"Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced."
James Baldwin
—•—•—
Ever since Valaena had turned five namedays, her dreams suddenly became more vivid and clear. It started forming full pictures, sounds, and knowledge that came with it.
Her fragmented dreams became memories.
Though she was still missing parts of her memories as Susan Bones, Valaena began researching quietly and constantly.
Not because she wanted power. Not because she wanted to play at court politics.
But because House Targaryen was her only map.
Because she was a witch.
And magic was real.
To her, dragons were the only proof this world had ever been magical in the way she understood.
With a stolen book from her father's solar and reading secretly at night, Valaena read about Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters. About Balerion and Vhagar and Meraxes, names that sounded like spells. About the Dance of the Dragons and how a family could turn on itself until all that remained was ash and bitter memory.
She read about the last dragon dying almost half a century ago, small and sick and stunted, and she felt sadness form within her chest.
A magical creature that should've been majestic was reduced to a footnote.
She read about the eggs turning to stone. For she owned one, as well as every royal Targaryen does. She read about the attempts to hatch them with fire and blood and prayers. About failures stacked so high that people stopped hoping out loud.
And then she read about marriages.
Sibling to sibling. Uncle to niece. Cousin to cousin. Over and over, like a chant.
It should've shocked her more. But she remembered pureblood ideology. The way old families in the wizarding world had married in circles, clinging to "blood" like it was virtue to keep their magic powerful.
Different world. Same sickness.
Worse here, because it wasn't just whispered at dinner feasts. It was a policy. It was a dynasty. It was normal.
At least her parents and grandparents weren't siblings.
Valaena had stared at a family tree until her eyes blurred and thought, very plainly: This is how you breed madness.
She didn't know if the "Targaryen madness" was a curse or a pattern or simply what happened when too much power stayed trapped in too few hands for too long.
Maybe it was all three.
Either way, she didn't like it. And she didn't want any of her family to become proof.
Especially herself.
>~>~>~>~>
The story about the Doom had come from Adel.
Adel was her nursemaid, a rare woman who could read and had a soft-voice. She was patient with hands that smelled like the faint bitter edge of healing salves. She'd been the one sitting beside Valaena's bed that afternoon when the sun turned the stone walls gold, reading from a large leather-bound book that looked older than kingdoms.
"Tell me about Valyria," Valaena had asked, because she knew nothing about it except that it was her ancestors' homeland.
Adel had hesitated. Looked at her with those careful brown eyes like she was deciding how much a five year old could carry.
Then she'd started reading.
The Doom of Valyria. Fire that ate the sky. Mountains that exploded. A civilization that thought itself eternal, gone in a single night of screaming and ash.
Valaena had listened, legs tucked under her, fingers twisted in the edge of her blanket.
It sounded like the end of the world. It sounded like a nightmare.
But then Adel had said something that made Valaena's stomach twist even more.
"The Valyrians kept slaves, my princess. Thousands of them. They were Dragonlords as much as Masters of slaves. They built their empire on the backs of people and their magic."
Valaena's mouth had gone dry. And for a minute she thought she had heard misheard.
"S…Slaves?" She repeated, horrified.
"Yes, sweet one. In the mines, in the fields, in their great houses. Each Dragonlord had one."
She gaped, the words sat wrong. Heavy and ugly.
Valaena thought of house-elves.
The ones at Hogwarts, down in the kitchens where she used to sneak for treacle tarts and hot chocolate. The ones who'd been so happy to see her, who'd piled her arms with sweets and called her "Miss" like it was an honor. She'd liked them. She'd thought they were her friends.
Gods, her own household, the Bones, had one as well!
Tinny. A female house elf that was always eager to help and bring her cookies.
Susan Bones had never questioned why they worked without pay. It seemed normal to her. Why they served without choice. Why they bowed and scraped and acted like working for wizards was love and pride.
They had looked content and happy! They never looked as though they were being punished or forced to work at all.
And she'd—Susan had—accepted it. Because that's just how things were. It was as natural as breathing.
And—and—…. Something like bile got stuck in her throat.
The realization tasted like shame. An awful taste of regret and guilt.
She felt a sting in her eyes.
"Did the Targaryens free them?" Valaena had asked, voice small, desperate. "When they left Valyria?"
