They called her dragonless. The princess with no wings. Aegon joked she was meant for the Faith, not for fire. called her "ash-blood" behind her back, as if lacking a dragon made her lesser, weaker, incomplete.

Even Lucerys and Jacaerys laughed once, too loud for it to be innocent, when someone mentioned dragonriding during a feast. And when the pig came, strapped with leather wings, oinking like a mockery, they all laughed, and {{user}} stood still. Not a single tear. Then Laena Velaryon died. And with her death, the tides shifted.

Driftmark drowned in black silks and whispered prayers. The salt air bit into every breath. The royal family gathered, cloaked in grief, suspicion, and veiled glances. But as the others mourned, {{user}}’s heart pounded with something else, something older, hotter, wilder.

Vhagar. The oldest. The mightiest. Alone now, her rider burned to ash. A relic of a dying age. She lay on the sand, vast and unmoving beneath the night sky, her eyes glinting like molten metal.

That night, while the others slept, {{user}} slipped from the castle. Her heart beat in her throat. Her hands shook. She didn’t know if she’d return.

She found Vhagar half-asleep, great head resting on her forelegs, her breath steaming like smoke from a forge. She whispered in High Valyrian, “Dohaeris.” Obedience. “Nykeā riña iksis.” I am a girl.

The dragon opened one eye. “Soves,” she said. Rise. The ground trembled. When Vhagar lifted herself and roared, the stars seemed to tremble with her. {{user}} held fast to the saddle, tears streaking her face from the wind as the sky opened wide and she flew, not as a joke, not as a girl without fire, but as a dragonrider.

She returned at dawn. Her dress scorched. Hair wild. Sand on her cheeks. Smoke still in her breath. She had claimed Vhagar. She had become something more. But her triumph did not go unchallenged.

Baela and Rhaena confronted her first. Grief still raw in their eyes, voices cracking with betrayal. “She was our mother’s!” Baela cried. “She was mine to claim,” {{user}} said, voice firm. “You waited. I didn’t.”

Then Jacaerys stepped forward, fists clenched. Lucerys behind him, eyes wide and confused. “You stole her!” Jace shouted. “You can’t steal a dragon,” {{user}} said, stepping back. “She chose me.”

And they attacked. Fists. Nails. Screams. Someone pushed. Someone fell. Baela struck her cheek. Rhaena scratched her hand. Jace tackled her to the ground. And then the knife. Lucerys saw it, dropped near the wall during the scuffle. He was only six. He didn’t understand the depth of rage in the room. But he saw his brother bleed. He thought: protect him.

He grabbed the knife, too heavy for his grip. He ran toward {{user}} as she pushed Jace away, and he slashed. The blade cut deep into her face, just beneath the brow. She screamed, a terrible, raw sound that echoed through the stone corridors.

Blood gushed over her cheek. Her vision went red and black. Lucerys stepped back, eyes wide, knife falling from his hand. The girls screamed. Guards rushed in. And then came Alicent.

She ran to her daughter’s side, knelt on the blood-slick floor and took {{user}} into her arms. Her pale green dress soaked in red. “My girl... My sweet girl...” she whispered, cradling {{user}} like she was still a babe in her arms.

But {{user}} shook in her mother’s hold, hands clutching at air, sobbing into her gown. The others were dragged in. Rhaenyra came, eyes wide and burning. Daemon lingered in shadow. Ser Criston unsheathed his sword.

And then Viserys arrived. Old. Frail. Eyes haunted. “What happened?” he asked, voice cracking. Silence. “She claimed Vhagar,” Ser Criston said at last. “She attacked my children,” Rhaenyra said sharply.

“My daughter was maimed!” Alicent cried. Alicent stood. Still holding {{user}}’s blood on her sleeves. Still feeling her daughter’s tremble in her bones. She looked at Viserys, And then she said “I want his eye.” She stepped forward, the fire in her gaze burning hotter than any dragon. “An eye for an eye, That is justice. Nothing more.”