A storm, which the people claimed was the worst they had ever seen in their lives, ended the four moons of peace and happiness that the Targaryens had managed to find after losing their home, their crown, and the people they cherished.
The night was very long for them, and what frightened them more than the thundering clouds that seemed to announce the end of the world were the cries of the former Queen, Rhaella Targaryen.
The maesters had told her after Viserys' birth that she should not take the risk again, but she had kept it from everyone.
She had always known that she would not survive this childbirth, but once Azaerys confirmed to her that her unborn daughter would live, she stopped thinking about death.
Perhaps it was because she knew that everyone would be safe with Azaerys to look after them.
The Dowager Queen spent the last four moons of her life with her family, passing nearly every hour of the day surrounded by them. Yet most of her time was devoted to Viserys, her sweet boy, who loved her with all his heart.
She knew that he would be the most distraught after her death, and right after she birthed her last child, and saw her face, she spoke to her grandson, who had held her hand through the entire ordeal.
"Azaerys… Take care of Viserys."
Those were her last words.
She fell unconscious, and an hour later she passed away, leaving behind a suffocating sadness.
Rhaella had been right.
Her death struck Viserys the hardest, and her beloved son cried so cruelly that it tore everyone's heart.
No one could console him. No one.
And Azaerys did not step forward either.
Only Ashara knew that, as brave as he pretended to be, he was torn inside as well.
She caught him sitting in a dark corner of a corridor, hugging his knees, sobbing as the knights grew agitated and searched for him everywhere in the castle.
His body trembled with every breath, and when she wanted to step forward, her heart skipped a beat as she saw the shadows dancing behind him. It was then that she noticed that every time his body shook, the walls of the castle trembled ever so slightly too.
She had never been so frightened in her life, and now, she was frightened of him.
Ashara hesitated and stepped back, but then tears welled in her eyes and she rushed forward, fighting against her fears, and embraced him.
As soon as she felt his familiar warmth, her fears dissolved.
"I failed to save her, Ashara. I failed my Munazma…" she heard him whisper, followed by something he said in Ancient Valyrian which she could not understand. Hearing those words, her heart was even more torn than when she had heard Viserys' cries.
She could not imagine the depth of the pain and self-blame he was drowning in, and the tears that flowed from her eyes were not for Rhaella's loss, but for his suffering.
"You cannot save them all, Azaerys. We are not gods," she told him, unaware that her words would bring changes in her Azer she could never have imagined.
The two of them remained locked together, weeping, for an hour before Arthur finally found them. Or perhaps Azaerys finally allowed someone to find him.
Her brother stopped a respectful distance away, not disturbing them, yet his presence made the Young King stop crying.
She felt him plant a kiss upon her shoulder before he stood up and wiped away his tears. Then he offered her his hand, wearing the lightest of smiles.
Ashara did not know why, but she grew angry at him in that moment.
Why did he have to pretend to be so brave?
However, she was not cruel enough, nor foolish enough, to speak her mind when he was so weak and in need of her support.
She stumbled as she rose to her feet, but he steadied her.
"Make arrangements for a funeral pyre, Ser Arthur. The inner courtyard. Only family and our most trusted will attend. Get the oak wood from that storage," he ordered.
"Your Grace…" Arthur hesitated. "It is still raining."
"I am aware," Azaerys said, and walked past him. Ashara quickly chased after him.
"Stay here, Ashara," he stopped to tell her, just as he was about to step outside the castle, into the rain, and descend the stairway that led down to the island.
"No. I am coming with you." She shook her head and slowly followed him.
Ashara knew that he had slowed his pace so that she would not slip on the steps, and the thought warmed her heart.
It was very early in the morning, and they could already see the wreckage of the Targaryen fleet, yet she was not worried.
Azaerys had already warned them that the storm would come, and so, the vessels they needed had been sent away days earlier to survive the disaster.
She did not know where he was going or what he intended to do. She was simply too afraid to leave him alone.
Soon, however, her mind was caught by something strange when they stepped on the wet ground.
Why were their feet not sinking into the mud?
She stared at Azaerys' boots, which were free of dirt, and she was sharp enough to understand that magic was at work.
"Cannot you shield us from the rain too?" she asked, trying to spark conversation.
"I do not want to," he answered lightly, and kept walking.
After a long walk, away from prying eyes, they finally reached their destination, and Ashara gazed in confusion at the lonely tree.
"Why have we come here?" she asked, glad when he chose to answer her.
"It is a weirwood tree," he told her.
"But it has no face upon it," she said, confused.
"No one ever carved one," he replied, then raised his hand towards the high branches.
Ashara's mouth dropped open in shock when the tree lowered its crown to him, allowing him to snap off a few branches, before it straightened again.
Azaerys stepped forward and pressed his palm to the trunk, and what she witnessed next was even more astonishing.
