Ignify

Aemond Targaryen, Second of His Name, Prince of the Seven Kingdoms

He remembers more than he should.

Soot streaking the brilliantly silver stands of his hair and the scent of smoke still heavy in his nose; thirteen days spent burning the Riverlands for their indiscretion and their utter lack of loyalty was more than a single flight upon dragonback could wash away. He remembered standing in the shadow of Harrenhal, the melted and warped stone still something to behold, trading barbs with his lecherous and uncouth uncle, his upper lip curled into a perpetual smirking snarl.

(He ignores the bitter sting of resentment, of jealousy, of just fucking wishing that his uncle would notice him, see him for the warrior he had grown to be.)

He remembers pressing his lips to hers, the sorceress, the witch, with fire in her eyes and magick in her veins, his palm pressed to the slightly rounded bump sitting low upon her stomach, her silken ebony strands curled between his fingers and her soul reaching out to embrace the blackened one in his chest, desperate for those last moments, those last touches, those whispered words and promises.

(They had known, before they even took to the skies, there would be no coming back from this.)

Lucerys had been a fluke, a bad judgement in the heat and aggression of his dragonblood.

A moment of wrath and ruin. Storms and lightening. A young dragon with no respect for an elder dragon, and his nephew paid the price.

But this... this would be intent.

He would earn the accursed moniker they had given him this time, they both would.

Kinslayer.

(They had known, uncle to nephew, man to man.)

He remembers the sting of the wind upon his face, cutting through the beat of dragonwing. The sunset glittering across the rippling water of The Gods Eye, reflecting the beautifully horrific sight above it. The brownish yellow scales of Vhagar reflecting a stream of flame, the crimson scales of Caraxes mirroring flashes of fang while battles raged on the fields below. The thunderous roars of both dragons, the screams as talon and tooth tore through wing and underbelly.

Waterfalls of flame and fire burning the sky, turning the clouds red like blood, dripping down and spilling into the waters below, a crimson lifesblood.

He remembers the moment Caraxes jaws became too much for his beloved dragon, the moment her fire sputtered and dimmed, the moment fang sank through a weak scale and snapped, the moment she started to fall from the heavens. As a last act of defiance she had ripped an entire wing from the blood wyrm, disemboweled him as she fell from the sky, his vicious warrior queen.

(He had loved her, loved her more than anything or anyone, had given up a part of himself to have her and here he was again, not a dragon in existence, the lot of them long since died out. How utterly pathetic their blood had become.)

The satisfaction that came with finding a weak spot in Daemon's armor was a bittersweet one, a successful battle fought but at a price too steep, one he could not live with paying. Resignation, determination, understanding. They reflected back to him in lavender eyes that met his own, a grim but peaceful resolution settling upon both nephew and uncle as the end approached.

Honestly, he barely felt the sting of Dark Sister piercing his last remaining eye before the darkness came, a soft whisper upon the air.

If he wasn't of such a calm nature, a strong temperament, the memories, the moments when he saw a different time, a different place... They would have driven him to the brink of his family's inherent madness long ago, of that he was unquestionably assured.

Your chance again will come, Son of Dragons, do be prepared this time.

(Death was a strange creature indeed, humorous, but strange.)

Visenya Targaryen, Second of Her Name, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms

She remembers being born, she remembers something before, and she knows that somehow, someway, that's not quite right.

Babes are not supposed to remember their first days.

They are not supposed to remember bloody hands and wailing screams; they are not to remember the sickly sweet scent of copper tinging the air, the heavy weight of emotions, of bone-chilling desperation and terrifying love and agonized pain. The feel of Death in the air, ever patient, ever waiting.

Children are not supposed to remember a life they do not currently live.

They are not supposed to remember living once before, being both exalted and despised; they are not to remember cupboards under stairs and a pit of hunger in their stomachs, of manipulative old men and greater goods that leave them as nothing more than sacrificial lambs, raised for slaughter.

(She will never be a sacrifice for anyone other than herself, again.)

The memories, they come in flashes.

They are blurry and hard to follow at best, but still she knows, on some deep and instinctive level, that they are hers. That they were hers. She knows, on some deeper level, something that is almost sentient as it buries itself into the back of her mind, making its home there; she knows that they were important. Are important. Will be important.

Old and new mix together sometimes.

She remembers the small, cramped space under a grouping of steps, made of wood instead of stone, where she would curl up on her side under a threadbare blanket. She remembers the pinched face of a woman with dark hair who refused to look at her with anything more than scorn. She felt small under that gaze, like the very air that she breathed wasn't hers to do so.

With a flicker, she remembers another with dark hair, more girl than woman really, but with such love in her eyes as she gazed down at her, so much love that every time she remembers, she can feel the warmth in her own breast.

Those eyes remain on hers until they fluttered closed, a crimson stained finger brushing against her cheek, the breath in the girl's chest and the beat of her heart slowly faltering to a slow, soft pause underneath her tiny body. She remembers the soft sniffles of the women in the room, a sense of foreboding loss, the frantic call of a name as a door slammed open and booted feet thundered across polished floors.

