these are two fragments of my fic. the first one is how the story will probably start, while the second is a scene cut from the first chapter. it’s not the whole thing just yet. the romance will start when rhaenyra is even older than 18, i aged her up for this story. age gap is 10years.

The great council:

Once the first century of the Targaryen dynasty came to a close, King Jaehaerys First of His Name, the Conciliator, the Wise, the Peacekeeper or now more widely known the Old King, called for a Great Council to be held. With his health nearing its timely end and both of his heirs dead and buried, a new heir had to be chosen amongst the family.

Many succession claims were heard, from bastards, through Valaryons, Baratheons and even Celtigars. All of those who carried the Targaryen blood in their veins. But only three claims were truly considered.

Her father’s claim was one of them.

Rhaenyra remembers it well, as even at eight, she stood at her parents’ side. Her mother’s belly was round with child, and her father’s hand was sweaty in Rhaenyra’s palm. They stood together, opposite the other two successors, with the old withered King and his guards separating them.

Princess Rhaenys Velaryon, rider of the great red she-dragon Meleys. Daughter to Jaehaerys’ heir, Prince Aemon Targaryen and Jocelyn Baratheon.

And right next to her and her Lord Husband, Corlys Velaryon and their children, stood the third successor.

Prince Baelor Targaryen, son of Aemon and Jocelyn, younger brother of Rhaenys. He had no dragon to his name— she heard someone say that unlike Rhaenyra’s golden egg, his did not hatch in his crib—, held no honorary titles just yet, as he was but ten and eight. Still, he already stood as tall as his sister’s husband, his eyes sure and mismatched, one brown and the other sharp violet, the only hint of his Targaryen heritage. As with no dragon, nor the pale hair, young Baelor looked more like a stag than a dragon.

Same could be said of his sister Rhaenys, she too, although greying early and prettily, resembled more Storm and Sea, than Fire and Blood. Still, she had a dragon, and two bright violet eyes that cut through all that gazed upon her. While Baelor stood stiffly at her side, his face betraying nothing. No stress, no superiority, nor anger or joy. There was just… neutrality, a sense of calm amidst the chaos.

Rhaenyra’s own paler lilac eyes, gazed at the older boy. Not quite understanding why her father was sweating like a sheep in the dragon’s nest, while a boy half his age acted like none of it fazed him.

She remained staring at him, as the Old King read out the Lord’s decision, as her father’s name echoed through Harrenhall, as Rhaenys looked at Viserys with betrayal blazing through her eyes. And as throughout it all, Baelor Targaryen merely nodded to himself, offering his sister a soft look of support.

He was a boy, young Rhaenyra thought.

He was a boy and he was steps closer to the throne than his sister or her father even was, and yet, he offered sympathies to Rhaenys and his hand to Viserys.

Truly an odd boy, Baelor Targaryen was.

Ten years later:

Together, they landed at the Dragon Pit. Rhaenyra led Syrax to the entrance, while Baelor allowed Vermithor to only crouch in the courtyard. Given the dragon’s size, it wasn’t possible to safely land him there.

Baelor slid off his beast with skill and elegance, before waving it off, allowing Vermithor to seek a spot outside the city. He would probably end up near the Red Keep anyways, on one of the beaches, halfway in the sea. The Bronze Fury never liked being parted from his rider, some say that he was more loyal to Baelor than he was to Jaehaerys, but it could be just rumours.

Rhaenyra watched him approach her, while still sitting on Syrax. He looked different than he did two years ago, when he last visited court. His brown hair reached past his ears, thick and wavy, while his jaw was covered by a light stubble, his skin tanned from the sun. Last he came here, his hair was in a low pony tail, with no hair covering his handsome face.

He passed by the dragon keepers and held out his arms, a flick of amusement shining in his mismatched eyes. “My Princess.”

She smirked and lowered herself out of the saddle, sliding down Syrax, until Baelor caught her around the waist, placing her on the ground delicately. “Baelor.” she returned.

