Blood of the Forgotten
The library was a sanctum of quietude, the only sound the occasional crackle of a scroll unfurling under the eager hands of a Queen. The air had the scent of dust and parchment, the whispers of ancient tomes telling their tales of valor and treachery. It was here that Rhaenyra had sought solace, her thoughts a tumultuous storm as she pondered her future.
Her eyes scanned the pages of a tome as thick as a castle wall, tracing the lineage of her ancestors with a trembling finger. Each name was a link in the unbroken chain of Targaryen rule. The candles flickered, casting a warm glow over the pages and the lines of her face, etched with the weight of her heritage.
The heavy door creaked open, the sound a stark contrast to the sacred silence that had been her only companion. Rhaenyra’s eyes lifted from the book, the flame of hope burning bright as she saw her son, Jacaerys, framed in the doorway. His young features bore the same sharp angles as hers, a reminder of the fiery spirit that ran in their blood. The shadows played across his face, hinting at the man he would become.
Jacaerys paused, his gaze searching hers. The Queen could see the echoes of doubt that had taken hold of his heart. He stepped into the room, the echo of his footsteps a solemn melody in the quiet. His eyes fell to the book she held, the corners of his mouth turning down in a frown. “What troubles you, Mother?” he asked, his voice a soft rumble.
Rhaenyra took a deep breath, the candlelight casting a warm glow across her face. “Seasmoke has claimed a rider, Jacaerys,” she said, her voice firm yet gentle. The name hung in the air, a declaration of fate. She watched as the light of understanding grew in his eyes, the shadows of doubt receding like the tide.
Her son’s eyes widened, the news a spark to his spirit. “Truly?” he asked, his voice filled with the excitement of a child who had just heard a thrilling tale. He stepped closer, eager for more.
Rhaenyra nodded. “Addam of Hull, a bastard of House Velaryon, has proven himself worthy of the ancient dragon’s trust. His valor is undeniable, and his bond with Seasmoke is already stronger than any I have seen in a long while,” she said, her voice filled with a mix of admiration and something else.
Jacaerys studied her, the light from the flickering candles playing across his features as he absorbed her words. He knew the significance of such a bond, the power it could bring to their cause. “This is a boon for us, Mother. A son of the sea to ride the mightiest creature of the skies,” he said, the hope in his voice unmistakable.
Rhaenyra’s gaze softened, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “Indeed, it is. In light of recent developments, I have begun exploring potential riders among the noble lineages connected by blood to our own. Your insight has proven most valuable,” she said, nodding in acknowledgment. The idea of uniting the dragons of the realm under her banner was not a new one, but with each new ally, the chances of victory grew a little less daunting.
Jacaerys’ eyes lit up at the mention of their shared heritage. “It is my honor to serve, mother,” he replied, the formality of his words at odds with the youthful hope that shone in his eyes. He looked every inch the prince, his features a blend of her own fiery spirit. Yet, the shadows beneath his eyes spoke of the weight he bore.
Rhaenyra took a moment to appreciate the strength in her son’s voice. Despite his youth, he had always carried himself with the poise of a future king. She nodded gravely, acknowledging his words. “Your dedication does not go unnoticed.”
The silence that followed was filled with the crackling of the fire and the distant sounds of the castle coming to life. Rhaenyra felt the warmth of the flames against her skin, a stark contrast to the coldness that had settled in her heart. She took a deep breath, the scent of dusty tomes and ancient parchment filling her lungs.
“Have your efforts uncovered any promising leads thus far?” Jacaerys asks his mother, the words clipped but careful, as though balancing a blade’s edge between hope and dread. His gaze flicks to book on the table.
Rhaenyra’s eyes follow his, a sad smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Not as of yet,” she says, her voice a soft sigh that seems to carry the weight of their unspoken fears. The library feels suddenly vast and empty, the towering bookshelves closing in around them like the jaws of a dragon, holding their secrets close.
But then, the quiet is shattered by the sudden creak of the heavy oak door as it cracks open. The sound echoes through the chamber, a harbinger of the storm that’s about to enter. They both turn, their expressions a mirror of each other’s tension. The door swings wide, revealing a figure.
