Rhia

This is where she sits at present, her now chin-length hair blowing softly against her nape, the color reminiscent of molten moonlight. Sitting on the edge, nothing but the wind below her dangling feet, Daenaera felt a semblance of tranquility. Something she only achieves from here, when she looks below her to the waves crashing against the blackened rocks along the shore of their island, sending spray into the air. As she gazed off, vaguely in the direction of Essos as the sun rose. It's light casting in a manner that leaves the narrow sea in hues of fire and blood.

The castle is slowly coming to life, servants and squires soon to be wandering the halls, the lord and his ladies shall be waking not long after if they have not already gotten a start to their day. If Daenaera knew anything about Visenya, it is that she rose with the sun to get the most out of each day. The discipline it required, Daenaera could only dream of one day having herself. But not today. Not yet. For the youngest Targaryen had been sitting on the battlements for hours now. Sleep had not found her as of late. Not since her dream of ice.

Daenaera had always dreamed. Her father Aerion would proudly proclaim them as dragon dreams, a well sought after trait from the days of the Old Valyria that had saved House Targaryen from the Doom. Her father said these dreams were a blessing. That he is blessed to have fathered two children who inherited the gift for the first time since before the Century of Blood. Aegon, he was like their father, seeing their dreams as something to be proud of, a duty he earnestly accepts. But Daenaera had never been like the calm, unshakeable Aegon. She saw her dreams as more unsettling, if anything.

Since she was but a child, flashes of fire and flight, of shadow and steel, plagued her mind. They went between being no more than fragments, fleeting visions that left her confused and breathless, or sharper, more vivid dreams that would keep her up in the coming days.

But there was something so unsettling to her about this one. It was brief, yet still managed to be oh so impactful on her. And she doesn't even have her father to confide in anymore.

In the dream, she stood in a vast frozen wasteland, the air biting and cold. In only her nightgown, she shivered her way through the snow, feeling the ice below her feet burn her skin worse than any fire ever could. Daenaera walked and walked, hoping to come across a settlement to be her saving grace, but all she saw was a great weirwood coming more into view. She had never been so relieved to see a plant in her life, it was the one sign of life she'd seen in this snow. With its pale bark like bone, its red leaves hanging over like dripping blood, Daenaera finally had a conduit. When she was underneath the tree, she could truly see it. She took notice of the face carved into its great trunk, a thing of sorrow and menace, its empty eyes staring into her soul.

And then there was the man.

He was dark of hair and clad in heavy furs, his back turned to her as he sat on one of the roots of the tree. There was something hauntingly familiar about him, though she could not place why. Even without seeing his face, she felt an immediate sense of calm with his energy. The strong feeling she felt in the pit of her stomach when she peered at him was enough for her to forget the biting cold around her. It unwittingly gives her the strength to approach him. At the same time, he turned, and for the briefest moment, their eyes met. She was sure of it, yet his face is blurred in her mind when she tries to recall it. Almost as if obscured by frost, but she remembers the feel of his gaze, clear and piercing. He saw her.

And he knew she saw him.

This was what frightened her most. In all her past dreams, she had been an unseen observer. But this man—whoever he was—had looked at her as if she was as real to him as he was to her.

He appeared confused at her being there, she was likely a sight for sore eyes with her hair the color of the snow beneath their feet in her pink nightgown. Seeing—no, more like feeling—his confusion, Daenaera tried to speak, but it was at that moment the dream unraveled, leaving her gasping in the darkness of her chamber.

And now, it is all that lingers on her mind. She had dreamed of fire and blood before—visions of towering flames devouring cities, dragons wheeling in the skies above endless fields of battle. Those were dreams she could understand, dreams that aligned with what Aegon had shared with her in their rare, careful conversations. But this... this dream of snow, of cold so biting it seemed to seep into her very bones, of a young man cloaked in shadow who saw her... this was different. And could prove troublesome should it advance.

As Daenaera made her way from the battlements to make her descent down the spiraling stairs into the apartments in the castle before anyone could find her out of bed, she tightened her fingers around the folds of her cloak. The echoes of her footsteps were swallowed by the oppressive quiet of Dragonstone, broken only by the faint rumble of waves far below. She focused on keeping her face serene, as her mother had taught her, despite her racing mind, so as not to appear suspicious in the event she is caught before making it to her bedchamber.