Baelor shook his head and all too soon, his hands disappeared and he stood back, keeping an all too proper space between them. Rhaenyra hated it, she instantly decided, only two years passed and last they saw each other, she could hang off his arms and shoulders without issue.

“It would be wiser if you stuck closer to the ground, Rhaenyra.” he suddenly said, watching as she patted and kissed her dragon, “Syrax is fast, but she’s still too small to safely reach such heights.”

Rhaenyra huffed, turning towards him, “We were both doing fine, thank you. Besides, there’s no danger up there in the sky, unless you think that a common seagull can take us down?”

Baelor smiled, shaking his head, “No. But she’s as lazy and spoiled as a house cat.”

She made an offended sound and kissed Syrax’s neck loudly, only causing Baelor to shed his riding gloves and shake his head.

“You’re only proving me right, my Princess.” he commented, glancing high up at the sky, “There are still wild dragons roaming the lands, Rhaenyra. Kings Landing is a buffet for them, loud, bright and full of meat. It’s best to be careful, rather than to be sorry.”

“You worry far too much.” she replied, abandoning her dragon and crossing the distance to slip her arm into the crook of his elbow. He dutifully accepted her touch, resting the palm of his hand over hers. “Better tell me how’s Dorne. You’ve been cooked up in there for weeks, deep in the viper’s nest. With Maekar for a companion, no less.”

At the mention of his younger brother his expression soured, “They’re willing to trade with us, perhaps even to try at some peace settlements. But it’s still a long path ahead, before any of it happens. The wounds are still too raw and deep on both sides.”

Rhaenyra hummed, “Seeing Vermithor and Silverwing, surely didn’t help.”

Baelor’s smile thinned, “No it did not.”

“And Maekar?”

He sighed deeply, “Best not to speak of it.”

She grinned, “He cursed like a sailor?”

“Worse.”

“Hm, maybe he should be taking care of all our diplomatic issues. I could speak with my father about this.” she proposed, causing him to chuckle.

“I pray for the poor souls that step in Maekar’s way, should that even happen.” he comments, before finally looking down at her, “Alas, it’s good to be back. So how do you fair, Rhaenyra?”

She looked away at that, her shoulders shrugging, “I am worried about my mother.”

Baelor stiffened underneath her hand, grief of his late Lady Wife still fresh as when they last saw each other two years ago, it was during Jena’s funeral. A sickness claimed her, when she was still recovering from bringing Matarys into this world. Baelor remained away from the capital for that time, staying close with his sons and Maekar’s family at Summer Hall. That is until both Princes received summons to go and treat with the Dornishmen.

If Rhaenyra had it her way, she would’ve sent Otto Hightower, instead of a grieving man. He was the Hand after all. But her father would not allow Otto to leave his side, if he could help it, so he sent Baelor and Maekar to represent the Targaryens and the Crown.

Both Princes had gained quite a reputation in the years since the Great Council. Four years ago, there was a battle in the Stromlands. Invaders came from the other side of the Narrow Sea, hoping to raid and pillage their lands.

Baelor and Maekar both proved themselves to be great leaders, as they led the Storm Lords in battle, refusing to use their dragons and instead kept them as a last resort.

Neither Vermithor nor Silverwing had to be used in the end.

Rhaenyra remembers when Otto Hightower tried to twist this victory into an act of a rebellion from the sons of Aemon. Daemon too… but her father waved them both off, received the two Princes in the Red Keep and publicly thanked them for defending their lands from strangers.

“Let us not forget that we are of the same blood and the same land, dear cousins. As your King and blood of the dragon, I thank you for acting so swiftly and honourably.” her father said, his voice echoing through the throne room, the entire court watching as he stepped down and patted both men on the shoulder. “Let it be known, that the blood of the dragon stands united against all threats. Now, let us go and celebrate this victory.”

Hammer and Anvil, the brothers were called. Riders of one of the biggest dragons around, chose to fight on foot, in the grass and mud with the rest of their men.

Rhaenyra never understood it, when the battle manoeuvre was explained, pinching the enemies in the middle, the honour and a quick mind. Why do it all, when they could’ve had the same result on dragon back? Why scheme and plan, when fire and blood was at their fingertips?

