Helaena
Helaena Targaryen, First Of Her Name, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms
I
Helaena Targaryen was thought to be a soft and simple girl.
As the first daughter born of the union between Lady Alicent Hightower and King Viserys Targaryen, and the second daughter born to the current ruling line of dragons in all, she was viewed as a quiet thing, a small thing, often fading into the background so as to go unnoticed in the wake of her rather rambunctious nephews and precocious brothers.
She enjoyed the proclivities of being a princess to the crown but did not share in the arrogance of the males in her life, always making sure to offer soft words of thanks to those that assisted her and smiles of gratitude to those who served her. She preferred nature over people, choosing to spend much of her time with animals and insects, lost within the abundant gardens of the Red Keep. Nature's silence and simplicity was a greater treasure than that of the forked tongue lies and schemes of the vipers that lurked within the Royal Court. Just waiting for an opportunity. Those who saw something they wished to take, and if they could not, destroy. They said that she possessed a distracted, though peaceful, countenance. One that gave the impression of being caught in a daydream or dreamlike state most of the time, leading to the many rumors of her simpleness, much to the ire of her brothers.
And she did dream.
She dreamed far too often.
And with each dream, she Sees.
The young female dragonblood dreamed of wretched screams through whipping wind, shouts of desperation as the sky bottomed out beneath them. Shrieks that wailed in the night, a horrific sound that sent chills down into the very marrow of her bones, forcing them to ache as if she had seen five and ninety namedays instead of a mere one and ten. Pain that lanced through her chest sharply, a sense of despair that weighed her down to the depths of Blackwater Bay, never to be seen again. The cry of young ones, a scream so piercing that her very mind seemed to melt. Fire and blood, her very bloodlines words, turned and twisted out of shape, used against those that she loves. And then came the end, wind that lifted braided tresses, a view of the open ocean so serene, eyes fluttering closed one last time and a dragon's grieving roar before a feeling of weightlessness.
Like flying, but not. Infinitely more terrifying.
And then it was all over.
One and twenty years then, and what did she have to show for it?
She had been quiet, too quiet, content in her little bubble of oblivion. Content in the soft and soothing things that acted as a balm to her sleepless nights and blood-filled dreams. Content in her supposed simplemindedness, in her whims and her fancies. She would, apparently, continue to remain content until the blood and the fire and the very souls of the lost weighed so heavily upon her that remaining content would no longer be an option.
That remaining...would be no option.
Yes, she dreamed. She was a Dreamer.
It had gone unacknowledged for far, far too long.
Periwinkle eyes fixated on the chest before her, unblinking. Truly, it was more of a lounge than a chest with the way she had dressed it up, cushions and pillows making it appear unassuming. Like it did not hold secrets to centuries of history, like there were not answers that could possibly ease the burden she carried. The woman who had given it to her had insisted that the contents remain a secret to others, even that of her own family. An estranged aunt, she had called herself, of Hightower blood come to celebrate Helaena's eighth nameday. She had looked a mere seven and twenty namedays, give or take a few. But she had felt far older. Hair the color of a blazing hearth and eyes the color of lightening across a blue sky had held her own captive, refusing to release her as she delivered one final warning.
"Explore your curiosities only once, sweetling, for I will not be here to guide you with the gift within."
She had touched Helaena's forehead then, the softest and most soothing caress she had ever been bestowed. A sense of peace had settled within the pit of her stomach, sending a gentle warmth through her blood. She had breathed in once, her eyes fluttering closed, only opening again once the reassuring pressure had retreated.
"Open it again only when the Dreams become too much, sweet dragon. And know that when you do, there will be no return."
There had been many a tome, she had read them all. Eagerly, thirsty for the tales and the knowledge within. It was the first time that she had forgone her garden explorations and she had almost been caught in her vigil, Aemond fearing for her health after not meeting her beneath the Heart Tree for two passes of the moon. She had reassured him that she had simply gotten distracted, attempting to recreate the flowers from within a book of meanings and symbolism. It wasn't a lie, per se, she had been sketching with dyed coal for some time. There were varying degrees of success.
Inside she felt wretched, her heart physically paining her at the tiny falsehood.
She never lied to Aemond.
She didn't always know the best way to express what she needed to tell him, and sometimes it came out in riddles that he attempted to piece together. But she didn't lie to him.