Mysaria. Her eyes, dark and sharp, take in the scene before her, the air thickening with the unspoken words that hang in the room. She’s dressed in a simple, yet elegant gown, the color of midnight with silver threads weaving through it that catch the firelight like stars. Her posture is regal, as if she’s not just an advisor but a queen in her own right.
"Your Grace, Prince Jacaerys," she greets, her voice a soft melody that seems to calm the very air around them. Rhaenyra’s gaze flits to her, a silent question in her eyes. The prince bows slightly, his eyes never leaving the ground, a gesture that seems to speak more of his doubt than respect.
"I bring news of your newest dragonrider," Mysaria continues, her words a gentle caress against the tension that coils in the room. "Addam of Hull is settling well. His dedication to learning High Valyrian is commendable." The Queen's eyes brighten with hope, the warmth of the fireplace casting a soft glow on her features as she looks up at her advisor.
Mysaria's gaze drifts to the book on the table, the leather-bound tome filled with ancient texts and prophecies. She speaks softly, her words carrying the weight of a secret unearthed. "Perhaps it is not just the highborn we should be looking to," she suggests, a hint of strategy in her tone. "The lowborn may hold the keys to your victory."
Jacaerys's eyes widen with surprise, a sudden realization dawning on his young features. He had never considered such a possibility, his world view shaped by the rigid hierarchy of the Targaryen court. The notion of a commoner, a bastard no less, holding the fate of their house in their hands was unheard of, yet here it was, presented as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"But how can we trust one not of our blood?" he asks, his voice carrying the uncertainty of his youth. The library's high ceilings seem to echo his question, the shelves of ancient tomes standing silent guardians of the truths they had yet to discover.
Mysaria's gaze is unwavering, "Blood does not guarantee loyalty, nor does it grant valor. Look around you, my Prince," she says, gesturing to the portraits of their ancestors, their stern faces watching over them like ghosts of the past. “The old ideas of honour, they don’t apply anymore. Look what people did to their oaths to you.”
Jacaerys swallows hard, the reality of his mother's advisors words like a stone in his throat. He knew well the treachery that had turned their world upside down. The warm light from the fireplace casts a flickering dance on the gold and crimson spines of the books, highlighting the dust that had gathered unnoticed in the quiet corner of the library.
Rhaenyra nods solemnly, her eyes reflecting the flickering shadows of the fireplace. "You speak the truth, Mysaria. The time for old ways has passed. We must find strength where we can," she says, her voice steady, the decision made. The weight of her words sinks into the room, heavy as the ancient tomes that line the shelves.
Jacaerys frowns, his youthful brow furrowing as he considers her words. He had grown up on tales of noble knights and their fiery steeds, of blood and valor and destiny. To think that their salvation might come from the unlikeliest of places was a concept that shook the very foundation of his understanding. Yet, the spark of hope in his mother's eyes is undeniable.
Rhaenyra's gaze meets his, a silent plea for understanding. "We must be willing to look beyond the expectations of our birthright," she says, her voice a gentle yet firm command. The flames in the hearth seem to agree, leaping slightly higher as if in affirmation.
Jacaerys nods slowly, the gravity of the situation weighing on his shoulders. He had always been taught that dragonriding was a gift reserved for the noble-born, a legacy passed down through their generations like a sacred trust. Yet here they were, contemplating the possibility that their survival could hinge on the bond between a bastard and a dragon.
He looks into the fire, the flames reflecting in his eyes. "But to trust a bastard, a commoner, with such a powerful weapon—it goes against everything I have ever known." His voice is tinged with doubt, a crack in the armor of his youthful idealism.
Mysaria’s gaze is as unwavering as the stone walls around them. "Is it not your uncle who sits upon the throne that was rightfully yours? Where is the honour in that?" she asks, her words as sharp as a sword's edge, “Now is the time of change.”
The silence stretches, the crackling of the fire the only sound in the room. Jacaerys's eyes narrow as he considers her words. Rhaenyra watches him, her own thoughts a tumultuous sea. The future of their house, of their very lives, hinged on decisions like these, decisions that could reshape the very fabric of their world.
