K, I'm not into the whole Targaryen-incest thing normally, but this pairing was just a wild thought and hey, it's another universe, so I figured what the hell.
Chapter 1: Ghosts of Family Past
She kept her head down low as she navigated her way through the bustling market of Pentos, trying to avoid notice, and make her way quietly through the streets. It seemed like so much of her life had been spent moving secretly from place to place, did she truly have anywhere that she could call home? She knew that she did, and her heart longed for it. Across the Narrow Sea, a castle now occupied by Stags, that was her home. It didn't matter that she had forgotten many details of the place, it was hers by right of birth and blood, and she would reclaim it one day.
She had been almost asleep, Balerion cuddled up close to her, when she heard footsteps entering her room. Before she could make a sound however, a hand clapped over her mouth, and the familiar face of Lord Varys looked down at her. He made a silencing motion, and she nodded, clutching her kitten tight as he tried to squirm away.
"Princess, you must come with me," he whispered softly; beckoning another young girl into the room, a young girl who reminded Rhaenys strangely of herself.
"But father said we were to remain here," she protested; not moving, "Where are we going?"
"Away, for your safety," he replied; eyes darting furiously around the room, high on alert for danger, "The city is lost, but that doesn't mean you have to be as well. When the time is right, you will return, with your brother, and take back what is rightfully yours."
Rhaenys wasn't sure about all of that, but Lord Varys had seemed more agitated than she'd ever seen him before. Quietly, still clutching her kitten, Rhaenys got out of bed, and the other girl slipped into her place, pulling up the others and turning the other way. Another man stood by the door, holding a bundle gently in his arms, was that her little brother?
"What about father? And mother?" she questioned.
"Your father is dead, I'm sorry to say it so bluntly, but you will have time enough to mourn once we are away," Varys draped a cloak around her small shoulders.
It was not a cold night, but Rhaenys shivered, and clutched Balerion so tightly the kitten let out a pitiful meow. But as animals could, he must have sensed something, for he stopped struggling, and turned to nuzzle closer to her. She barely felt his soft black head. Her father couldn't be dead, he was Prince Rhaegar, he couldn't die.
Screwing her eyes shut tightly, she willed this to all be a dream, she was just having a nightmare. In reality, she was still lying in her bed, and her father was winning the war. In just a few days, he would sweep into the palace, victorious. He would swing her up on his shoulders and call her his little Princess.
She pinched herself hard, then opened her eyes. The scene hadn't changed. She still stood in her bedroom, Varys before her, and a cold dread spreading through her heart.
"Dead? How?"
"Slain at the Trident by Robert Baratheon, the man who now marches for this very city to claim the remaining lives in yours family. We must make haste," Varys repeated his earlier words, his tone even more desperate.
"Are we going to the Dragonstone with grandmother and uncle?" she inquired.
She'd wanted to go with them, but father hadn't allowed it. She missed them, grandmother had always been kind to her, and Viserys too, most of the time.
"I'm afraid we must flee further than that for you to be safe, Princess," he said grimly, "The fate of Westeros now depends on you and your brother."
It had been the most terrifying moment of her life, while many other details might now be lost to her memory, the mad flight from Kings Landing was not. Her mother had been asleep at the time, unaware that while her lids were closed, the baby in the cradle beside her was being replaced with another child. Rhaenys didn't remember the girl who had slipped into her own bed, but she felt a stab of guilt whenever she thought about her, but not half so many stabs as what the little girl had allegedly suffered.
Further afar was right. That night, a boat had set sail from the capitol, and all she could remember of her last glimpse of Westeros, was fire. Fire and the smell of blood thickening the air. Fire and blood. Her home and family had been lost to her by their own motto, and she would see justice done in the same way. And eye for an eye.
"They will all die," she muttered furiously to herself.
Some people passing by heard her, and turned to look curiously. Biting her tongue, Rhaenys quickened her step. It was so easy to let her anger get the better of her, so easy to let the fury she suppressed wash over her. How long had this rage rested in her bones? It was her first feeling when she awoke in the mornings, and her last when she rested at night.
'When a Targaryen is born, the people flip a coin to see whether it will become great, or mad.'
A saying that had long been said over her family's rein, a saying that had often crossed her mind when she felt that anger rear its head. On which side had her coin landed on?
"Excuse me, my lady, can I help you?"
The man looked like a beggar, no doubt hoping for a coin or two, not that she had any to spare, and she walked past him quickly without a reply. Him calling her a lady made her start though, she had deliberately chosen clothing that would help her blend in with the rest of the common people. Simple spun linen, plain brown in colour, and a plain shawl that she could wrap around her head if need be.
She thanked the gods that she had been born with her mother's colouring. While as a child she had longed for the silver hair and light eyes that the rest of her family possessed, her dark hair and even darker eyes were now a blessing to her that helped her remain in hiding. Of course, she could have dyed her hair like her brother, but even that didn't do all that much to disguise him if people knew what they were looking for, which was why he remained behind in Volantis.
