Chapter Text
“You are the sun, I am the moon; what light you see in me, is merely yours reflected through the length of night.”
Wiilam. C Hannan
One made of fire and born as the sun began to make itself know to the world, and one born of ice as the moon was rising on that same day. Very rarely do the gods of those who worship their inner fire and those who understand that the cold is nothing to be feared, collaborate. But when they do, theirs is the song of fire and ice.
The Emperor Daemon and Empress Aemma took the stepstones first. The triarchy were nothing compared to the might of Vhagar and Caraxes. Many would go on to compare their conquest to that of Aegon and his sister wives. Except unlike his ancestor the emperor Daemon would never seize giving credit to his empress. He loved her so much he named the empire in her honor, the Ammonite empire.
“Aemma birth this dynasty not just when she bore our son Rheagar Baelon, but when she told me that we deserved more. So, we took more. Her coin, her dragon, her blood, sweat and tears are in the foundation of this empire.
Empress Aemma would jokingly thank Viserys the fool king as he is known.
“We must never forget to thank my brother by law. For if not for him divorcing me, I would have never known this world. This empire and my beloved son would not have been born. So thank you to Viserys and his hastily married second wife.”
Brandon Stark. The history of Rhaegar and Cordelia, masters of all.
In the heart of liars.
“The Lord Elbert Arryn is dead.” Lynoel Strong Master of Laws announces.
Aemma’s brother Viserys muses. She had been close to her brother. The king wonders if his former wife would come back to Westeros, was she still married to his brother? Was she dead?She had abandoned him as soon as the gold she asked for was ferried on ships. Daemon had all but abandoned him as well, it had been six years since he had seen his brother, since his brother’s flames had flickered near him.
“Send a reply to the Vale, let they know that I will attend the funeral.” Viserys replied.
“Your grace, are you sure that is wise?” Lyman asked.
You are hated in the Vale was left unsaid.
“Actually, the funeral was weeks ago. The letter was just to let us know that Lady Jeyne would be making her way to the capital to swear to the king in a few moons.” Lynoel was quick to explain.
His mind flashes back to when he heard of his brother’s newly established empire. Of his subsequent marriage to Aemma.
Melios runs into the room.
“The Stepstones have been conquered. So have the three daughters.” The Master says. He is waving a letter around.
“Conquered? By whom?” Viserys asks out loud.
Their imperial majesties, Emperor and empress Daemon and Aemma of house Targaryen, emperor of the stepstones Lys, Myr and Tyrosh, ruler of the narrow seas.
In a newly forming empire.
Demon turns on the bed and he is quickly alert that his wife is no longer with him. He gets up and begins walking to where he knows she will be. His instincts are correct, for when he finds Aemma she is seated on the floor, staring down at their son in his crib, her hand placed on his small chest, feeling the rise and fall of it. Confirming that he lives. That their son is still alive. His hatchling Syrax, a golden goddess, watches over the little boy as well. He cannot fault his wife, for in her years of living, she has buried more children and suffered more loss than anyone should. But every day Rheagar Baelon lived was another day Aemma would be able to live through. Daemon prayed that the little boy grew up and did not die before them, otherwise his wife would set the world ablaze.
Daemon thinks back to his son’s birth.
The screams of pain from Aemma shocked Daemon to his core. Daemon in his two and four years never thought he’d be here. The truth was he would not be here, had his brother not behaved so abhorrently to his now wife and then cousin. That Viserys had chosen some Andal over their Valyrian cousin was truly a showing of his lack of intelligence. But what did Daemon know. He and Aemma had only been married three years. They had spent the first two building the land they had conqoured. Now they were going to add to their small family of two. He was so lost in thought that he did not realize when the midwife walked up to him and started speaking.
“Your imperial majesty, the empress is ready to see you now.”
Daemon straightened himself up and ran into the room. As he entered, he saw healers and maids all running around. Aemma was propped up on the bed, her golden sliver hair tied into a bun on top of her head, and her eyes glistening with tears. He walked over to her and the bundle she had wrapped in her arms. He sat down next to her and dropped a gentle kiss on her forehead.
Aemma handed him the bundle and he was in awe.
“Meet our son.” Aemma said.
Son, they had a son. A pearl of laughter burst out of Daemon.
Viserys had sworn up and down that his dream had told him that Aemma would bare no sons. That she was incapable of such excellence. But Daemon did not care about Viserys. Not when he was looking down at perfection.
Rhaegar, Daemon knew would most likely be an only child. For Daemon did not think that Aemma could bare the battlefield that was the birthing bed again. Daemon was fine with that, for their son was already more than he could have ever asked for. They did not name him Baelon as his first name, Aemma had already buried a Baelon, so they settled on Rhaegar Baelon. Aemma had insisted on Baelon as his second name.
“He is your son, your father’s grandson. Everyone should remember that every time they announce him.” Aemma had said.
He could not wait to watch his little dragon grow up, all the things Daemon would teach him, and the things he would teach Daemon. A kepa, Daemon was a kepa. He finally entered the room as well, sitting next to her as he had done for the last two moons. Holding her as she felt the heartbeat of their son.
Her little sun, Aemma calls him. The boy has the magic of old Valyria, the magic lost to dragon lords of ages ago. For he is the first since the doom to hatch a cradle dragon.
“He lives.” She says, so quietly Daemon’s heart breaks all over again. He kisses her forehead and holds her.
They are all living.
In a cold haven
Gillian is on her knees when Rickon finds her, her raven hair alight with moonlight. Her mouth working fast as she thanks the old gods for another day that their daughter lives. She lives Rickon thinks, his little wolf she lives. She had been born silent his little one, silent with her eyes closed. Cordelia, they’d named her, for when she opened her eyes they sparkled like little jewels. Since she was conceived when he and Gillian had visited the Manderley’s by the sea, jewel of the sea seemed fitting.
The healers say his wife cannot give birth anymore, but he doesn’t need another child. For Cordelia is perfect, the little girl in her two months of life had changed his world for the better. Rickcon was an Athair. His little wolf was one of a kind. Why try again when perfection was already achieved.
He sits by the window his little girls crib sits next to. The two direwolves they found on the day of her prayer, lay next to her, protecting her. Rickon laughs, the wolves have risen, all for his little girl. She lives and the wolves live once more. Rickcon had already commissioned matching ridding leathers, a wooden replica of ice was in his study, the one Gillian had gifted him when she told him of their impending parenthood, he knows that Gillian is upset, thinking that he would want a son, a boy. But all he wanted was to be a Tad a father. For Rickon wants to be what Benjen was to him and is to him.
His father is thrilled to be a grandfather, he already carries Cordelia around everywhere with him. His littlest wolf, he christens his granddaughter. Kissed by the stars the northerner’s whisper, for her eyes shine like them. The moon goddesses, they sing, for the moon was at its highest and brightest when she was born. The one who brought the wolves back.