Summary: Astarion, the Rogue Prince of House Targaryen, would do anything to restore his family back to glory. Even if that's means drowned the seven kingdoms in fire and blood.
Pairings: Ascended Astarion x Tav
Tags: Daemon!Ascended Astarion, Rhaenyra!Tav, trans/genderfluid tav (But Tav hasn't transitioned in this chapter, not yet, they do it later) Typical Targaryen Incest, dramatic political disaster, dragons :D
Note: This is just chapter one, the rest I'll update on my ao3 here:
but maybe I'll update on tumblr too who knows
CHAPTER 1: FLYING BACK HOME
The Targaryen were not supposed to debase themselves with obeying laws of the Andals or mate with inadequate people; they were the heirs of Valyria, and the last of dragon lords.
His family stood above all, and yet…
Astarion glared at his brother behind a cup of fine Redwyne arbor. Their family had drifted so far away from their noble origin.
Aegon I made a terrible mistake when he adopted Andals custom and religion, just so the people he already conquered would accept him as king. Fire and blood should have been enough to establish their rule! Why did their family need to grovel before glorified gardeners and rock miners?! Now their heritage had been reduced to nothing but smithereens ashes. The Faith went as far as waging a war to strip them of their sacred bloodline!
Despite his faults and cruelty, Maegor did the right thing when he fought back with all the rage of a dragon. He should have burned the Starry Sept of Oldtown and salted its ground.
Astarion slammed the cup onto the table, drawing curious glances and whispers in his direction.
He knew behind their smiles and delicate fan, these courtiers accused him of disloyalty.
They saw him as nothing but an opportunistic predator, biding his time to steal the iron throne. The Rogue Prince would make a better monarch. But he had no intention of betraying his own blood. Astarion only wanted to be made Hand, purge these political pests at court away from his brother’s side, strengthen the royal house, and return their family to its roots.
Amongst these flocks of dull ladies and oafish men, Isobel Hightower stood still, wearing a gown with a risque front cut, picking on her nails while the King listened to the plight of petitioners.
Astarion scoffed. Poor girl, being paraded around like a cheap Lysene whore.
Ketheric stood behind Isobel, looming over his daughter, holding tight the invisible leash coiling around her neck. Their gaze met. Ketheric regarded him with silent indifference, perhaps bordering on disdain, and Astarion answered with a satisfied smile. The Rogue Prince relished at the fact that his mere presence soured Hightower’s day. He would give anything to see this man drop dead.
More people poured into the throne room to grovel at the feet of their king, begging for pittance or justice. Oh! Bandits ransacked my poor, backward village that no one cared about. Lord Duskendale dared to refuse my daughter after his son defiled her honor! What would become of her?! Same old unlucky peasants and jilted nobilities. Nothing and no one piqued his interest.
It was all so dull. He had half the mind to leave for Dragonstone until…
Astarion beamed when he saw a familiar figure with a fine silver — almost blonde hair amongst unremarkable colors, and purple eyes that couldn’t be found in any other lineage.
Astarielle stole a glance in his direction. The girl had grown into a fine lady since the last time he saw her. Taller and graceful, she carried herself with the confident gait of a princess who couldn’t be bothered to entertain fools or those who seek to bring her down.
Some snickered at the pale, silver scales that framed her sharp cheekbones, trailing across her temples and jawline in an elegant pattern. Some grimaced at the gruesome scar Vermithor’s flame left behind. Its edges were rough and uneven, stretched from her temple down toward her lips, nearly covering the entire right side of her face. The burn had stripped away some of her facial scales, leaving patches of raw skin that would never quite heal.
People pitied and japed at the princess’s misfortune. But for Astarion, they were the marks of a true dragon. Targaryen were not immune to fire, yet Astarielle survived Vermithor’s wrath.
She went to her father’s side, presenting herself as a dutiful princess, but her eyes never left his.
Ser Harold Westerling sucked his breath when he saw Astarion perched on his brother’s throne, the very image of a man long suspected of having treasonous intent.
“Gods be good.” Westerling exhaled.
The long-suffering Kingsguard had no patience left in his advanced bones to entertain whatever Astarion was doing, but Astarielle thought her uncle looked at home on that monstrous chair.
Sunlight filtered through the window behind Astarion, casting shadows, and the light fell upon him just in the right way, catching the edge of his pale hair. He sat lazily, one leg crossed over the other, a hand draped over an armrest as though the throne was carved for him alone. Thousands of swords melted together, some jutting out, resembling shark teeth, still sharp enough to cut a man in half.
Yet, Astarion remained as the most dangerous thing in that emptied room. Astarielle felt something she couldn’t quite name—admiration, perhaps, or envy.
He belonged there, she thought, her fingers tightening around the skirts of her yellowish gown. More than her father. More than anyone.
“It’s alright, Ser.” Astarielle reassured Ser Harold before she made her way to the throne.
Her pulse and heartbeat quickened. The room held its breath. One step and another, the princess approached the jaw of an awaiting beast, with eyes as red as the blood wyrm he rode.
“What do you think you are doing, uncle?” Astarielle asked in High Valyrian.
“Sitting, this could well be my chair one day.”
“Not if you are executed for treason.” Despite their disagreements, she knew her father wouldn’t subjugate his brother to such a fate. “You haven’t come to court in an age.”
Astarion sighed. “Court is dreadfully boring.”
“Then why come back at all?”
She stood still, a few steps away from the rows of sharp blades once belonging to kings who bent their knees or burnt before Aegon I and his sisters.
“I heard your father was hosting a tournament in my honor,” said Astarion.
“The tournament is for his heir.”
Astarion leaned forward. The beast had stirred. And he held something that clinking in his hand.
“Just as I said.” The Rogue Prince retorted.
Astarielle tiptoed a bit, daring to challenge him. “His new heir.”
Astarion stood up from the throne, approaching her. The facade that he used to intimidate his enemies and ward people away slowly melted into a familiar warmth.
“Until your mother brings forth a son, you are all cursed with me.”
“Then I shall hope for a brother.” Astarielle half teased.
Now Astarion had taken off his mask. All that’s left was a man who regaled her with tales from beyond the narrow sea and affection. So often drifted away, yet always returned.
“I brought you something.” He smiled, showing her a black necklace made of steel beads and a round pendant with glittering rubies. “Do you know what it is?”
Astarielle inspected the jewel, stroking its precious gems and turned the pendant around. It felt smooth to the touch, cold as northern snow, heavier than gold.
“It’s Valyrian steel, like Dark Sister.”
Astarion yanked the necklace away. He blinked; once, twice, like a cat ready to pounce on its prey or an artist admiring their muse to paint.
His voice turned into a whisper. “Turn around.”
Astarielle turned her back on him. Astarion always seemed larger than life. Even his shadow stretched long and far, encasing her body. He smelled of bergamot and brandy, expensive perfume, the smokey trace of Caraxes’s flame, and blood. The faint stench of blood had seeped into his bone marrow, defining him as a person, and she wondered if he even cared at all.
She took off her golden necklace, a gift for her twelfth name day from Casterly Rock. It could never compare to Valyrian steel.
Astarielle bit her lower lips, suppressing a shiver when he clasped the ancient jewelry around her neck. His fingertips brushed on her exposed collarbone, lingering more than necessary.
“Now, you and I both own a small piece of our ancestry.”