Adel had shook her head. "No, princess. Slavery still exists across the Narrow Sea. Astapor, Yunkai, Meereen—they sell people like cattle. It is good business there."
Valaena had felt something hot and furious rise in her chest.
Wrong. It was wrong.
She'd died fighting a war. Died trying to stop people who thought blood made them better, who killed and tortured anyone different.
And now she was one of them.
A Targaryen. Descended from slavers.
"Are there slaves here?" she'd whispered, almost crying. "In Westeros?"
"No," Adel had said firmly. "The First Men and the Andals banned slavery. It's forbidden in the Seven Kingdoms."
Small mercy for that.
Valaena had lain awake that night, staring at the ceiling, thinking about house-elves and people in chains, and wondering how many terrible things could hide behind pretty words like "tradition" and "the way things are."
She'd decided something then.
If she was going to be a Targaryen, she'd be a different kind.
>~>~>~>~>~>
In Susan's life, her family came in a small, tidy handful. Mum, dad, and aunt.
On the other hand, Valaena's family spilled everywhere. Too many footsteps. Too many doors. Too many voices calling for someone, or calling at someone.
It made her happy. But it also made her afraid.
Because more love meant more things to lose.
Her brothers, for example, were flames in different archetypes.
Daeron was Mist. Like mists that hide many things around you.
Daeron was the closed-off kind but masked it with playfulness. The kind that didn't shout until it was too late, because the shouting happened inside his head first.
He was nine now, and the eldest, which meant the adults had started looking at him with expectation. He used to tell everyone—who would listen—about his dreams that keep him awake. Not anymore.
Except Valaena. Daeron always talked about them to her. She had made sure of it.
It always happened the same way. He would find her when the halls were emptier, when the septa was busy, when their father was training and their mother was tired. He'd sit beside her like he belonged there, knees pulled in, pale hair falling into his eyes, and he'd speak like he was reading something written on the back of his eyelids.
"I saw a hall full of smoke," he said once, voice flat. "And people screaming. And a dragon made of glass."
Valaena's fingers tightened around the ribbon she'd been braiding into a wooden doll's hair. She kept her face soft.
"A pretty dragon?" she asked.
Daeron blinked, as if he hadn't expected her to answer at all.
"It wasn't pretty," he muttered. "It was… wrong. Like the world had bitten into itself."
The first time he'd tried to tell her, moons ago, she'd almost laughed. Not because it was funny. Because it sounded like Luna Lovegood and Professor Trelawney had gotten drunk together and written a bedtime story.
Only… Daeron wasn't trying to scare her. He was trying to breathe.
Divination wasn't neat. Her dreams had taught her that much, even if the lessons came scrambled. The future spoke in metaphor because plain truth cut too deep.
So she took Daeron seriously.
When his eyes went too far away, Valaena did what she could. She distracted him with small, solid things. Sweets stolen from the kitchens. A book with bright pictures. A game where they tried to make Aerion angry without letting Aerion realize they were doing it.
Sometimes she just held his hand.
Sometimes she said, quietly, so only he could hear, "Even if it's real, it's better not to dwell upon it and live in the present, dear brother."
Daeron always looked unsure what to do with words that sounded too old for her mouth.
But his shoulders loosened and Valaena counted that as winning.
Then there was Aerion.
Aerion was the personification of a Storm.
Storms was temperamental. Storm demanded attention. Storm didn't understand the comfort of silence.
Aerion was a brat and beautiful in the way a knife could be beautiful. He laughed loudly. He expected the world to laugh with him. When it didn't, he made it regret the choice.
He also, unfortunately or fortunately, adored her.
Not in a gentle way. In a possessive way. Like she was another bright thing in his hoard he claimed.
Valaena could work with that.
One evening, he stormed into her chamber and threw himself onto the rug with the dramatic suffering of someone who had been mildly inconvenienced.
"Valarr says he will have a dragon one day," Aerion announced.
Valarr was their cousin, Uncle Baelor's boy, and only a year older than her and the same age as Aerion. He'd started walking around like the Seven had personally appointed him to keep everyone righteous. It reminded her of boys in Gryffindor who'd discovered "bravery" and then used it as an excuse to be loud.
Valaena sat cross-legged by her toy chest, lining up wooden animals in a careful row. She had decided they were a herd and she was in charge, which felt soothing.
