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Chapter Text

The following paragraphs are an excerpt of the book presented by the Citadel of Oldtown to the Prince of Dragonstone and his bride as a wedding gift.

“… As such, here follows an account of the members of House Targaryen, along with the various noble houses of Westeros that can boast of having the blood of the dragon in their lineage.

At the time I set pen to parchment, it is the 216th year since the Conqueror turned six kingdoms to one. The Head of House Targaryen is King Aerys, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, the second son of King Daeron II, remembered into the histories as “The Good.” King Daeron’s consort was Queen Myriah of House Nymeros-Martell, whose union, arranged by King Baelor, brought peace between the Iron Throne and Dorne after years of war. By later marrying his sister Princess Daenerys to his wife’s brother Prince Maron, Daeron II accomplished the dream of all his predecessors by bringing Dorne into the rule of the Iron Throne, thus making Westeros whole.

From the line of King Daeron and his Dornish Queen came four sons. The eldest, Baelor, Prince of Dragonstone and Hand of the King, was widely regarded as the perfect heir, possessing every quality anyone could wish in a king. As good a diplomat as he was a warrior, the prince wed the eldest daughter of Lord Donnor of Blackhaven, the Lady Jena of House Dondarrion, and gave her two sons, the princes Valarr and Matarys. Tragically, Prince Baelor was slain in a trial of seven by his brother Maekar, and his sons, along with his wife, mother, and father died of the Great Spring Sickness late in the year 209AC. Although Prince Valarr was wed to Kiera of Tyrosh and Prince Matarys was betrothed to Lady Daenaera Celtigar, none left issue, making the crown pass to their uncle.

King Aerys, King Daeron’s second son, succeeded his father. An erudite man with a bookish and quiet disposition, the king has been wed to his cousin, Queen Aelinor Penrose, for decades, though they have had no children. If accounts of the court are to be believed, the king shuns his lady wife’s bed along with any other woman (or man) who seeks the king’s attentions, preferring to spend his evenings and nights reading in the great library of the Red Keep. Aside from this point of tension, the King and Queen do seem to get along well, and His Grace holds enough love for his lady wife to swiftly refuse his small council’s attempts to set Queen Aelinor aside.

Upon ascending to the throne, the king named his younger brother Rhaegel, King Daeron’s third son, Prince of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne. Frequently described as “meek, mad and sickly,” the prince’s most infamous moment was when he was seen dancing naked through the halls of the Red Keep, scandalizing lords, ladies and servants alike. Despite this, his friends and family would often describe him as sweet and caring, doting on his wife and children with a care few men can be said to publicly showcase. He wed the Lady Alys of House Arryn, and together they had the twins Aelor and Aelora, born in 199AC, who on the order of King Daeron were betrothed as children, and the Princess Daenora, born in 214AC. Sadly, Prince Rhaegel would not get to spend much time with this new daughter, as the Stranger came to claim him during a feast made to celebrate the beginning of the year 215AC, wherein the prince choked on a lamprey pie and died. Following this tragedy, Prince Rhaegel’s son Aelor was made the new heir by the king, and rules on Dragonstone as its current Prince, where he lives with his sisters and mother.

The youngest of King Daeron’s sons, Prince Maekar, rules as Prince of Summerhall, a holding gifted to him by his father for his role in the victory at the Battle of the Redgrass Field. The most unpopular of the brothers, Prince Maekar can only be described as a man of few words and fewer friends, quick to find offense and who never forgets a slight, real or imagined. His temperament, along with the fact that many think him cursed for having slain his brother in combat, has left him isolated from the rest of the nobility, and his brother’s appointment of the bastard Brynden Rivers as Hand of the King left him estranged from the rest of his family, as the prince left the court in protest. When young he wed Lady Dyanna Dayne, with whom he had four sons and two daughters before her unfortunate death in the birthing bed: Prince Daeron, named after his grandfather, Prince Aerion, currently exiled in the Free Cities, Prince Aemon, who was sent in his youth to the Citadel of Oldtown to become a maester, Princess Daella, the prince’s eldest daughter, Prince Aegon, his youngest son, and Princess Rhae, the youngest of his children.

Thanks to the marriages of several Targaryen princesses outside the family, quite a few noble houses can boast of having the blood of the dragon in their veins, the foremost being House Velaryon, a house with a storied Valyrian heritage who has several times intermingled their line with that of the Targaryens. The last union between these houses was the marriage of Baela Targaryen with Lord Alyn Velaryon. From this union came two sons who continued the line of their house, and a daughter, the Lady Laena, named after the princess’ mother, who had herself been a Velaryon with a Targaryen mother.

Lady Laena wed Lord Philip Penrose of Parchments, giving him four sons, Petyr, Robert, Davos and Ronnel, and a daughter, Aelinor. The first three sons died fighting in the First Blackfyre Rebellion, but the youngest lived on to wed Princess Elaena Targaryen, and the daughter Aelinor wed her cousin Aerys Targaryen, adding yet another royal match to House Penrose. Princess Elaena gave her husband a son, along with three daughters who were each wed to the houses Baratheon, Velaryon, and Celtigar. From her first marriage to Lord Ossifer Plumm, the Princess also gave birth to his heir, Lord Viserys Plumm.

Another House of note that has received the hand of a Targaryen princess is House Nymeros-Martell. The current Prince of Dorne, Maron Nymeros-Martell, took to wife King Daeron’s sister, Princess Daenerys, finally uniting Dorne and the Seven Kingdoms. Their son and heir, Prince Mors, is wed to Lady Alora Caron, their union being part of an attempt to build good relations between Dorne and the Marcher Lords of the Stormlands and Reach, which included several houses from both sides of the border marrying each other. Prince Maron and Princess Daenerys also have two daughters, the princesses Myriah and Naerys, who were wed to houses Dayne and Toland respectively.

The remaining houses can claim their ties to House Targaryen through Lady Baela’s younger twin sister, Rhaena Targaryen, who wed a younger son of House Hightower and had six daughters by him. The eldest, Alerie, wed her cousin from the main line, Lord Bradwell Hightower, whilst the second daughter, Denise, wed the Head of House Oakheart. The third daughter, Lynesse, chose the life of a septa, and the fourth, Alysanne, wed the Head of House Merryweather. Lastly, the twins Ceryse and Patrice wed the Heads of Houses Royce and Caswell respectively, though the latter marriage was childless.

Such is the state of House Targaryen and its subjects in the second decade of the second century of its rule over this continent. In Aelor, Prince of Dragonstone, House Targaryen has a young, charismatic, and energetic heir, ready to carry on the legacy of the blood of Old Valyria with the assistance of his beloved sister-wife.

And thanks to their efforts, if the gods are good, this very book will soon become outdated.”

Chapter Text

It is the 217th year since Aegon’s Conquest and King Aerys, First of His Name, sits the Iron Throne.

Having no children of his body, His Grace had first recognized as his heir his younger brother Rhaegel, naming him Prince of Dragonstone. After Rhaegel’s unfortunate death at a feast, the King named his nephew Aelor, Rhaegel’s only son, as the new heir.

The Stranger was not done with House Targaryen however, and the Prince of Dragonstone was slain in a grotesque mishap by the hand of his own twin sister and wife, Aelora, under circumstances that left her mad with grief.

In a decision that has been met with much controversy, King Aerys has decided to name Aelora as his new heir, making her the first Princess of Dragonstone in nearly a century…

Chapter Text

“Princess! Princess!” they pleaded as they knocked on the door. “Princess please let us in!”

She ignored them as she lay on the ground, hands clasping her knees, tears running from her eyes to the grey stones that made up the floors of her bedchambers. She did not want them there, nor anyone else for that matter. All she wanted was to curl up into a ball and disappear from this world.

