THE WRATH OF FIRE
House of the Dragon Fanfiction
MASTERLIST
Princess Ysilla Targaryen is the only daughter of Prince Daemon Targaryen and Lady Rhea Royce. The affection that she felt for her mother was strong, while her father had never been there, acting as if Ysilla was not even his. But she was. The dragon egg that had been put in her cradle hatched. An outcast of a dragon was born. A dragon with no legs. An outcast of a dragon for and an outcast of a dragon rider. Ysilla’s hair was dark but streaked with white. She was a Targaryen, and her wrath was not different from the one that burned inside the members of the House of the Dragon.
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CHAPTER 4
“Dracarys.” When Ysilla said those words, her dragon breathed fire. She had the serving girl bring her a piece of raw meat.
Dragons didn't eat raw meat.
"Sƴz, riña," the Maester told her. He had been with her for six months now. A gift from her uncle after she visited King's Landing. (Good, child)
"Kirimvose," she answered. Her eyes fixed on her dragon. (Thank you)
Ysilla had been studying High Valyrian as soon as the Maester started to serve her, but her mother did not appreciate the King's gift. She said that there was no reason for him to be in Runestone.
"Mother, please!" she complained one night when her mother expressed the wish for the man to return to King's Landing.
"We don't need him here." She had answered.
"You may don't, but I do," Ysilla said. The shock on her mother's face was visible. Ysilla usually listened to whatever her mother said. It had been a strange feeling to be stubborn with her. But Ysilla could not let her lady mother send her teacher back to the Capital.
"I'm the only Targaryen who does not know High Valyrian," Ysilla explained. Her small hands clenched in fists. She wanted to be strong in front of her mother. She had to be.
"I've always told you to be proud of your blood. First Men's blood," her mother's words made Ysilla's eyes stung with tears.
"I remember," she said. But she wouldn't have backed down. "But I need to learn High Valyrian."
"You need to learn how to hawk," her mother answered firmly.
Ysilla felt so much rage in her.
"I'm not a goat; I'm a dragon!" Her mother's dark eyes widened. Shocked, she shared a look with her cousin, Ser Gerold Royce. At that moment, Ysilla understood that the words she had heard from Otto Hightower were true. It had been painful. But she knew what she had to do.
If Father sees I'm a good Targaryen, he will love me. Ysilla was sure of that. She did not act as a Targaryen at all. Her mother wanted her to be more similar to a Royce. But Ysilla was much more of that. She was a Targaryen princess. In a few years, he would have been a dragon rider. And when she would have grown up, she would have been like Visenya. She was more than a noble lady from the Vale. She was a Targaryen.
Father would be proud of me, she swore.
Ysilla would study all day. History, philosophy, calculus, politics, and High Valyrian. With the Master of the Dragonpit, she would speak only High Valyrian. She wanted to learn fast, especially when she found out that the war on the Stepstones was over.
"Father won!" Ysilla said happily to her uncle Gerold one day in the Godswood of Runestone. "He must have flown with Caraxes and burned them all."
Her uncle observed her in silence. His beard may have hidden half of his face. But she could see his lips tight in a thin line.
"You've changed, Ysilla, since you visited King's Landing," he said, making her smile.
"The Maester says that dragons feel other dragons," she answered, looking at the red leaves of the Heart Tree, "Maybe it had been the same with humans as well."
Her uncle took a deep breath. "Why are you so obsessed with these matters? You hardly speak of other topics, if not dragons."
Ysilla lowered her eyes. No one wanted to talk about those matters with her, as no one liked her dragon, her only friend.
"I'm a Targaryen," she said, "My father is Prince Daemon Targaryen."
"And your mother is Rhea Royce," he reproved her. Does she not share equal importance?"
"Of course she does," Ysilla muttered with a flush of shame. Since her dragon had been born, Ysilla and her mother had started to argue frequently. Her mother did not like Ysill's interests.
Ysilla wished not to argue with her mother. She had been very important to the little princess. She had been a role model, and Ysilla had so much respect for her. And she had raised Ysilla as a Royce. Proud as a Royce. But she wanted for Ysilla to forget that she was a Targaryen. And she could not. Ysilla had to show her father and everyone else that her mother was no goat. And that she was a dragon.