“Why would you expect a common stag to act like a dragon?” Daemon once told her, smirking and leaning against the railing, his pale hair gleaming in the moon light.

Glancing at Baelor, she saw none of that. He was not smug, but rather humble. His shoulders were heavy, his eyes only Valyrian in half, his hair shorter and dark…

A Stag with Wings, Daemon called him once. A pretender…

Yet the people called him after the dragon that claimed him. Flying from Kings Landing upon Jaehaerys’ death, Vermithor the Bronze Fury, bowed to none other but Baelor Targaryen the Bronze Dragon.

No dragon was born to Baelor, yet one chose him unprompted, as if it was the will of the gods themselves. A bronze dragon, for the bronze Targaryen. None could argue if he were of the storm or fire.

Unless, of course, you were Daemon Targaryen…

Daemon never liked Baelor, he tolerated Rhaenys and if pressed he’d say that Maekar was his favourite, but that too would be an exaggeration. He warned Rhaenyra about them, told her that they were scheming, waiting for Viserys to turn around so that they could take back the throne.

Let me know what you think!

well, this was time consuming! but I’m very happy with it!

this artwork was commissioned by the author of “The Dance of Black & Bronze” by CrimsonIvy on ao3, which is a baenyra fic!

Maekar only grunted softly, though his fingers threaded with hers that were sitting on his chest. Alicent was fond of his small gestures, like the way his thumb was presently brushing her knuckles. They looked at her husband and thought him cold with his grumbling and quick temper, but they did not know of his easy affections to his family. They never would.

"Shouldn't you be sleeping?" he asked instead, not answering her question.

"Helaena can't sleep," she told him. "Daeron wouldn't sleep."

"We should limit how often that hatchling could sleep with him," Maekar argued without heat. Alicent wasn't fooled one bit; he would relent as soon as Daeron demanded it. "Is Helaena well?"

"Her stomach hurts. It's her first moon blood. Mine was kind to me, at least. The next ones for the first year, not so much. You know how it is."

"No, I do not know how it is." He huffed. Mild amusement was clear in his eyes instead of the common discomfort among men when the woes of women were mentioned. He frowned as if remembering something. "Mother used to employ a midwife in her household. She mentioned that ginger tea helps."

Alicent hummed. "I'll make sure to inform a maid." She pressed herself closer to his side. "Come to bed. Your brother and Rhaenyra will be here early for sure."

Her good-brother and Rhaenyra (her now good-sister by marriage as well) would be coming with their children for their cousin's nameday. Aemond would be three-and-ten by the end of the moon, in the cusp of manhood himself, and already a deft hand with a sword and rode well. He would be a proper knight, Alicent was certain, and even Maekar, a stern hand to the training of arms of their sons, had that shine of pride in his eyes.

"If they decided not to come on dragonback, then they're not in a hurry to arrive," Maekar reasoned. "And Rhaenyra is pregnant again. They're insufferably slow when she is."

Alicent could not help the unlady-like snort that escaped her. Rhaenyra had told her before of her inexplicable desire to smell every flower they had passed by when she had been carrying Valarr, while with Jaeherys there had been a want to taste the salt of the sea in her tongue. Baelor had been most patient with her every time, she had said. She was even more grateful for it when she had once wanted to feel the Dornish sand in between her toes... three days after they had returned from Dorne to visit her good-mother.

"I am not arguing against it," Alicent said eventually. "But I'd rather you come to bed. With me."

Maekar spent another lingering glance toward the dark horizon and sighed before complying. "Very well."

She considered him for a moment. "You know," she began, "I am bound for the sept on the morrow. You can come with me." She squeezed the hand that was yet to let her go. "You need not pray. Lighting some candles will do."

There were times when she thought she knew and understood his wistfulness. He never spoke of it, and a part of her wondered if it was to spare her from the hurt that the knowing would bring.

Maekar only nodded shallowly, gripping her hand back just as tight. "I'll be there."