“Princess, please!” one of her ladies begged again -- Alannys Massey maybe – though she couldn’t really tell very well; she couldn’t distinguish the voices over the sounds of pain and grief coming out of her mouth. “Princess, please open the door; we only wish to help you.”

The only thing louder than her ladies or her cries were her thoughts. She could hear the sound of the horses galloping, she could hear the sound of the wind howling as they rode around the Dragonmont, and most painful of all she could hear him. His laughs, his taunts as he claimed he would win the race, and finally his last scream.

It was meant to be a simple race, like the ones they had done countless times in King’s Landing and through the edges of the Kingswood. After their father’s death, upon being made Prince of Dragonstone by their uncle, Aelor had wanted to move to the island and make it their family’s residence until he became king. Though they lived in the Red Keep, they did visit the island from time to time, and they had fond memories of their times there. Aelor had always felt an affinity to the place. His duties as the new heir had not allowed them to leave the court immediately, and their mother insisted on staying for at least some time, so they could become familiar with the nobility they would one day rule over, as well as the machinations of court and council. Eventually, he finally convinced Mother to relocate their household to Dragonstone, using the justification that ruling over the island and its vassals personally would prepare him to rule better than merely observing small council sessions.

The day they arrived had been the happiest Aelor had looked since their father’s death. He had the idea to set up a race, both to unwind from the journey and to refamiliarize themselves with the paths and villages of the island. It would be the same as all the other ones they had done before: two horses, each carrying two people -- one to ride the horse, the other holding a slingshot they would use to throw pebbles at their adversaries in order to slow them down. Aelor had always been the better rider between the two, while Aelora had the better aim, so as always, they got two courtiers of similar age to race with them. Lady Jeyne Bar Emmon was recruited to ride her horse, and Ser Joseth Quince to shoot his slingshot. The race would start and end at the gates of Dragonstone and go around the Dragonmont. Jeyne and Joseth had warned about the length of the race and the dangers of doing it so close to the volcano, but the twins had always had a passion for dangerous games (hence the slingshots), so they dismissed their concerns.

We should have listened. Gods, we should have listened.

It happened little more than half a mile from the gates of Dragonstone. Aelor had taken the lead from the beginning, but Aelora was not far behind, and while Joseth’s shots barely ever hit them, Aelora’s always found their mark, so much so that eventually they surpassed them. Aelora wished to widen the gap even further, to humble her brother as revenge for the taunts and japes he had screamed at her and Jeyne when he was winning, and so aimed her slingshot at him.

The idea was for the pebble to hit Aelor’s arm or even his hand, but instead it hit the horse in its eye – the horse lost its footing and fell, launching both men high into the air.

Ser Joseth was lucky to land where he did. A few inches to the side of where he hit the ground was a deep fissure exuding smoke.

Aelor was less lucky.

How could such a thing even happen?

That was the question that plagued Aelora’s every waking moment. The gash in the earth was narrow, barely wide enough for a grown man to pass through, yet it had almost seemed to swallow Aelor. His scream as he flew through the air pierced her ears still, but the sounds that came after were worse. Aelora heard the sound of cloth and flesh ripping and bones snapping as they hit the walls of the fissure, and soon after, a loud thud.

It took close to an hour to take his body out. The state of it when the soldiers finally brought him up was an image that would be ingrained in Aelora’s head for the rest of her days. His fine clothes were stained with blood and covered in grey and brown dust, sporting several rips through his arms and legs, which were twisted in unnatural ways. His neck was broken, his skin was red, and almost looked like it was peeling off in certain places. There were shards of bone piercing through his skin and jutting out of him.

The worst part was his face. His once handsome face that Aelora had so loved. The first face she had conscious memory of. The face of the man she had shared a womb, a name-day, a family, and a bed with. The face of the man she had loved for her entire life and swore she would see grow old next to her. The face of the man who she had hoped would soon enough give her children. That face was now lifeless, his blue eyes still open wide, his mouth agape, frozen in an expression that could only be described as terrifying. Blood trickled down his nose, mouth, and ears, staining his light blonde hair.

“Aelora.” The commotion outside her bedchamber’s doors had stopped, her ladies now silent, with only one voice speaking in a firm yet soft tone. “Open the door, sweetling.”

No .

Aelora felt her chest getting heavier and breathing became more difficult.

Not her, I can’t look at her right now. Can she even stand to look at me? I killed her son!

The thought that hadn’t left her mind for the past week was reignited yet again. ‘Kinslayer’ was what she was. Those who killed their own kin were cursed by the Gods, it was said. And she believed it. She would be haunted by the memory of what she had done for the rest of her life.

The doors suddenly burst open. Aelora turned her face towards it to see that Ser Donnel of the Kingsguard, who had come to Dragonstone with her family, had apparently forced an entry by breaking the door with his sheer strength, no doubt at the behest of her mother.

Alys Arryn barged in and looked at her. Her expression betrayed none of her thoughts, always the epitome of grace and composure that she was, even in the direst of situations. But the redness in her eyes, and the bags under them, told Aelora what her mother was truly feeling.

“My Ladies, Ser Donnel, I would like a moment alone with my daughter please.” As she said it, each of them bowed and left the room, with Ser Donnel closing the door on his way out.

Neither of them moved, both standing still looking at each other. When the sight of her mother became too much to bear Aelora hid her face in her knees and closed her eyes, her tears now staining her white undertunic instead of the ground. She stayed that way for a few seconds before feeling arms wrapping around her, embracing her as her mother’s lips kissed her head. Aelora’s cries turned to wails.

“It’s not your fault, dear,” her mother said as she stroked her hair. “It was an accident, a terrible mishap. I don’t blame you, and you should not blame yourself either.” Her words only served to exacerbate Aelora’s grief.

How can she not blame me? I shot the stone into the horse’s eye; I caused the fall. Aelor died because of me. I killed him! Why do you not blame me; I murdered your son!

Her mother then took Aelora’s face in her hands and kissed her forehead. She looked her in the eyes. “Listen daughter, you must be strong now. I know the pain you feel. I felt it not too long ago when your father died, and I feel it now that Aelor is dead too, but you must not let it consume you. You must find in yourself the strength to live. I understand it may seem like I’m asking you to move a mountain at this moment -- hells, what I’m asking you is surely harder -- but you must resist the urge to stay laying on the ground until you die. You must do it, if not for yourself or for the memory of your brother, then for your sister who still lives and needs you now more than ever. And for me as well, who have already lost a husband and a son. I cannot lose my daughter as well.”

Aelora tried to answer but couldn’t find in herself the strength to speak. Instead, she buried her face in her mother’s neck and wept. They stayed that way until her crying subsided. She could not tell how much time had passed. Her mother took her face in her hands once again and wiped her tears. Her own eyes were teary as well.

“Now, I will recall your ladies and the maids to run you a bath and dress you. The guests have all arrived and the preparations for the burning are completed. As Aelor’s wife it is you who must light the pyre.” Aelora shook her head at that; she could not do it. “You must do it sweetling. It will be a quick affair, I promise you. All you must do is leave the castle, receive the condolences of the attendants, light the pyre, and you can retire to your chambers after. I shall take care of all the rest.” She kissed her forehead again and raised her to her feet. She embraced her one last time, before recalling her ladies and instructing the maids on what to do.

Everything went by in a blur. Aelora barely had the energy to notice what was happening around her. The water had been too warm for her, but she could not bring herself to speak on it. Daenys Celtigar, the youngest of her ladies at only twelve years of age, asked which dress she would like to wear. When Aelora didn’t answer Alannys Massey took it upon herself to choose, and the princess found herself staring at her reflection in the mirror as her hair was brushed. The silk dress that had been chosen was black and simple, the only embellishment on it a sleeping red dragon surrounding the base of the skirt. The majority of Aelora’s clothes were simple -- she had always preferred that to the ostentatious style the rest of her family sported most of the time.