Finally, Jacaerys speaks, his voice a mix of anger and resignation. "You speak truth, Mysaria. My uncle has proven that the blood of the dragon does not guarantee the heart of a king." He clenches his fists, the leather of his gloves creaking with the force of his grip. "But how are we to find these...unconventional riders?"
Mysaria's eyes flicker with the embers of a thousand sunsets. "Look to the streets, the alleys, the brothels of King's Landing," she says, her voice a siren's song in the quiet library. "There are those who carry the blood of the dragon in their veins, yet live in the shadow of the throne." The room seems to grow darker as she speaks, the candles flickering like stars in a night sky filled with omens.
Rhaenyra nods solemnly, understanding the gravity of the task ahead. "We will scour the city," she says, her voice firm. "We will find these...Dragonseeds. They may not come with the trappings of nobility, but they will come with the fire of the dragon in their hearts." The wind howls outside the castle, echoing her determination.
Mysaria nods, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "Leave it to me, Your Grace." she says, her eyes gleaming with a newfound purpose. "I will send out whispers across the city, feelers into every nook and cranny." Her fingers trace an invisible map in the air, plotting a course through the labyrinth of streets and secrets that was King's Landing.
The Queen's eyes follow the dance of her hand, the spark of hope igniting within her. "You have always been my most trusted advisor," Rhaenyra says, her voice filled with a mix of admiration and desperation. "I know you will find them."
The Queen’s hand closes over Mysaria’s, her grip firm yet lingering—a touch too deliberate for their current predicament. Jacaerys’ dark brows knitting as he watches. Mysaria does not pull away. Instead, she tilts her chin, the barest ghost of a smile curving her lips like a blade being unsheathed. “I will not disappoint, Your Grace,” she murmurs, her thumb brushing Rhaenyra’s knuckles in a fleeting caress that feels more covenant than comfort. The warmth that blooms in Rhaenyra’s chest is treacherous, sweet as summerwine.
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Jace’s boots echoed down the corridor, the sound a solemn counterpoint to the beating of his heart. His mother’s chamber was a bastion of warmth and light, but the walls of the castle felt cold and foreboding tonight. The flicker of torchlight threw grotesque shadows across the ancient tapestries that lined the walls, as if the very stones whispered of battles and betrayals long past.
He knew he would find Mysaria in the Chamber of Whispers, a room that held more secrets than the rest of the castle combined. The door was a heavy oak slab, bound with iron and set with a single, gleaming eye of crystal. He paused before it, drawing a deep breath to still the tremor in his hand as he reached for the handle. It was cool and unyielding under his touch, a silent sentinel that guarded the knowledge within.
When he pushed the door open, the smell of incense and parchment enveloped him, a heady mix that spoke of ancient tomes and forgotten wisdom. The room was dimly lit by candles that cast an eerie glow on the faces of the statues that lined the walls—ancient dragonlords and queens, their eyes seeming to follow his every move. The floor was a mosaic of black and white tiles, a maze that led to the center where Mysaria sat, her back to the door, surrounded by scrolls and books.
He greeted her with a formal “My Lady,” his voice carrying the weight of his anxiety. She looked up, her eyes sharp and assessing, and for a moment, he felt like a child again, unsure and overwhelmed by the woman who had been his mother’s most trusted advisor in this war.
Mysaria’s eyes searched his, the candlelight playing across her features, casting them in a warm yet serious glow. “My Prince, what brings you here?” she asked, her voice as smooth as the finest silk.
Jace swallowed hard, the gravity of his mission thick in his throat. “I seek your counsel, Lady Mysaria,” he began, his voice strong despite the turmoil of his thoughts. “I wish to know how I may better serve my mother, how I may contribute to our cause beyond the confines of this chamber.”
Mysaria studied him, her gaze lingering on his young yet determined face. She could see the echoes of Rhaenyra’s fiery spirit in his eyes and the same stubborn set to his jaw that had once been hers. She knew that the desire to prove oneself was a powerful force, especially in a world where power was often measured in battles won and enemies defeated.