It was bad enough that her mother and her sister Rhaenys had taken notice of her acting out of the ordinary the first day after the dream had happened. Having such attention from both women was tiresome to the mostly solitary Targaryen. The only respite Daenaera had was that Visenya had been out at the time—she and Aegon had just returned from business they needed to attend to with some one of the Westerosi lords or kings two days ago—for her eldest sister's sharp gaze had a way of cutting through any mask she wore. But it was Aegon who Daenaera was looking forward to seeing the least this morning. When his violet gaze fell on her, she felt the same scrutinization that Visenya all but perfected. Only that he did not speak, his eyes alone lingered on her for a moment too long in assessment before he would cross the room to try and get her to talk. He always knew when her troubles were tied to her dreams, perhaps because it was the only time he truly paid her any mind since their father's passing.

'Nevermind all of them, though', Daenaera thought.

She has become rather skilled at the art of sneaking to and fro her room in the middle of the night. Her mother's handmaiden Leana would not come to dress her until an hour before the food was prepared for the family to break their fast. A wave of relief washes over her when she finally reaches the door to her chambers, undetected. She lets out a sigh as she kicks off her slippers upon entering the room and unclips the cloak she tosses atop of the open door of her wardrobe. With nothing left to do, Daenaera hops into her bed to prepare herself to wear the facade of being well-rested once more, so she might hide the effect her dream had on her just a little longer before she'd inevitably reveal it all to Aegon. The Lord of Dragonstone did always have a way of getting such things out of the youngest Targaryen, after all.

Daenaera was born on the island of Dragonstone to Aerion Targaryen, Lord of Dragonstone, and his wife, Lady Naerys Targaryen. Her parents were said to be lovers in their youth, separated by the actions of Aerion’s grandsire and Naerys’s uncle—Lord Aerys Targaryen—who wed her off to Lord Velaryon so her claim would be forgotten. She only birthed Lord Daemon Velaryon and mostly ruled Driftmark as her husband was far too aged to be concerned with the governance of his land. To seal the deal, he had his grandson marry Lady Valaena Velaryon, a cousin with Targaryen blood, so he would not seek out Lady Naerys. It is with Lady Valaena whom Aerion had the Conquerors with, and after her passing, Aerion was free to wed Naerys and in 17 BC Daenaera was born.  By the time she was born, her father had four children—Visenya, Aegon, Rhaenys, and Orys Baratheon. Daenaera possessed all the ever so sought-after Valyrian traits—her long, white-gold hair, which her mother styled to be bound up in rings day in and day out, and purple eyes reminiscent of amethysts. By the age of fourteen, Daenaera had grown into a beautiful young girl, though standing next to Rhaenys and Visenya, it was often stated that pretty would perhaps be a better word for the youngest Targaryen. She was a shy, dreamy child, more comfortable at her lord father’s side than other children, even her elder siblings. There was no denying she was Lord Aerion’s favorite, especially with her dragon dreams, a coveted ability for those of Valyrian descent, especially since such dreams saved House Targaryen from the Doom. This was perhaps the one thing of note for Lady Daenaera in her youth as she was oft overshadowed by her half-siblings—there was Daemon who was Lord of Driftmark and went on countless voyages, Visenya who trained alongside the boys and became as skilled at arms as any man, Aegon the enigmatic heir whose mere existence made Dany feel lesser than, playful Rhaenys who was loved by any she met, even Orys Baratheon who has been making a name for himself on the island.  According to the legends, both Daenaera and Aegon shared these so-called dragon dreams. While they were not recorded to have been particularly close in their youth, it is said in the tales of Aegon’s Conquest that it was Daenaera’s recurring dreams that planted the seeds in his head for such a feat. It was only after this that Aegon ordered the construction of the Painted Table, which displays an accurate geographical map of Westeros. It would be the pride of Argilac Durrandon, however, that many say pushed Aegon to act.  Aegon called his banners and took counsel with them and his sisters, Daenaera excluded as she was not one of the Ladies of Dragonstone to her mother’s chagrin, and only then did he send out ravens to all the rulers in the Seven Kingdoms. Perhaps seen as haughty at the time, though he gave a warning that he would be the one, true king of a united Westeros and that those who bent the knee would keep their lands and titles, while those who did not would be met with Fire and Blood. As bold as it may have been, Aegon and the other two conquerors, Visenya and Rhaenys, made true of their promise. All Seven Kingdoms were brought to heel except for Dorne.  While all five of her siblings played active roles in the Conquest, Daenaera remained on Dragonstone. She ruled the island and ensured their ancestral seat would be guarded. Until she didn’t.  Aegon dreamed of ice and fire, one of the few things he confided in her about. Though she could never quite say the same. Her dreams were never quite as clear as his, always more fragmented than she’d like, leaving her to piece the puzzle together. It was one night on Dragonstone when she had a dream so clear, it was like something calling for her. Urging her to go and seek out this dream for once in her life rather than leave it to her kin to fulfill. And so, she saddles up Gaelithox, and unlike her ancestors who looked West, she was being pulled to the North—the land of ice and little glory.