Aelor was the complete opposite. He loved complex patterns, gold and silver accessories, and he was never seen in public without several rings adorning his fingers. He had the habit of turning them around his fingers compulsively when he was nervous.

The blonde hair she had inherited from her mother was styled in a long braid, and a silver circlet adorned with several squared red rubies was put on her head. It was the circlet worn by Princes of Dragonstone since the reign of Aegon III, whose Queen had it made as a gift for their firstborn son and heir, Daeron the Young Dragon. It had been worn by Aelor before her, and by their father before him, even if she only saw each of them wear it at their respective investiture ceremonies where they had been made heir by Uncle Aerys.

And now it’s on my head.

Her eyes turned from the circlet to her face. Her purple eyes were bloodshot, and her cheeks looked half the size they used to have; she looked thinner and paler in general. She had always been short, her waist slim, her frame slight and her breasts small, but now one would not be exaggerating much if he described her as half a corpse.

As she and her ladies made their way out of the room, she met her mother waiting for her in the hallway. She had her hair tied in a black hairnet, and much like Aelora she had chosen a black silk dress for the occasion, though hers was high-collared, and much more elaborate. The only color to be found on her mother was in her earrings, which were made of silver in the shape of a falcon soaring against a crescent moon, a blue pearl hanging below it.

Her mother kissed her cheek and caressed her face. “Are you ready?”

Aelora nodded, and they started walking down the hallway – her mother on her left, arm linked with hers, Ser Donnel a step behind her on her right, and her ladies following behind them.

As they walked through the Stone Drum, Dragonstone’s central keep, Aelora could not help but be reminded of Aelor everywhere she looked. The steps they were descending were the same ones where Aelor fell down the stairs once when they were eight and broke his arm. After the stairs, they passed through a hall that had its walls decorated with tapestries portraying dragons in several ways. In some they were flying through the clouds, in others they seemed to be locked in combat, spitting fire at each other, and there were even some others where it seemed as if they were dancing. Aelor and Aelora used to love looking at the tapestries, and they used to play in that hallway pretending that they were dragons and trying to mimic the actions that were depicted.

As they left the Stone Drum the cold wind hit Aelora, though she could barely feel it. She hadn’t been outside since the accident, but the weather hadn’t changed -- she didn’t think it ever did on Dragonstone, at least, not for the better. It was cloudy and damp, and the air had an ever-present smell of sulfur and brimstone. They left the inner bailey through the gates of the first curtain wall.

Walking through the middle bailey Aelora couldn’t help but look at the building of the Great Hall. Like the rest of Dragonstone, it was built of black stone that the Dragonlords had melted and reshaped as they wished using sorcery and dragonflame. The building had the shape of a huge dragon lying on its belly, its mouth serving as the entrance. Right next to it in an adjoined building, were the kitchens, shaped in a way that resembled a curled-up dragon. The heat vents placed in its nostrils made it look like it was an actual sleeping dragon, with smoke wafting out of them. The fondest memory Aelora had of the kitchens was of one of the many mischievous jokes her and Aelor were well known for pulling. They had sneaked in and opened two sacks of flour, bathing themselves in the powder until they were covered in white from head to toe. Then they hid beside the doors until their favorite maid, Megette, entered the kitchen alone, upon which they jumped from their hiding spot screaming and making faces. Megette’s high-pitched scream and terrified face was funny, until she fainted and Aelor and Aelora, now frightened themselves, ran through the castle to tell their parents, scaring even more servants as they ran through the halls like ghosts haunting the castle.

Crossing the second curtain wall into the outer bailey Aelora saw the sept of Dragonstone. Aelor had never been the most pious of individuals, and always grew bored when the family (most often on the insistence of their mother) went to kneel before the statues of The Seven and pray. When he grew tired of waiting, he resorted to making noises in order to distract those in communion with the gods. Laughing at such childish antics was barely acceptable at the age of five, much less at fifteen, yet they still did.

On the far side of the yard stood the arch of the Dragon’s Tail, which marked the entrance to Aegon’s Garden. As children, the twins liked to play hide and seek in the garden with their cousins and the other children. When they grew older, they would hide away in the garden when they wanted to share more intimate moments.

It was among those wild roses and thorny hedges that he first told me he loved me, after we shared our first kiss.

The gates of the third and last curtain wall were open, so they passed the gatehouse and walked to a hill not far away from the castle.

Everyone was already there, surrounding the funeral pyre where her brother and husband’s body lay. The silent sisters had tried their best to make the body presentable, but there was only so much they could do, so in the end it was decided that the body would be covered in a black and red shroud bearing the sigil of House Targaryen.

Her house was present. Her uncle Aerys and aunt Aelinor, the King and Queen, looked at her with pity, as did her cousins Daeron, Daella and Aegon. Their father, her uncle Maekar, had his face turned towards the sea, a scowl on his face, as it always tended to be. Her youngest cousin Rhae was looking at Aelor’s body with a sad look on her face. The only members of her family that were not present were her sister Daenora, who was deemed too young to attend the funeral, her distant relative Princess Elaena, who had been left in charge of the Red Keep while the king was away, her great-aunt Princess Daenerys, who remained far away in Dorne, her cousin Aemon, who had been sent to the Citadel as a child to become a maester, and her cousin Aerion, who had been exiled to the Free Cities years ago.

Other houses were present as well. House Arryn, as it was their mother’s house, Houses Penrose and Baratheon due to the ties they shared with House Targaryen, along with members of the several houses sworn to Dragonstone. Velaryon, Celtigar, Bar Emmon and Sunglass. Aelora also noticed the sigils of other nearby houses such as Massey, Darklyn, and Staunton.

After reaching her place next to the King and Queen, several people came forward to offer their condolences.

The first was the King, who, never very fond of physical touch, merely put his hand on her shoulder and caressed it. “I’m very sorry for your loss, niece.” Her uncle had never been good with words, but the look in his eyes was enough to show Aelora the sincerity of what he said.

Next came aunt Aelinor, who wrapped her in a tight embrace. “We are here for anything you need, my dear. Don’t be afraid to come to us, and never forget you are not alone.”

Her cousins then came one by one to offer words of kindness. Aegon and Daella each held her hand and offered their condolences. Daeron did not seem to know what to say, so he merely expressed that he hoped she would feel better someday. Little Rhae did not speak, and instead gave her a flower.

Then the nobles of the other houses swarmed around her, each trying to show more sadness than the previous.

Lords Celtigar and Sunglass spoke about how they had admired their liege, even though none of them had had time to see how Aelor acted as their overlord. Lord Massey and the Darklyn heir, who had come with his wife and children in representation of his house, each gave a speech about how sorrowful they were for the loss of their future king, and spoke of the many virtues he possessed, which soured Aelora’s mood, as none of them had ever even spoken to Aelor to know if he even had the virtues they praised.

At a certain point Aelora had so many faces surrounding her that they all started to blur together. She gave up trying to decipher who was who, and their words became incomprehensible to her ears.

At least the Baratheons behaved better than the rest, and instead of invading her personal space all at the same time, kept their distance and sent only their lord’s youngest son, a man close to her in age she reckoned was called Arlan, to offer condolences on behalf of his house.

Once all the attendants spoke their empty words of false sorrow and returned to the place they were before Aelora’s arrival, her uncle addressed them.

“We gather here today to mourn the death of my nephew and heir, Prince Aelor of House Targaryen. He was…” Her uncle continued his speech to the crowd, but Aelora was not listening. She lost herself in the blackness of the shroud that covered her brother’s body, as her mind retreated to a place just as dark, where memories of Aelor kept showing as if some sort of torture inflicted upon her spirit. At some point her chest began to feel tight again and tears were threatening to spill out of her eyes.