And a face, one that had to have been carved by the Gods of Olde and New, by Mother Magick herself, hovering above her; lavender eyes that swirled with emotion and hair that must have been spun moonlight, beautiful features that crumpled in upon themselves as they stared down at her and the woman; anguish and love and loss and pain and adoration.

(Father she calls him, in her head. But only in her head.)

She remembers losing the last of her naïve hopes in that time, the Before, when she was five and ten.

She changed after that. Her soft edges hardened, the light in her too green eyes became a hard glint. The smile on her face turned to a baring of her teeth.

There were battle plans and war strategies, there was no time for simple school lessons and frivolities.

Another girl was there, wild curls and warm golden eyes, a sister in all but blood, a name she can no longer hear but can feel on the tip of her tongue. There was reading, so much reading. Tomes older than the blood in her lineage, books blacker than night with words that could draw the blood from your fingertips as you read. Light spells, dark spells, all magick that could be used as a tactic, a distraction, a weapon.

(She was the weapon, she had always been the weapon, she just didn't know it.)

She remembers the god-like man holding her tightly, gripping her tiny baby body to his chest while his heart beat so hard beneath his ribs, she could feel it in her bones. She remembers hissed words and raised voices until a soft cry had escaped her and the shouting had ceased. He had sat then, for hours, watching her as she watched him. And when she finally began to succumb to exhaustion, refusing to recognize in the confusion that she had lost yet another mother before she could even speak; he pressed a soft kiss to the tip of her nose, both her eyes, and a lingering one to her forehead as he whispered words in a flowing language against her soft skin, blessing her and gifting her a name.

Visenya.

(She knows the flowy and sweet language now, speaks it like it was the only one she had ever known. She still cannot believe that he meant those beautiful words for her, not her, never her.)

That was the last that she had seen of him for eight turns of the year, eight namedays come and gone. It was no more than she expected, truly. Hopes for something new, something different, left buried somewhere deep inside. 

Less than a day old and blood already had stained her hands.

(She was a monster, they had made her one.)

Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of His Name, Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms

Honestly, he doesn't remember much, not like them.

Days turn into fortnights turn into cycles of the moon, bleeding together in an endless loop of monotonous memories that only clear themselves upon certain events. He probably has the unending casks of wine, spirits and powdered poppy he inundated himself with back then to thank for that.

(Not to mention his unending self-loathing.)

Mostly, he remembers the desperate need to feel loved.

His father, the King, only had eyes for his eldest daughter and his ridiculous sculptures of a land lost to ash and dust. His mother, the Queen, with the bitterness of resentment in her eyes when she looked at her children, no matter how hard she attempted to mask it behind a veil of devotion and devoutness. His grandfather, always looking for that one edge, the leg up on those around him, family included. His sister, lost in her riddles and rhymes and visions. His brothers, pillars of decorum and training and strength, everything he could not be.

(The little boy, the first child of the second marriage, trailing after his half-sister's skirts, only to be rebuffed and sent away, a switch to the back of his hands for his efforts, the need for connection.)

He remembers the weight of The Conqueror's crown being lowered onto his head the most, he thinks.

The blood roaring through his veins, the beat of his heart echoing in his ears, the thrum of dragon heartbeats rumbling through stone and up into the soles of his boots as he stood in the Dragonpit before the masses. He had tried to run, tried to flee, duty and sacrifice were things he had long given up and had no desire for, not after he had thrown himself before the spear of his King Father's neglect time and again. He did not wish for the crown, the dragonglass and rubies larger than his eye, nestled upon strands of silver gold. Let his brother have it, he would be twice the King and a far better man.

He remembers wanting to be loved, only ever wanting to be loved, to be good enough.

He never was.

(Tends to forget his sister, absentminded as she was, leaving little trinkets and treats for him to find. He forgets the flights on dragonback with his brother, their laughter bouncing off the clouds as the sun's rays set their amethyst eyes alight. He forgets the awe in his children's eyes as they look upon him, the fair few times he wanders into the nursery.)

So when the crowd roared upon his crowning, when they cheered for his coronation and screamed blessings upon his name as the reign of the dragon changed hands and the crown changed heads, he lost himself to it. Lifting the family sword, hefting Blackfyre upon the air, the blade glinting in the light as his subjects, his people, cried his name.

They saluted him, congratulated him, glorified him... they loved him.

Suddenly, the weight upon his head didn't seem so heavy, didn't seem so restrictive. It was a comforting weight, soothing. It came with the love of the people, the love he never had.

(It filled a hole inside of him, some void that had yawned into the abyss, a place that only Sunfyre had been able to partially fill. He knew it wouldn't end well... he still did it anyway.)

The overly sweet nature of the wine should have been a warning, but he was too drunk already to notice. And as screams rent the air and calls for treason echoed through the hall, he stared up at the glittering flames of golden candlelight so like his dragon's glimmering scales and wished.

He wished it could have been different.

He wished that he could have been different.

And he hoped that whatever happened next, wherever he went, it was upon Sunfyre's back. That was love, true love, the bond between dragon and rider something that could never be replaced.

(He should have known better from the start.)

For the Blood of The Dragon, it was never so simple.