The man held the body of the baby dragon as if it were his own child, weeping and wailing with loss. It was the size of a hen at best, frail and withered scales covering the creature that lived and died in pain from the moment of his birth, lungs underdeveloped, never breathing flame. Curling the limp corpse closer to his own beating heart, the man screamed in grief, this was not the legacy he was promised.
"My lord, the lady is in the birthing chamber." The servant spoke with shaking breathes, his grip on High Valyrian poor compared to the Low version he was raised speaking before he entered his master's service. The lord ignored his words as if they were never spoken, gripping the body of the limp dragon still.
"Do you not see what I hold in my grasp?" His affluent speech was riddled with anger, "The last of the dragons, our last egg, hatched and withered!"
"You were warned, Lord Belaerys, but you did not listen." The crone appeared without a shadow, wrinkled hands pointing to the lord and the creature in his arms, "The pact of Ice and Fire must be made for magic to remain."
"You witch!" Lord Belaerys snarled, grief and rage swirling in him as he rose, dropping the pathetic body at his feet as he glowered at the old woman, "I took you into my home, believed in your visions even after they led to a king's ruin! I should have left you in Summerhall to burn!"
"Yet your sight allowed you to live, to see that the future is dim without ice to temper the flame." The crone replied dryly, stepping forward to reveal milk white eyes, unfocused yet knowing, surrounded by scars brought from burning alive.
"I have no bride to give to him." The lord replied sorrowfully, his eyes cast downward, below the tower that they stood in, where his wife screamed with pain as she birthed their heir. "I have taken her for my own."
"Your sister may be wed, but your daughter is but a babe, freshly born into your house." Her voice was brittle, cracking like wood in a hearth, but her mouth formed a knowing smile. The lord of Belaerys shivered at the thought.
"She is birthing a girl." He smiled slightly at the thought of a little daughter with silver hair and her mother's smile. "Aelora is having a girl." Valarr grinned to himself at the idea, but grew cold at the wood witch's proposition.
"The pact has been made, a bride of Fire for the king of Ice." The crone reminded, "Only then, will magic breath life into the dragons once more."
Valarr wiped his tears with the back of his sleeve and stood to his full height, "Boy, take the hatchling and cremate it, lay it to rest with the others." The servant scrambled forward, not daring to voice his displeasure at the feeling of the cold scaled creature in his arms as he took it to be burned and it's ashes spread with the other failed attempts of hatching a dragon that would survive long enough to breathe flame.
The lord turned to the old, burned woman, "I will honor the pact signed by my ancestors, and shall provide a dragon bride for the Night's King." The room suddenly felt warm, the fire in the hearth roaring to life before dying just as quickly, leaving a pregnant pause in the flame's wake.
A babe's cry filled the silence, and the crone smiled in triumph.
A/N:
Just a little thought I had, if this gets enough buzz, I'll continue it
Basically what would happen would be:
-Rhaenys Belaerys is a Valyrian noblewoman in Essos who is sent to Westeros under the pretence of marrying Rhaegar, when in reality is there to travel beyond the wall, and wed the Night's King in order to return magic to the world