She returned to the hill when a hand landed on her shoulder. Everyone was looking at her, as if waiting for her to do something. She looked to her right and her mother was there, with one hand on her shoulder and the other holding a torch. Aelora realized then that they were waiting for her to take the torch and set fire to her husband’s pyre.

I told mother I would do it.

She took the torch in her hand and stepped forward.

The visions of the life she shared with Aelor, which was nearly every moment of her existence, kept spinning in her mind, making every step harder to take, and the tightness in her chest was getting near unbearable, making it hard to do so much as breathe. Aelora stopped. First her hands, and then her whole body began shaking, and she could no longer contain her sobs. The torch slipped from her hand, and as it hit the ground, Aelora collapsed as well.

She heard her mother shout her name, but all she could do was stay on the ground trembling and crying her eyes out. Her sobs and screams did not subside as her mother and cousin Daella picked her up and removed her from the hill, walking her back to her bedchamber on Dragonstone.

In the midst of her cries, she could see the servants looking at her as they passed, some with sadness, others more shocked at the scene than anything. She was able to hear one of the stableboys say to the other, not too loudly but loud enough that she managed to hear it, “She’s gone mad.”

Aelora agreed. If she wasn’t mad already, the guilt of what she did would drive her to such a state soon enough.

Chapter Text

Maekar looked down at the waters of the Gullet from the hill he was standing on. The sea was a desert of grey, mirroring the color of the cloudy sky, that extended as far as the eye could see. The waves looked calm as they ebbed and flowed, but as they reached the island, they seemed to get angrier, crashing against the rocks with a fury and sending splashes of water that reached as high as Dragonstone’s outer wall.

In a way, the waves mirrored Maekar’s feelings. The closer he got to the island, the more he found himself thinking about all the slights fate had inflicted on him throughout his life.

Always unrecognized for my feats or overshadowed by those of others.

It had been so for his whole life. When young it was the comparisons to his brothers. He was a good fighter, and a bold strategist - but not as good or as bold as Baelor, he did not take to his studies as diligently as Aerys, and he certainly was not as sweet and entertaining as Rhaegel.

Maekar had wished for an opportunity to break free of the shadows of his brothers, to leave the mark of his own name on Westeros, and he was given it when Daemon Blackfyre rebelled against his father. Though in part he regretted the thought when such an opportunity presented itself -- no decent man wishes for the death and devastation of war -- he was still eager to take charge of the loyalist armies and prove that he could be a man worth admiring.

The battle of the Redgrass Field was one of the most famous battles in the history of the continent, and he played an integral part in it. After the death of the pretender and his two eldest sons at the hands of Brynden Rivers, the rebels were on the verge of being routed, only for his bastard uncle Bittersteel, Daemon Blackfyre’s greatest supporter, to turn said rout into a charge at the royal forces. His brother Baelor arrived with a host of Stormlords and Dornishmen and attacked the rebel army from the rear, whilst Maekar rallied the royal forces and crushed the rebels between him and his brother, winning the battle. “The Hammer and the Anvil,” the singers dubbed him and his brother, though it was clear to anyone who got the brunt of the praise and which of them was considered the true reason for the decisive victory.

In other aspects, too, he stood in the shadows of his brothers. Baelor’s boys, Valarr and Matarys, had been the dream heir and spare of any lord or king, sharing between them all their father’s virtues. Rhaegel’s twins, mischievous as they may have been with their famous japes and tricks, were beloved by the commonfolk of King’s Landing, and their love and devotion for one another had become an inspiration for many a young couple throughout the realm, and even the subject of a few songs and poems. Meanwhile, Maekar’s brood, for what the realm was concerned, consisted of a drunkard, a sadistic monster, a forgotten maester, and a half-peasant, and the girls were barely even acknowledged. Maekar loved his sons and daughters, all of them, even if he was ineffectual at showing it, but his love would not make them any more formidable in the eyes of the realm. It didn’t help that his father, worried about the amount of existing Targaryens and the possible problems that could come from it, chose one of his sons to send to the Citadel, marking yet another slight inflicted on Maekar. “Too many dragons are just as dangerous as too few,” his father told him when Maekar protested his son being sent to Oldtown.

Of course, it wasn’t just any dragon he sent to the Citadel; it was Aemon. Not Matarys or Aelor, but one of mine own sons. It was one of my children who was sentenced to spend the rest of his days serving some lord, forgotten in some old tower among dusty tomes and ravens, not one of my brothers’.

Then came the Great Spring Sickness, and among the many lives it took were his father, his mother, and Baelor’s wife and sons, leading to the crown falling on the head of Aerys. Maekar had expected his brother to appoint him as Hand of the King, for who else would assist him in healing the realm from the sickness, and serve him as diligently and selflessly as him? In this regard too, Maekar was spurned, when his brother, in his infinite wisdom, decided to make their bastard uncle Brynden Rivers his Hand, and allowed him to rule the realm in everything but name whilst he spent his days in the library of the Red Keep, buried in books and scrolls.

Brynden Rivers… Bloodraven.

The name was as ominous as the man. He ruled the Seven Kingdoms with an iron fist, stamping out any dissent before it managed to bloom into something bigger. He had eyes and ears everywhere; “a thousand eyes and one,” men said, a jape regarding the eye he lost dueling Bittersteel at the Redgrass Field. Even if Rivers had never gained the love of the people, who considered him a practitioner of the black arts and blamed any calamity that fell on the kingdom on having a kinslayer ruling over them, the man had been effective at the job, much as Maekar hated to admit it. He managed the effects of the Sickness and the drought that came after as well as it was possible, beat the Ironborn into submission, even if the intervention took time due to his fears of the Blackfyres striking from Tyrosh while he was on the opposite end of the kingdom, and defeated the Second Blackfyre Rebellion before it ever truly began. His decision to keep Daemon Blackfyre’s third son in custody of the crown was also a sound one. Whilst Daemon the Younger lived, his next brother Haegon and the wretched Bittersteel could not launch another rebellion, for Daemon was the Black Dragon’s eldest living son, and holder of his claim. To crown his younger brother would be a usurpation of his rights, at least to those who thought he has any to begin with.

Yet Maekar was still offended that he had been denied the office of Hand, and instead of suffering the humiliation of having to see his bastard uncle in the position that should have been his, he left the capital and returned to Summerhall.

And as if this wasn’t enough, now his brother insulted him yet again by denying him his place as heir. With Aelor’s death, Maekar was now the closest male relative of the king. He should’ve been named his brother’s heir and given the title of Prince of Dragonstone.

I am a man of two and forty, an experienced commander, a more than able fighter, Prince of Summerhall for decades! Yet he disinherits me in favor of a girl of eight-and-ten? He does it to hurt me, I know it!

The traditions of Westeros, when they were followed at least, were clear on where they placed women in the line of succession. A lord’s sons came before his daughters, and his daughters came before his brothers. The line of the first son, even if female, took precedence over that of the second son. But the Targaryens were not Andals, or First Men or even Dornish, where the eldest child inherited regardless of sex. All precedents pointed at women being unable to inherit.

The daughters of Aegon the Uncrowned, The Queen Who Never Was, Daena the Defiant… all women from a senior line who were passed over by the next male relative. The last time a woman was made Princess of Dragonstone… even the Half-Year Queen is remembered as a pretender.

The realm had proved hostile to having a woman rule over them, yet his brother seemed to prefer the prospect of instability over having him as heir.

Not that having me as heir would be a stable option either.

Maekar knew that what is said about Bloodraven would be said about him as well if it was him on the throne. “Kinslayer,” “cursed by the gods,” and those would be the kindest things that would be said of him any time some tragedy in his hypothetical reign would happen. There already was slander, and he was merely the Prince of Summerhall. It was said that he had struck his brother’s head with his mace on purpose just to get one step closer to the throne he so coveted.

