Welcome!

House of the Dragon has already captured my heart, and this little (well, not really) story is the result. It feels good to write about Westeros again. Hopefully, the feeling will last.

This story will include dark and mature themes, including incest. Although Viserra and Daemon are niece and uncle, their "relationship" doesn't begin until Viserra is 17. You have been forewarned.

Prologue

Another crackling scream echoed around the large chamber, and Viserra watched more blood and water gush from her mother's womb. The baby's head was crowning, and Queen Aemma heaved with sobs and strain as the midwives urged her to push again. The fine white sheets were drenched, and the queen's brow was damp with sweat, furrowed in intense effort and pain. From where they had been stationed at the foot of the birthing bed, Viserra and Rhaenyra could witness everything, from the queen's panting labor to the sickly, copper smell of her blood.

Viserra had never expected there to be so much blood. She'd been told that when she got older, she would have monthly bleedings, but with only eight namedays since her own birth, those times were still some ways off. Rhaenyra had ten, but she had not begun to bleed yet either, and her face was drawn and pale as their mother wailed through another round of pushing.

A week earlier, Queen Aemma had summoned them to her bedside as she lay there, swollen and tired, but her beautiful face holding a strange, internal glow that had unnerved and fascinated Viserra in equal measure.

"You will both be on your own birthing beds in the future," she'd said, eyeing each girl carefully with her soft lilac eyes, "and gods be good, you'll both have easier pregnancies than mine. Rhaenyra, Viserra, I want you to be prepared. Birth is not an easy thing. It is a woman's war, and you must have the fortitude to fight."

"It'll be a girl," Rhaenyra whispered, ashen-faced, but smiling. "Watch. She'll be named Visenya."

Viserra scowled. "It's a boy," she insisted. "Father said so."

The girls glanced to the bedside where their father, King Viserys, held his wife's hand, the sleeves of his rich red robes rolled to his elbows. Grand Maester Mellos had told the king that he needn't be present for the birth, but their father had ignored him and stayed in the chambers. He watched Aemma sweat and labor with concern, but the intensity in his dark violet eyes made Viserra's skin tingle, though she did not know why.

In the bright candlelight, the four Targaryens' silver hair glowed white, almost illuminating the room itself. Viserra had always loved their hair; it was different from everyone else's, special, just like they were. Kings and queens, princes and princesses, dragon-riders and knights. Gods, some called them, and Viserra thought they were quite right. She wondered if her new brother would have the same silver hair. She stared at the crown of his head, but all she saw was more blood and fleshy clots.

"One more push, Your Grace," Maester Mellos said, his hands already outstretched for the emerging babe. "Very good…once more…"

With a final scream, Queen Aemma pushed. Rhaenyra gasped, grabbing for Viserra's hand. The younger girl tugged away, but when their mother's wail reverberated in her ears, she finally allowed Rhaenyra to take her hand and did not pull back, even when she squeezed so tightly that it hurt.

The Grand Maester reached for the babe, deftly maneuvering its shoulders through the birthing canal, followed by the rest of its body. A slick, strange cord followed the babe out, unattached to anything, and flopped to the bed. Unease rippled through the Queen's attendants, and Viserra knew that something was wrong even before she saw the babe's closed eyes, and its blue, mottled skin.

King Viserys stared. "Is…?"

"You have a son, Your Grace." Maester Mellos tried to sound joyful, but worry clouded his voice as he began to briskly rub the babe all over. "A son…"

The midwives turned into a frenzy of movement, collecting cloths and whispering harsh orders at each other, bypassing Rhaenyra and Viserra entirely. Queen Aemma laid against the pillows, her eyes half-open and glazed. King Viserys abruptly stood, abandoning his post at her side to watch the Grand Maester.

"What's happening?"

Rhaenyra's fingernails bit into Viserra's skin as their father stared at his newborn son in horror. "What's wrong?"

"Your Grace…"

Rhaenyra began to cry as Maester Mellos explained that their brother was dead, had likely been dead before he could come into the world, and King Viserys stared off listlessly at a place Viserra did not wish to know, a place where perhaps his son may have lived—a world where that son could easily replace Viserra, and Rhaenyra, as well. A world where their father and all the lords of Westeros had the male heir they so desperately wanted.

How peculiar, Viserra thought, that it took her so long to understand what her father's grief was truly for. Not until she'd stared at her stillborn brother's corpse and her mother's bloodied sheets did she realize that that was what her father grieved for—not a son lost, but an heir lost.

She was already second to Rhaenyra, second in everything, but the realization stung and burrowed into her flesh like the blowflies that fed on the helpless rats and mice she'd snare in her traps and watch struggle until they finally gave up, limp and lifeless like that babe, and rot.

Viserra looked from her weeping sister to her despairing father, and finally, to Queen Aemma, exhausted and drenched in red. The babe no longer concerned Viserra. It was dead, along with any dreams King Viserys might have placed his hopes in. But she was alive, and she was special.

"The blood of the dragon runs through our veins," her uncle Daemon had once told her, seated in his lap on the Iron Throne. They weren't supposed to be there, weren't allowed to sit on the throne, but it had been their secret, one of many. "That's what makes us who we are. That's why we sit so much higher than all others. On dragon-back." He rested a large, long-fingered hand on one of the thousand melted blades making up the throne. "On this throne." He'd pinched her silvery-white hair between his fingers and held it up to his own, and they shimmered like twin stars. "Because we are Targaryens, of fire and blood and Old Valyria."

That's right, she thought. Uncle Daemon is right.

She was of House Targaryen, made of fire and blood and the magic of gods.

Viserra looked down when Rhaenyra's hand spasmed uncomfortably in hers. She'd gripped Rhaenyra's hand even more tightly than her sister had gripped hers, and her nails had broken skin. Droplets of Rhaenyra's blood ran down their joined hands and fell to the floor. Viserra watched, riveted, and dug her nails in deeper when Rhaenyra tried to squirm away.

"Sera, ow!" she cried. "Stop, that hurts!"

She finally wrenched herself free, and Viserra looked at the blood gleaming on her fingertips. Blood of the dragon.

Without a word to anyone, she turned and left the chambers.

Just a short little prologue to get the ball rolling, but I'd appreciate your thoughts all the same!

Until next time!