Chapter Text
While most of Valerian descent are born dragonriders, very few have been dreamers.
The first known dreamer had been Daenys Targaryen, known as ‘the Dreamer’. She had foreseen the Doom of Valyria in a dream twelve years before it happened, causing her father to relocate the family and its dragons to Dragonstone, thus securing House Targaryen’s future as the last known dragonlord family in the world and the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms.
Then, Aegon I Targaryen, Viserys I Targaryen, Helaena Targaryen, Daemon II Blackfyre…and you.
The castle in King’s Landing was completely destroyed, except for the Iron Throne. Your sister, Daenerys, was walking toward it, the new queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She touched the throne, a faint smile curling on her lips. Behind her, a man with dark hair had entered the room. They began talking – arguing – about some matter you couldn’t hear. A kiss was shared and, as the two kissed, the man stabbed her in her heart with his dagger.
Had you told Dany about your dream, she would’ve laughed and said it was just that: a dream. Deep down, you could feel that it was something more. A dragon dream, as they call it in the books. A prophecy.
You had to do something to prevent your sister’s tragic end. Talking her down to go after the Iron Throne was a losing battle. Dany was strong-headed; she would never accept to give up what was rightfully hers, even if you told her about your dream.
She didn’t believe in that sort of thing, anyway.
The days following your dream, you found yourself in your head a lot. You couldn’t look at your sister without seeing the blood leaking from her mouth and nose after that man had assassinated her. It had become difficult to close an eye at night, knowing what would happen to her in the end.
You had to do something.
A few days later, you packed your bag and went on your own to know more about prophecies. Leaving her with the Dothrakis worried you, but Ser Jorah had sworn protection to her. He’ll keep her safe while you’ll be gone.
*
After seven moons doing some heavy research away in the Free Cities, you found a woman of old age who knew about Dreamers and prophecies. She told you the only way to keep a foretelling event from happening was to fix the mistakes that led to it – albeit it being close to impossible. Prophecies always find a way to come to pass.
“Time traveling?” you repeated with a doubtful furrow of your eyebrows.
The woman nodded. “There is this old tale about a High Priestess who practiced different sorts of sorcery using the power of R'hllor. According to the tale, she has revived a man who had been stabbed enough times to empty himself of his blood, and knew details only someone who had lived in the past could know of. She is rumored to have lived hundreds of years, all thanks to her magic.”
“How may I find her?”
“Unfortunately, the High Priestess has been burned to the stake many decades ago, but her grimoire has not been found. She lived in a crept in Volantis, where I assume her grimoire still is. You might find what you need in it.”
“Would it save my sister? Going back in time.”
“Possibly.” The woman
“You got to find the exact moment, the trigger time-stamp that started the downfall of the Targaryen dynasty.”
Was she talking about your father’s descent into insanity? Had he not been held prisoner for half a year by a rebellious lord, perhaps he would not have let his paranoia cloud his judgment or let his cruelty grow. Perhaps Ser Jamie Lannister, a member of his own Kingsguard, would not have killed him.
Unless the prophecy went back longer ago? When did House Targaryen begin losing its power?
According to Maester Yandel, the biggest losses of House Targaryen happened during the Dance of Dragons, a major civil war in the history of the Seven Kingdoms. It destroyed many cadet and lesser branches of the Targaryen family - thinning the Targaryen bloodline –, and also eliminated almost all of the surviving dragons at the time – seventeen dragons died during the Dance.
Had the Dance not happened, had Aegon II not been born, it would’ve made a massive difference in the future of House
“Before you go searching for the grimoire, I shall warn you my lady: any minor change can have a ripple effect that could harm innocent bystanders.”
*
The crypt had taken you weeks to locate.
Each page of the grimoire was made of human skin and written with blood. It was quite gnarly to touch - or smell. The spelling was difficult to decipher. No offense to the High Priestess, but her handwriting was not the greatest. Some of the pages were in High Valyrian – which must’ve been the High Priestess’s first language. Fortunately, you had been taught the language growing up.
Inside, you came across resurrecting spells and fertilization rituals, a handful of curses and poisonous brews, and a time-traveling ritual. They were all using blood magic, which was one of the most dangerous magic, but after seeing your sister ascending her rightful title as queen, to then be killed by her lover – which was somehow not Khal Drogo –, you were willing to risk the danger and consequences of blood magic.
The ritual sounded complex, but was relatively simple. You’ll need a gemstone, fire and blood – and a solstice in a specific location. Fortunately for you, the summer solstice was only a moon away. You also needed an object that belonged to the time you wanted to go back to. The dragonglass dagger in your bag will be perfect. It had been given to the princess Rhaenyra by Viserys himself while he was king.
On the week of the Solstice, you began your journey to the ancient stone circle located on a mountain in Volantis. According to the grimoire, one of the stones was large and cleft, through which a time traveler may pass.
Come the Solstice, you waited until the moon was at its highest and started a small fire in the middle of the stone circle while reading a few High Valerian lines. You then added a few drops of your blood to the fire and threw the dragonglass dagger – the fire crackled and the flame grew in height, almost touching your forehead.
You immediately stepped back, startled. This was your first time dabbling in magic. You didn’t know fire could be so powerful.
Lastly, you walked up to the large cleft stone, pressed your palm against the cleft.
*
Approximately 170 years before your birth
Since your arrival in King’s Landing, you have tried to be discreet and keep to yourself as much as possible.
As the woman of old age warned you, time-traveling was delicate. Each change – even the smallest – will have a direct effect on the future. A sliver of change done wrong, and the whole future could take a turn for the worse, the Targaryen lineage could be extinct sooner. You and your sister could…not exist.