I covet nothing, truth be told. Baelor was my greatest friend, my only friend really. Only he and Dyanna ever had the patience to deal with my character. I would never lay a finger on him, much less kill him. I do not want the throne, nor Dragonstone for that matter. It’s the fact that Aerys purposely overlooked me that hurts.

His niece’s arrival pulled him from his bitter thoughts. She was dressed in a simple black dress, and was flanked by her mother on her left, her arm linked with hers, and Ser Donnel of the Kingsguard on her right, with several ladies walking behind them. She looked pale and sickly, and her face told him that she was only there in body. Her mind had traveled somewhere else.

As she took her place next to Aerys and Aelinor, they offered her words of kindness, followed by his own sons and daughters with similar gestures. Maekar kept his distance.

I would not know what to say, and If I had to guess I doubt she wants anyone to tell her anything right now.

After the royal family, the nobles gathered around her like dogs around fresh meat, each more dramatic than the previous in their displays of grief, a farce to ingratiate themselves before their new liege or future queen. Part of him pitied his niece, even if he was not willing to show it, especially in front of Aerys.

“We gather here today to mourn the death of my nephew and heir, Prince Aelor of House Targaryen,” his brother said, addressing the attendants, and went on to speak of the dead prince’s lively character, his capabilities as heir, how beloved he was in life and how missed he would be in death. When he was done, he lit a torch and extended it towards the princess. Protocol dictated that, as the deceased’s sister and wife, it was her place to light the pyre. The princess did not seem to notice what was happening around her, paralyzed staring at her brother’s body. Alys took the torch from Aerys and put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder, bringing her back to reality. Aelora looked around confused, then at her mother and finally at the torch. Realization dawned on her face.

She took the torch and walked towards the pyre, only to stop midway and fall on the ground, trembling and wailing in suffering. Her mother moved quickly, as did Daella, who helped remove the broken princess from the ground and took her back towards the castle.

Aerys picked up the torch and lit up the funeral pyre. As the fires burned his nephew’s body, Maekar considered all the pyres he had seen in his lifetime.

Father and Mother's, Baelor's, Valarr and Matarys', Rhaegel's, Aelor'… too many, four of those being the funeral pyres of Princes of Dragonstone. How many heirs had not lived to sit their predecessors’ throne? Mayhaps I should feel thankful for not having been given the title.

He turned towards the sea once again.

Once it was done, everyone returned to the castle. He intercepted Aerys and Aelinor at the entrance of the Stone Drum.

“Brother! I must speak to you… in privacy if you will. We have serious matters to discuss,” he demanded.

Aerys sighed, which only served to inflame Maekar’s anger. “If you must, brother. We can speak in the Chamber of the Painted Table; we will not be bothered there.” He then turned towards his wife. “I’ll meet you in our chambers; this shall not take too long. We can walk to the Great Hall together.”

Aelinor nodded and left them. The brothers ascended to the top floor of the Stone Drum and entered a round room, at the center of which stood a large table, carved and painted in the form of a detailed map of Westeros. Once there, Aerys walked to the balcony on the opposite end of the room, where he stood watching the waves, his back to Maekar.

“So…” Aerys said. “You wished to discuss a serious matter. State your business, brother.” The dismissive tone with which he spoke infuriated Maekar further.

He doesn’t even deign to turn towards me as we speak!

“What do you think I wish to speak about, Aerys? First you deny me by making Bloodraven your Hand, and now you repeat the offense by making Aelora your heir. Do you not think you owe me an explanation?!” He was shouting by the end of the sentence, his blood boiling at the disinterested expression with which his brother, now turned to face him, looked at him.

“Brynden Rivers was given the office by me because I judge him the most fitting man for the job. Aelora was named heir by me because I wish for her to succeed me. I fail to see the issue in either of these decisions and I fail to see how I’m denying you either of these positions given the fact that they were never yours in the first place.”

“You believe a bastard and a girl to be more fitting as Hand and heir than your own brother!?” He said, outraged by his brother’s bluntness.

“Yes brother, as a matter of fact I do. The Hand of the King is a position that requires a mind capable of managing a panoply of situations that require careful consideration and a delicate touch. One wrong word can lead to two Houses raising arms against each other. The day-to-day affairs of the kingdoms require tact; they cannot be solved by macing them into nonexistence. And having a Hand that sees every other minor gesture as an insult would not exactly be a recipe for stability, would it?”

“And naming a girl heir to the throne is?” Maekar crossed his arms, glaring at his brother.

“Aelora is the sister of the last Prince of Dragonstone, and daughter to the one before him. She has no brothers who stand to inherit ahead of her. According to tradition, she is my heir.”

“A tradition we do not follow, Aerys! We are not Andals, we are the blood of Old Valyria. The last time a woman was made heir-” His brother interrupted him.

“If one bad apple invalidated an entire sex, then no man would’ve sat the Iron Throne after Maegor the Cruel. Regardless, I am well within my rights to follow the laws of inheritance of my subjects. A second Dance of the Dragons is unlikely to happen, as Aelora has no brother to challenge her claim. The closest male relative is you , brother.” He took a step towards him, his back straightened and his face more serious than it was only a moment before. “Do you plan on contesting your own niece’s claim? Are you willing to go against my wishes for my own succession? Would you usurp the daughter of the brother we shared and loved, and who loved us in turn?”

Maekar stood in silence. He turned his eyes to the painted table instead, to Dragonstone, where they were currently, then to King’s Landing, where the Iron Throne stood, and lastly to the place where Summerhall, his own seat, whose name was not carved into the table, was located.

There’s the seat he held, then the seat he should have inherited were it not for me, and lastly the seat I hold.

“I would never wage war against her. I know what everyone thinks, even if none of them dare say it to my face. That I meant to kill Baelor. That I’m a cold and unforgiving man, envious of my brother, who seeks to seize the throne from under you. I bet some of them even whisper that I wish to see you dead, to take the throne for myself.” He then looked his brother in the eyes. “Lies, all of them. I do not covet your throne, brother, nor do I seek to take Dragonstone from our niece. My only wish is that you see the value that I would have by your side, and that you not reject me when I wish to aid you in ruling the realm.”

Aerys looked at him and sighed. “As always, your worst enemy is yourself, Maekar. I do not reject you; I appointed Brynden as Hand because I saw it as the best for the realm, because I judged him the most capable man for the position. That does not mean I do not see your value. In fact, had you waited, instead of fleeing to Summerhall to drown yourself in your outrage and bitterness, I would have bestowed upon you the title of Protector of the Realm.” Upon hearing the revelation Maekar felt his heart fall to his stomach.

He wished to name me Protector of the Realm…

“I made Aelora my heir because I always saw in her the potential for a good monarch. If you got to know her better, instead of spending your time brooding about slights real and imagined, you would see it too.”

His brother made his way towards the door. Before leaving, however, he turned to him one last time. “My advice for you, Maekar, is that you take the time to heal the wounds of the mind that possess you to act in the rash ways that you do. Mayhaps a new focus to work towards would do you well. And never forget, the doors of the Red Keep are always open to you and yours.” And with that he left, closing the door behind him.

Maekar sat in one of the chairs and brought his head to his hands. He had a lot of thinking to do.

I don’t really feel like thinking right now.

He stood up and left the Chamber of the Painted Table, going straight towards the armory where he searched for plate and mail that fit him. Donning it and picking up a training sword, he headed to the training yard, where several knights and men-at-arms could be found chatting and sparring.

Maekar noticed Ser Roland Crakehall of the Kingsguard watching a duel between a knight of House Massey and Gowen Baratheon, the third son of the Lord of Storm’s End. Ser Roland was large and powerfully built, standing taller than all his brothers of the Kingsguard, and taller than any other man in the yard, save for Ser Gowen’s eldest brother Lyonel, who matched him in height. He had been considered one of the greatest knights in the realm, second only to Maekar’s brother Baelor.