"You know I love you?" One evening, Ysilla asked her mother about it as they were dining.
"So sudden?" Her mother answered with raised eyebrows. Rhea Royce was not an openly loving woman, but Ysilla knew her mother cared for her.
"Do you?" Ysilla insisted stubbornly.
Her mother took a breath, "I do."
Ysilla seemed happy by her words, "And I'm sorry if in the last months I've been wilful."
"I'm glad you've realized it," her mother said, but Ysilla kept talking. " Why do you don't like that I'm a Targaryen?" Her mother took a breath. She put the knife in her hand and put it back on the table, but she did not answer. "Everyone in the realm wishes to say that their children have the blood of old Valyria."
Her mother observed her in silence for a moment, "The marriage between me and your father is a rich arrangement for the realm," Ysilla's eyes grew larger, leaning forward on the table. Her mother had never spoken of those matters with her. "But your father grew insufferable here. Insufferable of me," Ysilla listened quietly, "When I gave birth to you, your hair was as dark as your eyes. And he was there. He suggested that you were a bastard."
Ysilla lowered her eyes. It could not be possible. But why would her mother lie to her? There was no reason. So it must be true. But it could not be.
"He never wanted to see you," her mother said.
"I'm not a bastard," Ysilla whispered.
"No, you're not," her mother answered. Growing up, your hair and eyes proved it to everyone. But your father never accepted that."
"Why?" Ysilla asked, confused.
"He loathes me as I do him," she answered. And he would have broken the marriage off if he could make people think you were a bastard. That's why he never wants to see us." Ysilla lowered her gaze. "He loves his ambition, Ysilla. And you are more than him."
Ysilla felt confused. It all seemed absurd to her. Why would her father hate her mother? And why did he hate his daughter because of that? He had never talked to her. One could not just decide to hate someone, could they?
"All the Kings of the Seven Kingdoms, Ysilla," asked the Septa one morning.
Ysilla took a breath. "Aegon I the Conquerer. After him, there was his son, Aenys I. His mother was Queen Rhaenys. Then Maegor the Cruel. Then Jeaherys I. He was called The Old King, or the Wise, or the Conciliator. He ruled peacefully for half a century. But he had no heir."
"So what happened?" The Septa asked.
"He had to choose between his two nephews," Ysilla remembered, "Princess Rhaenys or Prince Viserys. And he chose Prince Viserys. Now King Viserys I."
"And who is to follow?"
"The King chose Princess Rhaenyra," Ysilla said. Then she frowned. No woman had been queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And when her Uncle chose Rhaenyra, Aegon was not yet born. So, the rightful heir should have been her father, Daemon Targaryen.
He loves his ambition. Ysilla remembered her mother's words. How did her father react to the King's decision?
And the Dragonstone folly. She remembered.
"What is it with Father and Dragonstone?" Ysilla asked before she could stop herself.
The Septa's eyes widened, "That is off-topic, princess."
"But I want to know," Ysilla said stubbornly. "Why was Father in Dragonstone? Rhaenyra is the Princess of Dragonstone, not Father."
"Ysilla," her mother's voice came from behind her, making her turn. The Septa was quick to stand up and bow to the Lady of Runestone. "Stop with those questions," Ysilla observed her mother; she was wearing her riding attire. She was surely going out to hawk. Then she came next to her daughter, caressing her hair, "I'm riding out," she said, "Do you remember your duties for today?"
Ysilla nodded, "History, then sawing lesson."
The High Valyrian, she thought.
"I'll be back to dine together," her mother said, putting on her glove, "Behave."
"And be proud," Ysilla muttered. That made her mother chuckle.
"I don't need to remind you that," she said, "You never fail to be proud." Ysilla smiled, observing her mother walking toward the door.
"Be careful," Ysilla said to her mother like she always did. The little princess didn't go out to hawk that much—her pony was too little. But her mother had told her that in six months, they would have gone hawking together. Her mother loved to hunt, but Ysilla could not wait to be on the dragon's back more.
"Skori jāhor nyke sagon naejot sōvegon issa zaldrīzes?" Asked Ysilla, stammering some of the words. Not sure she remembered them correctly. (When will I be able to fly my dragon?)
