Chapter Text
⁂⁂⁂
⁋ Every time a new Targaryen is born the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land ¶
Before the tale of dragons was set aflame, before brother turned against sister and the realm bled beneath dragonfire, another princess altered the course of history without ever seeking to.
The singers remember queens who wore crowns and warriors who carried swords. The maesters write of kings and their victories. Yet Kingdoms have often rested upon the quite strenght of women whose names are spoken only in passing.
So it was with Princess Daella Targaryen.
The eight child of King Jahaerys I Targeryen and his beloved queen, Alysanne, Daella possesed all her mother's beauty, but none of her boldness. Where Good Queen Alysanne rode dragon without fear and spoke before lords as an equal, Daella trembled at loud voices, dreaded strangers, and shrank from nearly every hardship the world set before her.
King Jahaerys loved his daughter, though not always patiently. Her fears troubled him more with every passing year. Suitors came and departed, yet none could win the princess's heart, for Daella scarcely dared look upon them.
At last the king's patience wore thin.
"Before the year is done," His Grace declared, "Daella shall have a husband. Let her choose whichever man pleases her. I care not who he is, so long as the matter is settled."
Queen Alysanne bowed her head.
"I shall do my best, Your Grace."
She spoke gently with her daughter thereafter, laying before her the names of three worthy men who had sought her hand.
After many tears and much hesitation, Daella made her choice.
"Lord Rodrik Arryn," she whispered. "He is kind...and gentle. He reminds me of father when he is smiling."
She lowered her eyes.
"And he has children already. Perhaps...perhaps they will let me love them."
Lord Rodrik Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale, was six and thirty years of age, twice Daella's years. A widower, he had buried one wife already and fathered four children. To many, he seemed an unlikely match for the timid princess. To Daella, he seemed safe.
Their betrothal was brief, for the king wished the matter finished without delay.
They were wed upon Dragonstone beneath the eyes of their kin, with only family and a handful of trusted companions in attendance. No grand tourney marked the occasion, nor weeks of feasting. When the vows had been spoken, Lord Rodrik escorted his young bride to the Vale.
"My children must know their stepmother," he told the king before departing. "And the Vale is a gentler place than court. She shall find peace there."
He turned to Daella with unmistakable tenderness.
"I swer before gods and men, Your Grace...no harm shall come to yoour daughter whilst I yet draw breath."
For once, those were not empty promises.
Lord Rodrik proved every inch the husband Daella had prayed for. Never cruel, never impatient, he watched over her with quiet devotion and called her only my dearest princess. In the Eyrie, where the winds were cool and the mountains stood eternal, Daella discovered a happiness she had never known within the Red Keep.
A year and half after the wedding, the princess quickened with child.
A birth came too soon.
After long hours of agony, a daughter entered the world, small in stature yet fierce in spirit. They named her Aemma.
The child lived.
Her mother very nearly did not.
No sooner had the babe been carried away than Princess Daella was seized by terrible fever. Her body burned as though dragonflame had settled beneath her skin. The maesters whispered amongst themselves, fearing dawn would find the princess dead.
Queen Alysanne scarcely left her daughter's bedside.
She blamed herself.
Daella had been too young. Too frightened. Too frail.
The queen had known it...and yet she had allowed the marriage to proceed.
All through the night Daella drifted between sleep and delirium, weeping whenever her newborn daughter was taken from her sight.
Only as the first light of morning crept across the sky did the fever begin to break.
When Daella opened her violet eyes once more, Queen Alysanne wept openly, and Lord Rodrik fell to his knees beside the bed, thanking every god he had ever known.
Though spared, the princess required half a year to recover.
From that day onward, fear became her constant companion.
Not fear for herself...
But fear of another childbed.
Princess Daella loved her daughter with all the tenderness in her gentle heart. Little Aemma, with silver-gold hair and deep violet eyes, bore the unmistakable beauty of Old Valyria. She followed her mother wherever she went, never straying far from her skirts.
Lord Rodrik's elder children treated the girl with distant courtesy, yet never as one of their own.
It mattered little to Daella.
Aemma was enough.
Or so she prayed.
For seven years no more children came.
Then, in eighty-ninth year after Aegon's Conquest, Princess Daella once more found herself upon the birthing bed.
Throughout her pregnancy she scarcely slept.
"I do not wish to die," she confessed one night to Queen Alysanne, who rode to the Vale right after her daughter's letter.
"You shall not," the queen answered, though fear lingered in her own heart.
When the pains began, they lasted until deep into the night.
"It hurts," Daella cried through tears. "It hurts so terribly."
Then, at last, another daughter was laid upon her breast.
The princess smiled through her exhaustion.
"Amarys," she whispered.
"My little Amarys."
Before sunrise, Princess Daella Targaryen was dead.
She had seen but five and twenty namedays.
The babe survived.
The mother did not.
Lord Rodrik mourned her beyond measure and begged that his beloved wife might rest beside him in the Vale.
Queen Alysanne refused.
"She was born of dragon's blood," the queen said, her voice heavy with grief. "She shall return to Dragonstone."
And so Princess Daella was given to the flames, as every dragonlord before her.
Yet though Daella passed from the world, two daughters remained behind.
One was gentle as spring rain.
The other...
The other had been born with fire in her soul.
***