I guess now he is the greatest; Baelor isn’t here anymore.

The thought stung, even after all the years that had passed, so he stopped himself from thinking of it further. He decided against sparring with Ser Roland. As a knight of the Kingsguard his oath prevented him from harming any member of the royal family, which meant he would make a poor dueling partner. He instead ended up facing Lyonel Baratheon.

The swaggering giant of a man was as loud as he was large, possessing a boisterous laugh that would show itself as he taunted Maekar, certainly hoping to goad him into making a mistake. Maekar doubted there was a nickname in the history of the Seven Kingdoms as aptly given as the one Ser Lyonel had earned, “The Laughing Storm.” He was akin to a storm in more than laughing, however, as Maekar learned fighting him. He was strong, stronger than Maekar, and his size did not make him any less agile.

By the end of the fight Maekar was panting heavily and drenched in sweat. Even so, he felt proud, for he managed to hold against the black-haired beast and fight him into a stalemate. The other men in the yard, who had all stopped to observe the duel, cheered, and Ser Lyonel, who looked almost as exhausted as Maekar, loudly proclaimed that the prince was one of the few men he had ever fought who had been capable of making him sweat.

A compliment to me or a boast about himself? Maekar thought, then his brother’s words about his temper and quickness to take offense rang through his head.

As the men were leaving the training yard, two women approached Maekar and Ser Lyonel. They were each dressed in different elaborate black mourning dresses, but they carried the same sigil in the details of the dresses, the red three-headed dragon on a field of black of House Targaryen quartered with the crossed white quills on a field of brown of House Penrose. Both women belonged to the latter house, the eldest included the arms of House Targaryen to symbolize her husband, and the youngest to symbolize her mother, and thus her own bloodline.

“Your Grace,” Lyonel said as he bowed before Queen Aelinor. At forty-seven, his sister-in-law remained graceful and slender, and though her age began to show on her face and a few grey streaks were present amidst her brown curls, she remained one of the comeliest women in court. After kissing the Queen’s hand, the Laughing Storm turned towards the other woman and smiled. “Lady wife.” He went to kiss her, but Lady Laena took a step back and held her hand between them.

“A bath first, Lyonel, you reek,” Princess Elaena’s eldest legitimate daughter said.

“Only if you accompany me,” the heir to Storm’s End replied, smirking. Lady Laena rolled her eyes but nonetheless followed her husband as he departed the training yard. After they left, Aelinor turned to him.

“Good-brother…” She said, studying him with her gaze.

“Your Grace…” Maekar said in return, a scowl in his face.

“You seemed quite tense when you approached me and the King. I hope fighting in the yard has relieved some of your anxiety,” the queen said cordially, clasping her hands.

Maekar rolled his eyes. “Spare me the empty words Aelinor; you know how much I despise them. Aerys told you what we discussed. He always does.”

Aelinor smiled, as if Maekar had said something funny. “He does, and he did. And as it is more often than not that his words are correct.”

“Then why are you here?” Maekar crossed his arms, growing impatient. He had already suffered Aerys’ condescending words, and he was not willing to get the same treatment from the queen as well.

“I came to prevent you from making the same mistake twice and exiling yourself for another decade. Spending your days brooding at Summerhall, marinating in your own rage and bitterness will not make your life any better, quite the opposite in fact.” She took a step closer, and her demeanor becoming softer. “You may not have been named Hand, or heir, but you still have a place at your brother’s side. You can still serve the realm and fulfill your duties as a prince of House Targaryen.”

“And do what? Spend my days answering to the one-eyed bastard while my brother peruses the library?” The thought of spending his days serving Bloodraven was too much for his pride to bear. He would never lower himself to such a position. “Never. I can fulfil my duties from Summerhall, as I have been for years.”

“Have you?” Aelinor rhetorically asked. “Your duties include more than training men-at-arms and sending out tax collectors through the land to collect money from the peasantry. You have a duty as a father to ensure the future of your offspring. Daeron is six-and-twenty, Daella and Aegon eighteen and seventeen. Most nobles are already wed by these ages. Rhae is thirteen, and by all accounts she should already be betrothed to a lord befitting of her as a princess of the blood. But from what I see and hear you are too busy banging steel and scowling at every soul whose eyes wander to your direction to pay any attention to them.”

Maekar grew wrothful at her words. “My sons and daughters are my responsibility. Your lack of children does not give you the right to speak about mine,” he spat at her, regretting the sentence the moment he uttered it.

For a moment the hurt was visible on Aelinor’s face before she took hold of herself and addressed him. “You’re right, I was not the one who birthed them, but they, along with Aelora and Daenora, and Aelor and Valarr and Matarys, Gods keep them, are the closest thing I have to children, and by the Old Gods and the New I love them as if they were mine own. I love them and I wish to see them happy, to know them safe. That is why I’ve come to you.”

Maekar grew confused before Aelinor continued.

“What we have witnessed today is a story you know better than anyone. A pyre made to burn the body of a prince who was killed by a sibling on accident. You saw the state of the Princess, and you know what comes next, the words people will whisper about her.”

Kinslayer. Cursed. Evil.

“You are the only one here who knows what she is feeling at the moment. You are the most suited to help her survive this grief. Not only has she lost her brother she has also lost the love of her life, having lost your own beloved you–” 

At the mention of Dyanna, he shut down.“Enough.” He turned his back to Aelinor, hiding his face. “Leave.”

There was a moment of silence before the Queen finally spoke. “At the very least think about it, good-brother. Your actions in the future could not only save a girl, but also a kingdom.” And with that she took her leave.

Maekar stood still until he could no longer hear her footsteps. The weather had turned sour, and raindrops were starting to fall. He looked up to the sky and closed his eyes, while memories of Dyanna swirled in his head. At some point they became too much, so he shook his head and pushed them aside.

I’ve had enough ghosts come visit me today.

As he left the yard, his eyes wandered to the Stone Drum, where the new Princess of Dragonstone most likely was.

I pray she does not end up like me.

Chapter Text

Alys stood in front of the main table of the Great Hall of Dragonstone as the guests entered through the heavy red doors that served as the main entrance. This was to be the last feast before they all departed back to their seats the next day, and Alys had made sure everything was exactly as she ordered.

She would have them going home singing praises to the treatment they received while guests of Dragonstone. She needed all the goodwill she could get, what with the situation her family found themselves in, and fostering a sense of loyalty and unity among the houses that were in attendance would be a good start.

She had taken thought to the most minute detail and examined the work of nearly every servant to make sure there was not a speck of dust in the room, the plates and utensils were pristine, the tapestries and drapes were in good condition, and the flower adornments on the tables and walls were fresh. She had been to the kitchens too, to inspect every course that was to be served, and make sure the servants knew the order in which they would be served.

The heralds announced the entrance of each lord as they entered, in order of rank. Only two paramount houses were present, the Arryns and the Baratheons, for the blood ties that they shared with House Targaryen. Since her father was older than Lord Baratheon and had a closer relation to the deceased, it was him who made his entrance first.

“Lord Donnel of House Arryn, Lord of The Eyrie, Defender of the Vale and Warden of the East, accompanied by his Lady Wife, the Lady Sharra of House Hunter, his firstborn son and Heir, Ser Joffrey Arryn, and his second son, Ser Denys Arryn.”

As her family entered the Great Hall, Alys adjusted the skirts of her dress to make them as straightened out as possible. Her dress was in the style of the Court in King’s Landing - black, as protocol demanded, the only color present in it being the red at the end of the gown’s flared cuffs. Her hair was caught in a pearled snood which went nicely with her pearl earrings.

“Lord Davos of House Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, accompanied by…” As the heralds kept announcing the various nobles, her mother, father and brothers approached her.