Still, she couldn't be too careful. Only a few months ago, when she had been on Lys to see about gathering allies for her brother, someone had recognised her face.
"Lass, you look a might like the old wife of Prince Rhaegar, the Dornish girl, Elia Martell."
"I'm sorry, ser, you must be mistaken."
That experience had taught her the value of hiding her face, which was why she kept a shawl or head-scarf on her at all times, and wore her dark hair down so that the long waves could obscure her if need be. She had been to all of the Free Cities now, and thought that Aegon would have a fair number of followers to add to his Gold Company, but she had left Pentos until last. She still thought that this particular city was a bad idea. It was too close with Westeros, even though Lys might be closer, trading ties with Pentos had always been slightly stronger, and many Westrosi were known to flee here if they needed to run from the country.
Turning a corner into a less crowded street, she passed before the open gates of an elegant manse. She turned her head to cast a look inside, and a silver-gold glint caught her eye. Sucking in a breath she cursed, coming to Pentos had been a bad idea.
/*0*/
"You're sure he'll agree to it?" Viserys questioned.
He was walking through the grounds of Illyrio's manse with the Magister, and had probably asked the question more times than was seemly at this point. Still, it was a great weight on his mind. He needed that army, he needed this Khal Drogo's Dothraki horsemen.
"We can only know for sure when we receive and answer from the Khal, but yes, I do think it likely," Illyrio replied; giving a very similar answer to the many he had already delivered, "Your sister is an exotic beauty to the Dothraki, and Khal Drogo is known to have a taste for the rare."
Rare was right. Danearys was the last female Targaryen, and he the last male. It was a heavy burden, being the last of your line, a burden that had filled his heart with fiery rage from his youngest days. He'd thought of marrying Dany himself, at first, in the ways of their family. But doing that would not have gained him an army, and in truth, his sister only possessed physical beauty. She was no dragon on the inside, she possessed no dragon's fire.
"When will he send his reply?" Viserys inquired, "It's been days already, and still no word. What assurance do I have that he won't take his horsemen and ride off tomorrow?"
"You don't," Illyrio admitted, "But I don't think that the Khal will do such a thing, you will just have to trust that he is simply thinking over your offer."
"I shouldn't have to wait on these savages," he muttered, "Has he no idea who I am! I am the rightful King of Westeros!"
"Patience, your grace," Illyrio urged, "We can only wait and see how events will turn out."
Viserys made a noncommittal grunt, a ferocious scowl etching his forehead. Illyrio, wisely, kept his silence. He had learnt by now that when Viserys got himself worked up, reason would not be agreeable to his ears, and silence was often the best course, until the Prince's anger dissipated.
As the pair of them turned into the courtyard, Viserys wasn't sure why, but his head turned towards the gates of the manse. Usually they stood closed, to keep out unwanted visitors, but today they gaped open as traders came in with wars Illyrio had bought, and he could see out into the street. It wasn't crowded, at least, not overly considering the bustling nature of Pentos. Despite that, his eyes were almost immediately drawn to a single figure who stood, paused, and looking in. With long dark hair and in a plain dress, the girl could have been anyone, but something about her struck a chord in his memory.
"Your grace?" Illyrio inquired; following Viserys' line of sight, "Pay her no mind, no doubt just another girl off the street looking for money."
Viserys ignored the Magister, and focused on the girl. In spite of her garments, she stood with an almost regal bearing, something noticeable at this distance. That in itself was odd, and Viserys began to make his way closer. The girl watched him come, and seemed almost frozen to the spot as he stepped closer and closer to her. The most distance he closed, the more familiar the image became in his head. And suddenly, it clicked.
"Elia..."
It couldn't be. The girl certainly resembled the woman he remembered as being his brothers frail, Dornish, wife. But she was certainly stronger looking than Elia Martell had been, and there was a strangely determined cast to her eye. Before he could get close enough to firmly place her face in his mind, the girl suddenly turned away and darted off down the street.
"Seven Hells!" he swore.
Before Illyrio could catch up to him and inquire, Viserys was running after the girl. He was sure he knew her face, and he wasn't going to waste time letting her get away.
"Stop!" he yelled.
She didn't obey him, if anything her speed increased, and she jerked a head-scarf up to cover her flying hair. People cursed as the pair of them crashed through the streets, but he didn't pause to pay them any more mind than she did, the peasants should have gotten out of his way anyway. He saw her flit light lightning down a side ally, and followed suit, glad to see that it led to nowhere. There was no point in running anymore, he stopped, and drew himself up regally.
"Stop!" Viserys yelled; command resonating in his voice.
The girl paused, breathing hard from the fast running, but she didn't face him.
"Show me your face," he ordered.
Slowly, as if moving in a stiff dream, she turned, and lowered the scarf covering her face. He gasped. It wasn't possible, he'd thought her dead, murdered by the lions with the rest of his kin. That face...it had belonged to a child when he had last seen it, but now that he was close he could link this young woman to the girl.
His voice, when it came, was almost a broken whisper, "Rhaenys?"