"Your mother carries a heavy burden," she began, her voice soft and measured, "but she is not alone. There are many ways you can serve her, Jacaerys, and not all require a sword or a dragon." She gestured to the scrolls around her, a library of knowledge that had been her weapon in countless battles. "Some battles are won with words and wit, others with loyalty and cunning."
Jace's eyes searched hers, hungry for direction. The fire in his heart mirrored the flames that licked the candles around them, casting flickering shadows across the room. "But what can I do?" he asked, his voice a mix of desperation and hope.
Mysaria's gaze grew thoughtful. "Your mother's cause is not just about dragons and swords," she said, her voice a soothing balm to his restless spirit. "It is about unity, about the hearts of the people." She stepped closer, her hand brushing against his arm, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. "And in this, you have a role to play."
Her words hung in the air like the scent of a distant storm, and Jace felt the first stirrings of an idea. He knew he wasn't a warrior like his uncles or a diplomat like his mother, but he had his own talents. "What do you suggest?" he asked, his eyes alight with newfound determination.
Mysaria's smile was knowing. "The people need a hero, a beacon of hope in these dark times," she said, her eyes never leaving his. "You have a way with words, a gentle touch that could sway even the most stubborn hearts."
Jace felt a spark of excitement. "What do you propose?" His voice was eager, his mind racing with the possibilities.
Mysaria's eyes searched the room, as if seeking inspiration from the very stones of the castle. "Your mother's reign is contested, and the realm is torn apart," she said, her voice as smooth as silk. "The people need a symbol of unity, a prince who can reach out to the hearts of those who have lost faith."
Her words hung in the air like a question waiting for an answer, and Jace felt the weight of her gaze as it settled on him. The room grew quiet, the crackle of the fire the only sound in the vast chamber. He knew what she was hinting at, and the realization hit him like a blow. His betrothal to Lady Baela Targaryen had always felt like a political maneuver, but now it took on a new significance.
"You think a union could bring stability?" Jace's voice was tentative, the edges of his words tinged with doubt.
Mysaria's smile was a knowing curve. "Not just any union," she said, her eyes shimmering like the stars beyond the castle windows. "A love that defies the odds, born amidst the fires of war—it's a tale that could resonate with the common folk. Your union would be a beacon of hope."
Jace felt his heart race at the thought. The idea of using his own love life as a weapon was both thrilling and terrifying. But if it could help his mother, he was willing to try. He thought of Lady Baela, her fiery spirit, and her loyalty to House Velaryon. Perhaps there was more to this arrangement than he had initially seen.
Mysaria noticed the shift in his demeanor and leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Love is a powerful tool in the game of thrones, Jacaerys. If you can convince the realm that your union is not one of convenience but of true hearts entwined, you can sway those who waver on the edge of allegiance."
Jace nodded, the gravity of her words sinking in. He had always admired his mother's strategic mind, but in that moment, he realized just how much of that sharpness had been honed by her friendship with Mysaria. He felt a sudden surge of affection for the woman who had been by Rhaenyra's side through so much.
"Mother speaks of you often," he said, his voice filled with newfound respect. "I see now why she values your counsel."
Mysaria's eyes searched his, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "Your mother is a woman of great strength and intelligence," she replied. "But even the mightiest dragon needs a skilled rider to navigate the storms of Westeros."
Jace nodded solemnly. He knew well the battles his mother faced, the weight of her crown, and the burden of her dragon's flame. Her friendship with Mysaria was one of the few constants in a world of shifting sands and treacherous alliances.
"I will consider your words," Jace said, his voice carrying the solemnity of a man about to step into a battle of wits rather than a battle of steel. "I shall seek to be a beacon of hope and unity."
Mysaria nodded, the corners of her lips curving slightly. "You have a gentle heart, Jacaerys," she said, her hand resting on his arm, "and that is a powerful weapon in its own right."
With a final nod of understanding, Jace turned to leave. The door to the chamber creaked open, and the light from the torches outside cast a stark contrast against the warm glow of the chambers. As he stepped into the corridor, the weight of his mother’s crown settled on him more heavily than ever before.