"Valarr says many things," she replied.
Aerion propped himself up on his elbows. His hair was silver-gold, his eyes bright with the hunger that always lived there. "He says when dragons return, he will ride the biggest."
Valaena tapped the wooden horse's head twice, a private little ritual. "You would pick the biggest."
"Of course! The biggest one means I would be the best," Aerion grinned, pleased, and was glad that she understood him without question.
Valaena looked at her brother. In her head, he burned—beautiful and dangerous and too eager to see what happened when you poked the world.
"I think I'd pick the kindest," she decided aloud.
Aerion stared. "Dragons aren't kind."
"They can be," Valaena insisted, because she had to believe it.
Aerion scoffed. "You're strange."
"Yes, you've said so many times. Now, play with me." Valaena agreed easily, then went back to arranging her animals, shoving one to Aerion's hands.
He accepted the wooden horse, started running it over her organized herd, and imperiously said, "Hmph, what would you do without me?"
"…."
Calm down, calm down. Don't get angry—don't mind it—
Aerion was still, for all his brightness, a child without proper guidance.
She intended to mold him. Change him. Or at least… blunt the worst edges before they cut someone open.
It was a ridiculous goal. It was also the kind of goal Hufflepuffs made without asking permission.
With kindness. With gentleness.
"….."
*SMACK*
"OuCH! ssS—Oi! What was that for?!"
And then there was Aemon.
Aemon was one year old. Practically a newborn. It was too early for her to know what archetype her little brother belonged to… but if she had to guess—it would be either the Sun or the Clouds.
Quiet. Watchful. A babe who didn't scream for attention the way most babes did, but stared at the world like it was a puzzle he meant to solve.
Valaena adored him immediately.
Sometimes she'd sit on the floor with him while the nursemaids chatted, and she'd make faces until he smiled, small and careful, like he wasn't sure he was allowed.
"You're the best one," she'd whisper, pressing her nose to his soft hair. "Don't tell the others."
Aemon would grab her finger with surprising strength and hold on. It made something tight in her chest loosen.
>~>~>~>~>~>
Keeping her brothers in check and trouble-minded free was not an easy job.
Her royal uncles helped, in their own ways.
Uncle Baelor was her favorite the way sunshine was everyone's favorite. Not because it was perfect, but because it made you believe you could survive the cold in warmth.
Prince Baelor was tall, strong, and terrifyingly competent. He had dark hair that came from her grandmother, Myriah Martell. His eyes were heterochromia—dark brown and indigo. He moved like a man who could fight and had fought, but he spoke like a man who'd learned that words won wars just as easily as swords did. He was as good as her grandsire.
When he came to Summerhall, the castle felt steadier.
He picked Valaena up once like she weighed nothing at all, his hands careful despite their size.
"Golden honey eyes," he said, studying her face. He didn't sound superstitious. He sounded curious. "You look like the songs."
"The songs lie," Valaena said promptly.
Baelor laughed. "Most do. But some tell truths sideways."
That felt like a lesson, even if he hadn't meant it to be. Truths sideways. Metaphor. Dreams.
It made her think of Daeron and the way no one wanted to hear what he saw. Both were categorized as Ravenclaws in her head. A bit of a habit that had come with her memories.
When Baelor put her down, he crouched so they were eye level. "Your father will teach you duty," he said. "Your mother will teach you mercy. I will teach you this."
He tapped her forehead once, gentle. "If you want to change a world, you must learn it first."
Valaena nodded like she understood, because she did. Mostly.
Uncle Aerys was different. He was lean and tall with all the traditional looks of a Targaryen. He wasn't amazingly handsome or terribly pretty, but he was easy on the eyes.
Aerys reminded her of Ravenclaws in the simplest way. He loved books the way other people loved wine. He looked like a man who had been born tired, all pale hair and sharp features and a gaze that drifted to shelves even mid-conversation.
He'd brought her a small book once, wrapped in cloth as if it were fragile treasure.
"Valyrian glyphs," he said softly, as though raising his voice might scare the knowledge out of the pages. "Simplified. For a child."
"I'm not that much of a child," Valaena said, automatically offended on principle.
Aerys's mouth twitched. "Of course not."
He was the only adult who didn't speak down to her and then act surprised when she didn't like it.