As she discovered, House Hightower was an ancient House within the lands, something that she had learned in her lessons some time ago. Their arise was first mentioned in the histories some time near the Dawn of Days, before even the First Men had arrived to Westeros. Some even speculated that they instead were born from a line of seatraders, perhaps some who even possessed Valyrian blood, given their penchant for throwing offspring that displayed gold and silver hair. There wasn't a soul alive that truly knew from where their bloodline descended, nor were there many records, but the topic was one for curiosity. There were even whispers that those of Hightower blood had once dabbled and practiced with both Alchemy and Necromancy. As there were no reliable accounts, however, it was all a fantastical consideration.
Except for the fact that there was proof of such whisperings.
And the grimoires to prove it rested in the very chest she could not seem to stop staring at.
"...only when the Dreams seem too much..."
Did they not?
Those who possessed Dragon Dreams were typically considered Blessed among the Targaryen bloodlines. They were hailed as beacons, relied upon to help forge a new path or guide the dragons through the one they were upon to their upmost ability, to see the bloodline through. They were rare, so incredibly rare, which was an omen of its own. They only seemed to be birthed during times of great purpose for the family, or times of great peril. They were typically brought into the fold, advised and guided by knowledge that had been passed down from generation to generation, long before The Doom, reaching back into a time when the dragons thrived, when they still were a lording family in their homeland of Old Valyria. They were taught to hone their gift, practice with their Dreams, so that the best paths and reliability could be found.
Helaena had received none of this.
She had barely received her Father's acknowledgement after she had managed to claim her dragon, sweet Dreamfyre, by simply walking up to the curious creature and settling herself within the fold of the she-dragon's outstretched wing. She had hummed sweetly, the High Valyrian words spilling like honey from her lips, and the beautifully colored reptile had given a soft trill of acknowledgement, tucking Helaena in against her warm scales.
Dragon Whisperer, he had called her.
The intrigue had lasted a few turns of the moon. He quickly became preoccupied with his own interests and his favorite daughter once again. And she faded back into the background. Helaena had not thought much of it at the time, again preferring the peace and quiet to being the center of attention. She had already been Dreaming for years at that point and she craved the soothing whisper of the wind through the leaves, the gentle brush of fur against her fingers and now warm scales, to worry herself over her father's lack of attention.
She should have worried. She should have found a way to convey her concerns, to acknowledge her Dreams for what they were, instead of the airy and distracted version of a person that she had protected herself with.
Perhaps then, she would not have had to witness her fall from the tower and the sharp spikes waiting below. Perhaps then, she would not have had to witness the massacre of every single soul she held dear, and even those she didn't have a particular care for. Perhaps then, she would not have Dreamed of the demise of a Dragon Dynasty, to hold such knowledge was a burden on her soul, on her very being.
Such a powerful beginning, such a pathetic end.
It was no matter.
She knew what must be done.
The old texts had been clear, her body would sustain any injury, so she chose one that would not leave a lasting mark. The tiny vial clutched desperately between pale knuckles and trembling fingers was rather unassuming, she supposed. It was guaranteed to be quick and painless, silent, akin to her preferences in most things. Worrying at her bottom lip, she breathed in deeply as she upended the iridescent flask, pouring its contents into her goblet, and tossed it away into a drawer, pushing it back behind a stray hairbrush, some parchment and coal, and a wad of unused ribbons for her hair. Never to be found.
Her eyes flicked over toward her window, taking note of the sun's position, and her fingers trembled once more.
She had little time.
The tray had been arranged to seem as if she had taken a light lunch, a pitcher of watered-down wine to accompany an array of finger sandwiches and fresh fruits. They would assume it an assassination attempt, she was sure, which would call into question the knight that had delivered the spread. That might have some interesting effects, she was sure, and her lips twitched at the thought. She was certainly livening things up for the next one.
Helaena allowed herself a true smile, for the first time in a long time, as she watched a bird flitter by through the doors that gave way to her parapet, fortifying her nerves. In a way, it wasn't as if she hadn't done this before. Dreams were very much like living. It would be some years, but the principles were the same, she supposed.
Silently, she gave a prayer to the Gods, begging the Stranger to guide her on her next adventure, and prayed for the comfort of those she left behind.
The runes had been traced. The blood consumed. The offering made.
As the cool rim of the goblet touched her lips and the liquid flowed down her throat, she gave one last prayer. She hoped the next one could forgive her. She hoped the next one would do better. She hoped the next one agreed to the switch. Wherever it was that she came from.
While she faded to a wisp among the clouds, she only just heard a familiar wailing roar and a short time later, a broken scream of her name.
Yes, she hoped the next one could forgive her.
There was much work to be done.