“My dear,” her mother said as she hugged her. In part it bothered Alys, as it was not a proper gesture in such a setting, but nonetheless she hugged her mother back. She needed it more than she was allowed to show at the moment. “We have been here for nigh on a week and you’ve barely spared us a moment, Aly! You’ve been running around from one corner of the castle to the other entertaining one lord or another or ordering the servants about, and we haven’t seen you still for a second. Have you taken the time to eat?” Her mother caressed her cheek, the worry for her clear in her face. A face Alys had inherited, as everyone was so fond of saying -- she was the spitting image of her mother. Even if her features were different now, her once pale blonde hair turned grey and her face lined with wrinkles that showed the passage of time, the stark similarities between her and Alys were still visible, in the shape of their faces and in their vibrant light blue eyes.

The same beautiful blue Aelor inherited. So full of life and joy and mischief, those eyes were. His most striking feature, most would say.

She quickly pushed her thoughts away. Now was not the time; she could not afford to lose her composure. She addressed her mother.

“I apologize for my lack of time spent with you, Mother, but I have my duties. Had I given too much attention to you and Father, or Joffrey and Denys, the other lords might have thought I was placing my birth house above the other guests. The sentiment could’ve festered and end up harming us more than helping us.”

The answer did little to satisfy her mother, always so very worried about the affairs of the heart, sometimes to the detriment of the political reality. “That is no excuse, Aly. You’ve lost a son, your father and I a grandson. We are all devastated by this loss, and you surely above all others. We need each other now more than ever.” Her mother’s words rang true, but still, there was a time and place for everything, and showing such emotions openly whilst so many families were gathered here would be taken as a sign of weakness. That was something her family could not afford. Making the realm accept Aelora was already enough of an uphill battle as it was, and her family needed to present a strong front if they wished to prevail.

“Our daughter’s words have merit, Sharra.” Her father spoke. “We all mourn the loss of Aelor, but we must also look to the future. King Aerys has seen fit to name Aelora his heir; that puts her in a perilous position. Cold and calculated as it may seem, this gathering is our first opportunity to sway some lords to our cause, and secure our little princess’ position, and Alys knows it.” He then turned to Alys. “It needs not be said that you have our full support, daughter. When the time comes, should the need arise, the Vale of Arryn will stand behind Aelora.”

Her father and she were, as they always tended to be, of a single mind. She had no doubt that her father was in mourning. He had always been affectionate towards her children, especially Aelor, who had been his first grandson. But he also understood that one must have a practical mind, even when experiencing great loss. The world did not stop moving, even if a man did. He had impinged this sense into Alys ever since she could remember. He invested a great deal in her education and upbringing, and that of her brothers, and when he was offered a royal match as reward for his fierce loyalty during the First Blackfyre Rebellion, he saw his investment bear fruit.

Alys remembered the day she wed Rhaegel Targaryen in the Great Sept of Baelor as if it were yesterday. She had not met the man before the ceremony, but she had heard stories of his queer behavior. She feared her father had shipped her off to marry a madman, but upon getting to know him, she realized her fears were unfounded. Rhaegel was an odd man in some ways, yes, but he was also kind and attentive, greeting her every morning with a fresh batch of flowers, taking her on pleasure barges down the Blackwater whenever he could, and celebrating their anniversary every year with an escape from court to the isolation of the Kingswood. Once, in celebration for the birth of the twins, he gifted her a mated pair of falcons, and when Alys said she had no knowledge of falconry, he smiled and said he didn’t either, so they could learn it together. Alys was sure she loved him then.

Becoming Prince of Dragonstone did not bring an end to his quirks. The responsibility of being the heir did not seem to weigh on him, and there was talk of him being unfit for kingship. It was there that Alys’ political acumen proved to be useful. She navigated the merciless royal court expertly, protecting her husband and his image from the whispers of the malcontents, doing everything in her power to ensure his position and that of their children.

Her youngest brother’s voice pulled her from her thoughts.

“Father has the truth of it. We must show our strength before the nobility, lest they sense weakness and seek to remove Aelora from her rightful place. Not that they have a better alternative, between that bitter old man and his brood. Daeron is a jape, Aerion a monster and the youngest boy more than half a peasant.” Denys said matter of factly. Joffrey, the middle child and the only one who took after their mother in temperament, interjected.

“Mother is right as well, Denys. Showing sorrow at the death of a loved one does not make us weak, it shows the people our hearts are not made of stone. There are many ways to gain the people’s loyalty, kindness and compassion being one of them.”

Alys smiled at her brother. She had missed his sweet words and comforting voice. “I missed you Joff. How’s Jasper?” She had not seen her brother’s sons in years, nor Denys’ three girls, and had not even met the little boy he had a few years back, whom he named after their father. Joffrey smiled at the mention of his firstborn son, who was his pride and joy.

“The boy talks of nothing but his upcoming wedding to Lady Beatrice. Marriage and children have always been something he yearned for; it would be insufferable if it wasn’t so endearing.”

“If?” Denys teased, smirking at their brother who rolled his eyes. Her brothers seldom agreed on anything, but she was glad that did not make them less fond of one another.

“Well, I hope he and the Belmore girl have a happy and fruitful union.” She declared with a smile, and just as she did the herald announced the entrance of the king and queen.

“His Grace, King Aerys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, The Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, and his Lady Wife, Queen Aelinor of House Penrose.”

Her family took their seats as the king and queen approached the high table, with Maekar’s sons and daughters trailing behind them. As they approached, she bowed, and when she rose the king and queen greeted her each with a kiss on the cheek before they all took their respective places at the table.

The king and queen sat in the middle, as was their place. The chair directly to the king’s side, reserved for the heir, stood empty.

Her daughter had not left her chambers since the funeral. Alys went to see her daily, in an attempt to lift her spirits and to make sure she ate the food presented to her. She barely ate and from the look of her face slept even less, on more than one occasion the guards posted at her doors had run into the room hearing piercing screams, only to find her daughter sitting in her bed awake and shaking, her body covered in sweat. Her ladies-in-waiting had tried to pry her from her room as well, though none of their attempts had been successful. Alannys Massey had tried to bribe her with a visit to Dragonstone’s library, where they could spend the afternoon lost in books and tomes of distant kingdoms and long dead civilizations -- Aelora had always loved her books, and the subject of ancient peoples and cultures had always been her favorite. When that failed to raise the princess’ interest, Marina Darklyn opted instead to take the books to her, but they remained untouched where she had left them.

Her other ladies had tried their own ideas. The pious Bethany Stokeworth a trip to the sept, the jovial Maia Rosby a great masquerade ball, and Saera Scales had suggested a boat voyage through the islands of Blackwater Bay.

None of them were successful in their attempts, but perhaps the most disastrous of them all was that of little Daenys Celtigar. Her daughter’s youngest lady was eleven years of age, and had not been in their company for long, but she had heard that Aelora’s favorite place in the castle was Aegon’s Garden, so she proposed a walk through them. When the suggestion, much like all others, was discarded, the girl took inspiration from Marina Darklyn’s attempt and entered the princess’s chambers the next day with a bushel of lavender roses, presenting them to her as she was getting up from her bed. Unbeknownst to her, those were the princess’ favorite flowers, and the reason why was because it was those exact flowers Aelor had the tradition of gifting Aelora as she woke up on the morning of their name-days.

Rather than lifting the princess’ spirits, the gesture left her inconsolable, and Daenys Celtigar had not been seen close to the princess or the other ladies since.

Alys sat on the chair after the one reserved for her daughter. She noticed that on the opposite side of the king and queen, the chair reserved for Prince Maekar was empty as well.

Probably in his chambers grinding his teeth and scowling at the ceiling.

It was no secret that the Prince of Summerhall was not on the best of terms with his brother, and if Alys had to guess, making Aelora the new heir was only taken as yet another insult to the prince. Not that he needed any help to perceive most gestures as such. Alys knew her good-brother well, and he was perhaps the prickliest individual she had ever known.

