This is a brief snippet of an idea I had for Syrah. Not long, nor does it add to the main story (at least not yet), but I laughed while writing it and did not want it to go unread. And I hope you enjoy it as well.

(Dragonstone: 1/19/284 AC) Syrah I

Fire. Pain. Flesh. Was all she could see, feel, and touch, as she struggled against the thick liquid and the almost leathery sack of meat that encased her. Her limbs felt heavy, unresponsive, as if bound by invisible chains. She could hear the cries of a woman, echoing outside of her prison, and the rhythmic pulsing of being squeezed through a narrow tunnel. Each contraction felt like being caught in the jaws of some great beast, squeezing the breath from her tiny lungs. Her body hurt, as she felt hands grab at her, wrenching her free from the hot flesh that scalded her body like fire.

"This must be hell," she thought, the pain so all-consuming that her mind struggled to grasp any coherent thought. The sounds of the crying woman grew louder and more distinct, each sob reverberating through her fragile form. She struggled to open her eyes, as the normally reflexive action felt more akin to attempting to pry open stone doors, little though they may have been. Light, harsh and blinding, seared her closed eyelids. She heard the voices of strangers, congratulating a woman named Jaslin, as a warm wet piece of cloth began gently scrubbing her body. It was a tiny body, she quickly realized, after the shock of being rudely pried out from the burning, fleshy abyss that she had awoken into had passed.

"What manner of nightmare is this?" she wondered, her thoughts muddled by the remnants of pain and disorientation. "Am I... reborn?" she mused, the idea both baffling and infuriating. She remembered falling asleep and then a long darkness. How could this be? Was this some twisted sorcery?

After the wet cloth ceased its motions and withdrew, she felt another cloth, this one dry but equally warm as it enveloped her, save for her face. The fabric brushed against her sensitive skin, calming the burning sensations. She was being swaddled, and she knew that somehow she had been reborn into a defenseless little child who could not as yet open her eyes to add faces to the voices she heard. The voices that cheered and laughed happily, oblivious to her inner turmoil.

"A successful birth," she reasoned silently, feeling a slight bit of comfort at the feeling of the warm cloth and whatever hands currently held her. The scent of the room began to register – a mix of sweat, blood, and something else, something earthy and pungent. Herbs, perhaps?

The celebrations ceased in an instant as she heard a door open. The air seemed to shift, growing warmer, heavier with a tension that pricked at her newfound senses. The sudden silence was deafening, filled with an unspoken dread.

"Fire Lord," she heard the voices say in a tone that she immediately understood as fear. The very mention of the title made the hair – or what little she had – stand on end.

"Fire Lord?" the infant wondered, a sliver of fear creeping into her bones. "Who commands such fear? In my previous life, I was a queen, a warrior. I bowed to no one." Had she her old body, she would have scolded herself for being as fearful as she was. Even bereft of Dark Sister or Vhagar, she would not back down from even the mightiest of foes. However, she was temporarily blinded, exposed, and unarmed, and worse still in the body of a newborn babe. These were not ideal circumstances, and certainly not ideal for combating whatever creature or person this 'Fire Lord' was. "What manner of title is that, anyway? Not one of Old Valyria, certainly."

Then she heard another voice speak out, after the others had quieted, it was firm, strong, unrelenting, and notably feminine. "What a hideous child," the woman said, her words dripping with contempt.

"Hideous?!" though insulted, she found humor in the sheer bluntness of the statement, especially directed towards a newborn. "Such nerve," she thought, recalling how she herself had dismissed those who did not meet her standards. She had remembered saying the same thing towards her brother's children with Rhaenys.

"Are you certain this is the one you saw in the flames, Thoros? The fiery beauty that would see me sit the Iron Throne?"

"The Iron Throne! So I am still in Westeros. This is good," her mind grew eager to hear what more was to be said, her small body fidgeting beneath the cloth wrapped around her as she tried leaning in towards the direction of the voices. "Who seeks the throne now? What chaos has ensued since my time?"

"Yes, my Fire Lord. She will bring good fortune to our cause," another voice rang out, this one male, and if her nose did not deceive her, somewhat drunk. "She will be strong," he continued, his words losing their slightly slurred nature. "She will be fierce. She is the Conqueror's shadow. Your shadow."

"Drunkard priest," she thought with disdain. "But what prophecy is this? A shadow of the Conqueror?"

"If you say so, priest," the woman sighed. "A pity you did not say the same for my son." The words were heavy with regret, a personal loss that seemed to hang in the air.

The room grew quiet, and she could feel the heat within briefly spike, a sudden rush of warmth that felt almost like an embrace, before returning to normal.

"Strange," she thought. "Magic, perhaps? Or merely the presence of this so-called Fire Lord?"

"And what will you name this child, Sergeant?" the 'Fire Lord' posed to presumably her body's father.

"A man named Sergeant? A strange name," she thought, curiosity piqued despite the fear gnawing at her insides.

"If it pleases you, Fire Lord, we are to call her Syrah, after Jaslin's mother," the man replied, his voice sounding more akin to a beaten dog than that of a man grown. "A man broken by fear," she mused.

"Weakness," she could feel her little face sneer, before what had previously been said fully registered. "Wait? Syrah?! That is not my name! I am Visenya fucking Targaryen! And I refuse that name!" she found her lungs and began to cry, her tiny body shaking with the force of her screams, the sound fierce and indignant, a newborn's wail filled with the spirit of a dragon. The sound was raw, primal, a manifestation of her rage and frustration.

The room's occupants fell silent, taken aback by the ferocity of the newborn's cries. "Hear me!" her mind screamed. "I am no mere child! I am Visenya reborn, and I will not be silenced!"