One by one, he drew out perfect cylindrical pieces of firewood, simply by touching the bark, and when he had collected exactly nine, he gently stroked the tree, perhaps in gratitude, or in consolation.
She said nothing as they walked back to the castle. Her eyes kept drifting to the blood-red wood, and the trickles of sap that resembled blood.
"You are frightened of me," she heard him say, and she panicked.
"I am not." She shook her head quickly. "I am just… curious. I do not know what to think or ask."
"I see." He nodded in understanding. "The wood of the weirwood is an integral part of certain blood rituals. Its presence greatly raises the chances of success. The finest wood is that which has been drawn forth with the tree's permission. It holds great power."
"Oh…" She felt truly uneasy now, but not of him. "Are those trees… alive?" She swallowed hard before asking.
"Of course they are. Every tree that is not dead is alive." He smiled, and just as she grew irritated, he added, "Yes, they have spirits, souls. Not as intelligent as us, but far more sentient than some beasts. And no, no ghosts or wraiths to haunt you. At least, not in this one."
"You are frightening me!" she blurted out, and regretted it instantly when he lowered his head.
"Sorry," he murmured softly, and her heart nearly broke at his reaction.
"I am not frightened of you, Azer. I will never be," she told him, and waited for his reply, but even after several moments, he said nothing.
Only when they had started climbing the steps back to the castle did he stop.
"You promise?" he asked, his voice hushed, as if afraid another might overhear.
But there was no one nearby.
"Yes. I promise." She stepped forward and hugged him from behind. "I promise," she whispered again.
"Thank you." He smiled faintly and resumed climbing, slipping free of her embrace.
Ashara stayed in her place, watching him ascend, and felt a strange ache in her heart, a yearning to hold him again, and to never let go.
The Dayne lowered her head, and when she remembered that this boy was her future husband, her cheeks grew warm.
"Ash?" she heard him call, and she raised her head to smile at him.
"Coming."
A few hours later, inside the inner courtyard, a funeral pyre was built, though the wood grew wet beneath the rain.
Azaerys had forbidden the use of any fuel to help it burn, and though confused, his command could not be disobeyed.
Viserys, clutching his dragon egg and still shedding tears, stared at his beautiful mother, lying lifeless on the pyre, rain soaking her gown and hair. Suddenly, he felt a hand upon his shoulder.
"Come," Azaerys said as he walked past, and the prince followed silently. "Place them around your mother."
Viserys did not understand why he was being told to lay this strange wood about her body, but even through his tears, he obeyed, setting down the red firewood as instructed.
"Now place your dragon egg by her side."
Viserys panicked and clutched the egg tightly, but when he saw Azaerys place his own silver egg upon the other side of their mother, he hesitated, then chose to trust him.
By now, everyone understood what this meant, and even Viserys' tears began to dry.
"We Valyrians do not bury the bodies of our beloved. Our blood is magical, our flesh is magical, and this is done to prevent others from using our dead in their rituals," Azaerys told his little uncle, though all gathered in the courtyard heard him.
"Over time, a tradition formed, where those who lost a loved one would hatch dragon eggs upon the funeral pyre, in their honour," he added, then drew a dagger from beneath his cloak.
Ashara winced as he cut his right palm, yet none dared stop him.
One by one, he pressed his bleeding hand to each block of red firewood, then knelt at the feet of his Munazma.
Lowering his head, he whispered his farewell in Ancient Valyrian, pouring out all the love he bore for her. And when they saw his tears fall, Viserys bravely held back his own.
"Perzys anogar…" he whispered, his voice heavy, as he pressed his hand to the wood. In the next moment, the entire pyre roared alight.
Viserys and the others stumbled back in fright as the flames leapt into the sky, until they could no longer see Rhaella.
All they could see was a brilliant red blaze, flickering with gold, and in the heavens a red comet, the bleeding star, appeared. Yet it was hidden by the dark clouds over Dragonstone, and only Azaerys was aware of it.
The instant the eggs hatched, he heard the cries of two dragonlings in his mind, and a smile curved his lips.
"Fire and Blood," he greeted them, and their response rang back to him.
"Your Grace!" Gerold shouted in alarm when he saw Azaerys thrust his hand into the flames, but he froze when no pain touched the Young King's face.
Viserys, close behind him, stared in shock as two tiny creatures clambered up Azaerys' arm, their scales glistening.
The others soon wore the same expression as the boy, when Azaerys stepped back and the dragonlings perched upon his shoulders.
It was a sight beyond belief.
Ser Willem Darry was so stunned that he dropped to his knees, and the knights, perhaps misled by his action, mistaking it for a command, knelt as well.
They did not rise until the funeral ended, when Azaerys ordered it.
And now they looked upon him as though he were no longer a mortal.