky mist and the full-throated serenade of a Riverlands nightingale heralded dawn as it broke across the sky.
How odd, she thought, just one week before to have felt the heat of her very first battle with the Lysene galleys in the Gullet, where Jacaerys Velaryon flew up ahead on Vermax, as surprised to see Rhaena on Sheepstealer as she was to see him there, with Ser Addam on Seasmoke, following closely behind.
Her confusion at the strange turn of events had been quickly overtaken by sheer exhilaration when with blood pumping intensity she found herself navigating the battlefield, evading the enemy's quarrels. Commands of “ Paktot!”, “Embrot!” and “Dracarys”, almost unneeded as she and her dragon worked in harmony.
The sight of a battered remnant attempting to flee filled her with overwhelming victory and defeat in equal parts, when suddenly they saw with horror that Vermax was struck by the hook from an enemy grapnel, its prongs ripping deeper into the creature's belly as he shrieked in agony.
Attempting to maneuver free, the dragon became entangled in a ship's low boom and crashed into the sea. With sorrow she saw him sink deeper, succumbing to the injury. Then desperate tragedy, as Jace tried to pitch himself to safety but was hit with three enemy bolts to the chest.
How strange to have witnessed the unthinkable aftermath of the carnage descended upon Hightide and SpiceTown, as the cries of men, women and children still rose up to the skies mixed with the smoke and ash. To smell and see the devastation first hand.
Impossible to distinguish the sackers from the sacked she could only look on in horror, her dragon fire useless against the destruction.
Unimaginable that she should be here not long after, fighting to save the life of a wounded wanderer, on the side of the enemy no less.
Such was the madness of war. There would be plenty of time to ponder all of it, if she survived.
She turned from looking at the sky and rolled onto her side, taking the opportunity to study the man while he slept. He was still deathly pale but his breath seemed to come easier.
She felt no threat from the happenstance. At some point in the night she'd checked her perimeter. No one pursued him.
Despite the mud and blood stains, Rhaena could see his hair was a warm golden hue. Its near shoulder length and the shadow of stubble did not fit the refinement of his vetements, suggesting he’d been on the road for some time.
His long eyelashes fanned high cheekbones and the vague familiarity of his jawline confirmed her guess at his identity.
She should kill him now, fly with his head to meet Rhaenyra with the proof of her loyalty.
But he'd come to her weak and defenseless, she mused. She knew very well she could not kill him in cold blood if at all.
Rhaena instead indulged in the unanticipated pleasure of observing him, keenly aware and unabashed that she found him comely.
She yawned widely, her eyes prickling with exhaustion. From across the cold hearth and clearing a low rumble sounded. Her dragon had opened his eyes.
He raised his head slowly and languidly sniffed the air, then lay back down with a muted huff unbothered by the nocturnal intrusion.
Rhaena chuckled.
“Kirimvose, Zāeres !” she said, addressing him by the name she’d chosen on account of his great bellow which sounded like the grinding of broken glass. Then she drifted into a dreamless sleep.