The storm had begun the night before, a slow, rolling thunder that pressed against Dragonstone's stone walls and rattled its shutters. By morning, it had grown violent, winds lashing the sea, lightning striking the basalt cliffs, and the spray of the waves rising like ghosts against the keep. For Aemma Arryn, the storm was a bitter companion, and for Viserys, a trial of faith and fear.
I remember only pieces of that day, as a newborn does: the smell of salt and wet stone, the warmth of my mother pressed against the bed, and the endless cries that rose like a tide from the labor chamber. They called it the battlefield of women, and it was no lie. Midwives clambered from side to side, their hands swift, voices steady despite the river of blood and sweat. Each command, each careful push, each whispered prayer for strength carried the weight of generations.
Aemma's hair, dark as the Valyrian hills but streaked faintly with silver threads of anticipation, clung damp against her forehead. Viserys knelt beside her, hand grasping hers until the rings bit into his fingers, muttering to the gods to grant his queen strength. He had prayed in vain, as the first cries of life ripped through the chamber.
Rhaenyra came first. A small head, crowned with soft silver hair, pushed into the world with lungs that sounded too strong, too alive, too hungry. Her lilac eyes opened immediately, wide and assessing, like a tiny queen already measuring the room. The midwife, a wizened woman of Valyrian descent, lifted her and declared, "It must come now, my lady. Only a few more pushes." And with one final shudder, the second head emerged — a boy, my own body pressed between the warmth of the midwife's hands and the cold breath of the storm.
I came into the world with more noise than thought, yet even then, a part of me understood the calculations, the dynamics unfolding around me. I felt the press of my mother's exhaustion, the relief in Viserys's eyes, and the subtle awe in the room that the Targaryens had produced twins. Two children nearly identical in feature — the same lilac eyes, the same pale Valyrian hair, the same small mouth and angular jaw.
Viserys was allowed into the chamber shortly after, and his joy was tempered with fatigue. He knelt beside Aemma, brushing damp strands of hair from her face. "How are you, my love?" he asked.
"I am alive," she whispered, "weak, yes, but alive. And so are our children."
Viserys's smile was both tender and distracted. "Indeed they are. Rest now, my love. You have earned it."
I do not remember my cries, only the cold that seemed to cling to my skin as I was wrapped and placed beside my sister. The egg, pale and veined with gold, lay between us. Syrax stirred, her shell warm and trembling, hatching first in response to Rhaenyra's cries. The flame of life, the first breath, answered her before it answered me. My own egg remained still, a cold sentinel beside the warmth of her glory.
Daemon arrived late, stepping through the wet stone corridors just as the midwives were finishing their work. His eyes, sharp and quick, scanned the room before settling on the infants. He smirked faintly, brushing his damp hair from his forehead. "The storm is a good omen, they say," he muttered. "A girl first. A boy after. The world will remember her cries and forget yours, little prince."
Even then, before I could cry or move, I felt the weight of his words. Observation had begun; assessment had begun. I would learn, in pieces, that the world favored the first, the bright, the loud — the heir. And I would learn that to survive, I must listen, watch, and wait.
The servants whispered as they moved about, crossing themselves and offering quick blessings. My mother rested, exhausted, and Viserys finally allowed himself to breathe, brushing his fingers over my sister's hair as if to measure her worth. The room smelled of salt, iron, and life's relentless insistence.
I lay beside her, pale, unnoticed, a shadow in her brilliance. Yet even then, I felt the stirrings of thought, the calculation of action. I felt the beginnings of the twin bond that would define us both: her fire, my mirror.
Aemma's gaze lingered on me for a moment, soft but measured, before returning to Viserys. Perhaps she saw the same quiet fire that Daemon would later recognize — a mind that watched without need for approval, that felt without need for affection.
The midwife placed Syrax carefully in Rhaenyra's arms. The tiny dragon pressed her hot body against the newborn's chest, curling around her as if to guard her from all the world's storms. My egg did not move. I could feel its cold, solid weight beside me, a promise yet unfulfilled. And I understood — even as a newborn, I understood — that patience was as necessary as breath, and that strength often lay dormant, waiting for the right moment to awaken.
Viserys finally kissed Aemma's brow. "We are fortunate," he said softly, "to have them both."
Aemma smiled faintly, eyes already closing. "One will burn bright, and one will reflect the flame."
Daemon laughed softly at the phrasing, shaking his head. "Prophetic already, it seems. Better make sure the reflection does not bite too hard."
I did not move, did not cry, but I listened. Even in that earliest hour, I began to watch — to measure the tides, the flames, the hearts around me. I had died once before, in a world far away, a pitiful death from a balcony's edge. Now, pressed against the cradle, I felt again — pressed down, constrained, but alive. And I knew that I would not be anyone's shadow.
The storm outside continued, lightning striking the cliffs, the sound of waves filling the great hall, and for the first time in my life, I felt that the world was something to be studied — measured, manipulated, and, if necessary, mastered.
Even then, my dragon slept.