All you needed to do was prevent Aegon II from being born. That alone should have a huge impact on the Targaryen dynasty – on the future.
You had no idea how you would execute your plan. From what you knew, the queen was expecting and the babe would be born in a couple of weeks from now. That didn’t leave you a lot of time. The main issue was, Queen Alicent lived in the Red Keep and there was no way you could sneak in unnoticed. There were guards all around the castle. One was probably posted at the door of her chamber for extra safety.
Every time you took a stroll in the city, you were pestered by sellers. Seafood when in Fishmonger’s Square, brewers in Dragon Square, baked goods on the Street of Flour. Everything looked delicious, but the coins in your pocket couldn’t be spent on treats.
A brewer was being insistent tonight, trying to get you to try his liquor. You shook your head, politely declining. The bearded man was not taking no for an answer, claiming you must have coins on you because of the jewel around your neck.
The small quarrel grew in volume, catching some citizens’ attention, notably a man in a hooded cloak. You wanted to run, but when you took a quick look around to evaluate your options, you caught the man with the hooded cloak’s eyes. His eyes were purple and, under his large hood, you saw a glimpse of his silver hair. He was a Targaryen.
When you teleported through the stones, you vowed to yourself to minimize your social interactions and to not directly interact with any of your ancestors to not disrupt the future in times where it wasn’t necessary.
You recognized him as Daemon, also known as the Rogue Prince. His dark gray hooded cloak was doing a mediocre job at shielding his identity – at least from the front. Or, perhaps you were just too good at recognizing those who shared your blood.
‘’The woman seems not to be interested.’’
Daemon’s voice cut the brewer’s word spitting, making the bearded man raise his head in his direction. Although there was no threat in the prince’s words, his tone itself held an authority. It felt commanding.
Had he been a regular man of the city, you would’ve thanked him. Instead, you ran off.
You didn’t want to be impolite, or come off as not thankful – you were thankful for him stepping in. Without him, the brewer would probably still be pressuring you to buy his liquor. You needed to remain unnoticed during your travels. Thanking Daemon would’ve broken your rule.
You took a left on the Street of Silk and felt eyes on your back. Had the bearded man followed you? No. It was unlikely. After Daemon’s interruption, he had to have given up. Someone was following you, though.
You snaked through the bodies and ran as fast as your legs allowed you.
A few buildings down, the street was splitting. You took another left and hid inside the closest building, which turned out to be a pleasure house – a brothel – , of all places. Just like the streets, it was packed.
You had never been to one of these places before. There wasn’t any around where you grew up. It was…was…uncomfortable. There were naked people – men and women – all around; some were dancing sexually, some were moaning and performing sexual acts of all genres.
‘’Silver hair are difficult to hide, are they?’’
You whirled around and came face to face with the Rogue Prince himself. His hood was still on, but his eyes bore right into yours. Just like yours, they were a shade of purple. His were a lighter color, but no less piercing.
He reached out to twirl a piece of your hair between his fingers, a frown settling between his eyebrows. Your alluring beauty, long and braided silver hair and the Valyrian steel necklace around your neck – a piece of jewelry that once belonged to your mother – were a straight-teller of your Targaryen roots.
‘’Where did you get this?’’ His eyes fixated the jewelry, as if he had seen it before.
‘’My mother.’’
“Valyrian steel, right?’’ You nodded. ‘’I brought the same one to my niece two years ago. I was told there was only one.’’
‘’Perhaps the person you bought it from was mistaken – or they lied to you.’’
Daemon looked at you with wary eyes. ‘’Who are you?’’
The dreaded question. You gulped, nervousness bubbling in your stomach as you tried to think of a quick fake-name. Using Targaryen in this era would stir too many questions.
‘’Y/N. Y/N…Stormborn, my Prince.’’
The last words felt strange on your tongue. It was the proper way to address him, though.
‘’Stormborn?’’ Daemon’s frown deepened, the name unfamiliar. In fact, it was the first time he heard it. ‘’I’ve never heard. Although, you must be of Valyrian blood. Only those with Valyrian blood have silver hair.’’
You shrugged, playing your part. ‘’I would not know. My father lost his life in battle and my mother died during childbirth. I was raised by my brother in Essos.’’
That part wasn’t all false. You only omitted small details…like your father being the Mad King and escaping to Essos after your birth so you, Daenerys and Viserys – your brother –’s lives would be spared.
The man before you hummed. He didn’t know if you were bullshitting him or telling the truth, but he’ll take your words for now.
‘’Have you ever been in Essos, my Prince?‘’ you asked.
The prince didn’t get to answer you. Behind you, one of the curtains lining the hallway opened and a drunk man got thrown out of the private room, his erected cock out in the open. A naked woman – assumingly a working whore from the brothel – followed and threw his pants and tunic at him.
‘’No money, no fucking,’’ she spat at him, then walked off.
He bent down to pick up his clothes and tipped forward, visibly too drunk to have any sense of balance, and limply falling against you. His heavy, dead weight caused you to fall forward, your hand reaching for something to grab onto but only finding air.
In good reflex, Daemon firmly gripped your arm, catching you before your face would meet the filthy floor and pulled you against him in a knightly gesture. You ended up with your face in the prince’s chest, the mix of sandalwood, pine and a tinge of red wine seeping through your nose and invading your senses. Gods, he smelled nice.
Had he not been your great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather, perhaps you would have taken advantage of the close proximity and stayed there a little longer.
A light flush creeped to your cheeks and you pulled away. ‘’My apologies.‘’