When she asked questions, he answered them. Not always fully. Not always kindly. But honestly.
"Why did the dragons die?" she asked him one evening, curled into a chair too big for her.
Aerys stared at the fire like it held a memory he didn't want. "Perhaps the world tired of them," he said. "Or perhaps we did."
"That doesn't make sense," Valaena complained.
Aerys glanced down at her. "Few true things do."
Uncle Rhaegel was… Rhaegel.
Sweet. Gentle. Strange in a way that made other adults shift their feet and speak carefully, as if they were approaching a skittish animal.
Valaena liked him immensely.
He had dark hair but with the most vivid violet eyes Valaena has ever seen. He was pretty man.
He called her "little star" too, but not like Aerion did. Rhaegel said it like it was a compliment he meant with his whole heart, like he couldn't imagine why anyone wouldn't want to be a star.
Once, she found him in a corridor humming to himself, smiling at a tapestry as if it had told him a joke.
"Kepa?" she asked.
Rhaegel looked down, eyes bright. "Byka qēlos," he said, delighted, like she was the answer to a riddle. "Did you know the dragons are sleeping under the stones?"
Valaena tilted her head.
"I thought they were dead," she replied curiously.
Rhaegel leaned in, conspiratorial. "Dead things can dream too."
That should've unsettled her. Somehow, it didn't.
It felt like someone else finally spoke her language.
>~>~>~>~>~>
In Susan's world, dragons had been a different kind of dangerous. Wizards didn't worship them. Wizards studied them, fenced them in, wrote laws about them. Dragons belonged to Romania and textbooks and tournaments.
A dragon egg meant trouble and work.
Here, a dragon egg meant hope and power.
Here, the Targaryen's laid them beside cradles with soft hands and softer voices.
It sounded… sweet.
It also sounded foolish.
Valaena knew what foolish hope did to people. It made them desperate. Desperate made them cruel.
She was told that her egg was given the same way: with meaning and people pretending it wasn't superstition.
It was large enough that even as a babe she could feel it looming, a presence in the room that pulled attention like a hearth.
Hers was white with gold highlights, and a wash of ice-blue along its curve like frozen twilight. It was magnificently beautiful.
"It is tradition," King Daeron II said, voice gentle but firm, when someone muttered about omens.
Her grandsire was not a young man. He moved carefully, as though his body had learned the cost of being king. But his eyes—dark and intelligent—softened every time they landed on her.
"A dragon's egg in a cradle," he murmured, almost to himself. "It is as common as a lullaby for our house."
Maekar stood behind the king, arms folded. "Common or not, it is stone."
"Many things are stone until they are not," the king replied, and there was something in his tone that made even Maekar fall silent.
The egg had been cold ever since. Cold like regret. Cold like the stones of Hogwarts in winter.
That is… until a few weeks ago.
It started as a stupid experiment, born from a child's desperation and an adult's memory of magic. Valaena would sit beside it at night, when her room was quiet and the castle felt far away, and she would press her palm to the shell.
Then she would push.
With whatever lived in her that still remembered how it felt to be a witch.
At first, nothing happened. But she continued pouring her magic into it whenever she hugged the egg out of boredom.
Then the egg stopped feeling like stone.
It did not warm. Not at once. But… less dead.
The change was subtle enough that she could've convinced herself she imagined it. Except she knew the difference between imagination and magic. She'd lived and died by that difference.
The shell took on a faint heat beneath her hand, the way a living thing did beneath fur or skin.
And under that warmth there was something else.
A pulse. Slow. Patient. Real. Whenever she closed her eyes to just—feel.
Valaena swallowed hard the first time she felt it. Her eyes burned.
She didn't cry. She wanted to, but she didn't. Crying was loud. Crying brought people. People asked questions. Questions killed secrets. And the moment anyone realized her egg wasn't dead, everything would change.
So she sat there instead, forehead pressed to the egg, breathing carefully, and thought of a line she'd once read that had felt dramatic at the time and now felt like truth carved into bone.
She couldn't hatch it with normal fire. That was obvious. This wasn't the same magic. This world didn't run on Latin and wandwork and Ministry-approved theory.
But it reacted to her.
To her magic.
That meant something.
It meant she had a thread, thin as spider silk, tying her to the old magic of this land.