"Hāre jēdri, riña," the Maester answered, observing how Ysilla's dragon liked to be next to his rider. (Three years, girl)
Three years, and she would have been able to fly. Her dragon was growing every day more, surprising everyone. But the Maester told her that he was growing fast for his conditions.
"I really need to find a name soon," she said, observing the violet eyes of her dragon. "A fighter name." Then he looked at the sky, making a little sound. Then he looked back at Ysilla, making the same sound. He seemed a little agitated, but he calmed down when the girl touched his head.
The Maester had told her that she and the creature had a strong connection. "Hae dārilaros Daemon se Caraxes." (Like Prince Daemon and Caraxes)
Ysilla looked up at the man. He had been in King's Landing all his life, tending the Targaryens' Dragons. He had seen all of them: King Viserys and Balerion, The Black Dread, Princess Rhaenys and Meleys, Rhaenyra, and Syrax, and, of course, Ysilla's father and Caraxes.
"Gōntan kepa gūrotan Caraxes lēda zirȳla, skori istas naejot Zaldrīzesdōron?" Ysilla spoke slowly, thinking about every word. (Did Father take Caraxes with him when he went to Dragonstone?)
"Hen rhinka, riña." the man answered. His tone was strange. Trying to hide anger. But it was there. Why anger? She wanted to know. (Of course, child)
He would have never answered if she had asked inquisitively, she knew. But maybe that anger could be used in some way.
"Such a vile act," Ysilla said, using the same tone Otto Hightower had used. "Dragonstone belongs to Princess Rhaenyra."
"The stolen egg was much more vile," when she turned to the man, his eyes were wide. Regretting those words. "Forgive me, princess," he was quick to add, bowing his head.
Her father had stolen a dragon egg. Why would he do such a thing?
Her dragon looked at the sky again, flipping his small black wings.
"There's no need," she answered, trying to do her best to hide the shock in her tone, "I already knew," she lied, "My mother always tells me about my father's deeds. And they are not always positive words." She thought fast. Her egg had been chosen for her as soon as she was born; that was the Targaryen's tradition. If her father had taken an egg, there was only a reason. She felt rage thinking about that possibility.
"A dragon to a bastard," she said, noticing how the stolen egg was a sensitive topic for the man. "That's an insult."
Would he really steal an egg to give it to a bastard when he had insulted his mother by saying that Ysilla was one?
"Fortunately, no bastard was born, as far as it's known," he answered, "It was just an act to challenge the King's authority."
He loves his ambition, Ysilla.
Didn't he support his brother as King? Or he didn't support Rhaenyra as the future Queen? Why did he take that egg?
"Skoros drōmon iksin bona?" Ysilla asked not turning to the man. (What egg was that?)
"Se drōmon hen Dreamfyre. Dārilaros Rhaenyra ēdas chosen ziry syt zirȳla morghe lēkia, Baelon," Ysilla felt the blood in her veins run cold. (The egg of Dreamfyre. Princess Rhaenyra had chosen it for her dead brother, Baelon)
It was such a vile act to steal his dead nephew's egg. To give it to who? If he hated his wife, who was he planning to give it to? She would have liked to ask more, but her dragon started to growl, agitated. He flapped his wings again and kept looking at the sky.
That was strange. He had never done that. He was a calm dragon, never making many sounds, but he was upset and not able to stay still.
"Skoros iksis jāre va?" Ysilla asked, glancing at the man before walking to her dragon, kneeling at his side, "Lykiri," she said, trying to gain her dragon's attention, but he wasn't listening. (What is going on?) (Calm down)
"Maester?" She asked, seeing the man looking at the sky as well. His face was dark with worry.
"Dohaeris," she said, focusing back on her dragon. He seemed somewhat drawn to those words and glanced at her with his purple eyes.
A strange feeling went down through Ysilla's back. A shiver full of dread.
I want Mother, she thought instinctively. Feeling her eyes stung with tears.
"Ysilla," The voice of her uncle Gerold made her turn with a gasp. The man was behind her. His face was pale, his hands were trembling, and on his clothes, there was blood.
She stood up, trembling. Her eyes never lived the red of the blood.
"The Lady Rhea…"
Ysilla felt cold as her dragon roared with wrath.
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