On the following chair sat Prince Maekar’s heir, Prince Daeron, already with a goblet in his hand signaling the servants to pour him some wine, followed on the table by his siblings, Princess Daella, Prince Aegon, and Princess Rhae, who seemed to be locked in a pleasant conversation by the way the youngest princess was laughing.

Once everyone was sat in their places, the courses began being served. Alys spent the feast attending as many people as she could. She danced with Lords Baratheon, Velaryon, Celtigar, Massey, Sunglass and Darklyn, gossiped with Ladies Stokeworth, Rosby, Manning and Staunton, and made pleasant conversation with several other notable persons. Looking at her brothers and father, she could notice them doing the same.

She left the feast late at night and could barely feel her feet. She dismissed the ladies that accompanied her to her chambers and bid them all good night. When at last she was alone, she pondered over her work with the attendants, and their position in general.

She had no doubt she had managed to charm the vast majority of the guests this past week, and was sure the houses sworn to Dragonstone and the most notable houses of the Crownlands would support her daughter and accept her as their Queen when the time came -- but that was precious little in comparison to the rest of Westeros. She could not win every house on the continent for her daughter by throwing feasts and balls and fairs to them all. It would be impractical, and even then, not all houses were so fickle as to be charmed by sweet words and cheap presents.

If she wished to prevail, Alys would need the support of the Great Houses of each region of the Seven Kingdoms. The more kingdoms she had on her side, the less the remaining ones would be willing to overthrow her daughter.

She pondered over the current state of each of the Great Houses.

There was no doubt the Arryns would stand behind her daughter, for through Alys Aelora was their kin, and her father had outright stated his support for his granddaughter. And even if, Gods forbid, he were to be taken by the Stranger, a possibility given the fact that he was approaching his fifty-sixth name-day, her brother Joffrey would also doubtless stand by her and her daughter. And where the Arryns went, the remaining houses of the Vale would follow. Her father’s bannermen were loyal to him, even more so after the first Blackfyre rebellion, with House Strickland exiled and the Sunderlands forced to give up hostages to the Eyrie and King’s Landing. There would be no opposition east of the Mountains of the Moon.

Dorne would also stand with them, Alys judged. Maron Martell and Princess Daenerys might have a son for heir, but they, along with the rest of Dorne, still adhered to the Rhoynish tradition of having the eldest child inherit, regardless of sex. She doubted they would be willing to deny her daughter her birthright on the account of her sex. There was, however, the detail that Prince Maekar’s wife had been a Dayne, and some in Dorne may feel inclined to support a male alternative to his daughter if it meant more influence over the matters of the realm for them. Still, other than the Daynes for their blood ties, and the Yronwoods for their hatred of the Martells, she could not imagine any other Dornish house standing against the Prince and Princess they loved so much, for the ruling couple of Sunspear were incredibly popular among their subjects.

Those were the houses whose support Alys could with near certainty count on. The others, however, were a more nebulous matter.

The Starks would take no side in any eventual struggle, she was sure. Even if their isolationist tendencies were not a factor, the unstable situation they had found themselves in for decades at this point, ever since the death of Rickon Stark at the gates of Sunspear during the failed conquest of Dorne half a century ago, would make Lady Lorra Royce, who served as regent for her son of five-and-ten, unwilling to send her armies south - it would mean leaving her family defenseless to the enemies within her own home. Her daughter would find no friends north of the Neck.

The Tyrells and Tullys Alys admittedly had little knowledge of. Their vassals had a tendency to not follow them as loyally as those of the other great houses, their lands splintering whenever a war was fought, with each vassal choosing what side they wished to stand with independently of their liege’s commands. And though in the case of the Reach Lord Leo “Longthorn” had brought a level of strength and control over his vassals that House Tyrell had never known before, his recent death of an illness that had plagued him for years left the Reach in an uncertain position. With his eldest son having died years before him, the current Lord of Highgarden and Lord Paramount of the Mander was his grandson, a boy of six. House Tully’s position was not much different, as with Lord Edmyn being a boy of four-and-ten, the rule of Riverrun had for years fallen on his mother, grandmother and aunt, who had collectively raised the lordling from childhood and ruled the Riverlands in his name. Alys pondered if it wasn’t a better idea to court the main vassals of these regions rather than their overlords directly, but she would need more information on the happenings of these kingdoms before she chose a course of action.

Her thoughts turned to the west.

Much like the Tyrells and Tullys, House Lannister was presently headed by a child with a regent ruling in their name. The difference was that the child in question was a girl, Lady Cerelle Lannister, the Lady of Casterly Rock, and her regent was not a mother or grandmother who would have her best interests in mind, or a lord whose position was contingent on her life, but the girl’s very uncle and heir, Gerold Lannister. The little lioness had inherited her titles at the age of three, after her father’s mysterious death, and though she was now eight, there were still whispers her uncle was plotting to kill her, and had even attempted on her life before, more than once. But by luck or intervention of the Gods, the attempts had all failed. Lord Gerold certainly seemed to not lack for ambition, having taken the titles Shield of Lannisport and Warden of the West, which by all accounts should belong to his niece, for himself. In the case of a war being fought over the rights of a female claimant to inherit, Gerold certainly would follow the side that would undermine his niece’s claim and allow him to take the Rock for himself. And Alys doubted any of the lords of the Westerlands would be willing to fight for the rights of a little girl against those of the man that had already been ruling over them for half a decade, and by all accounts doing an excellent job, as the ever-growing wealth of Casterly Rock could attest to.

She spared little thought to the Greyjoys and their Ironborn. In case of conflict, they would do what they always did, which was take the opportunity to raid and pillage the chores of the west until the war was over and the men of the continent returned to their homes and exacted their vengeance on the heathens of those seven-forsaken rocks.

Lastly there were the Baratheons, who were presently at Dragonstone as guests, owing to their blood ties to House Targaryen. Lord Davos’ heir, Lyonel was married to Princess Elaena’s eldest legitimate daughter, Lady Laena Penrose. He would inherit Storm’s End after his father, and their eldest son Orys after him. The Baratheons had been courteous enough during their time at Dragonstone, but Alys had no idea about their thoughts on succession. Lady Laena would very likely have influence over their leanings, and her views would certainly be influenced by the story of her mother, who along with her sisters had her claim to the throne discarded in favor of her uncle. Would she think it unjust for another woman to receive a place her own mother was denied? Or would she be in favor of not having her suffer the same injustice her mother did? She would need to play closer attention to Lady Baratheon to find out. If she convinced Aelora to move to the capital, she may even be able to enlist Princess Elaena to her cause, and by extension her daughter and her family.

Tired, Alys shoved the thoughts of politics aside, asked for her tea as was her custom, and went to bed.

The following day she stood at the docks to bid farewell to all the lords and ladies as they boarded their ships and sailed back to their homes. Part of her was glad - each day entertaining guests had been more difficult than the last, and Alys could feel the weight on her shoulders become heavier with each smile she was forced to muster.

Her mother was in tears as she hugged her before boarding the ship, and made her promise that she would come visit. Her father and brothers hugged her as well, wishing her and her daughters strength and happiness.

After them, the king and queen came to her.

“We know we have said it a hundred times by now, but we are so very sorry for your loss, sister, and we wish you all the strength to get through such difficult times.” Aelinor said as she held Alys’ hands. Alys smiled and thanked her for her words, managing just barely to retain her posture.

“Words are wind. There is nothing we can say or do to bring him back, but we can, and we must, look to the future and to those who remain to us. Aelora has suffered the loss of a brother, a husband, and a lover all at once. She is devastated, and the wounds she suffered are such that they may never fully heal,” Aerys said, blunt as he always was. His honesty did not hurt Alys, however. She understood and agreed with his words. He continued. “In order to overcome her grief, she will need people who truly love her by her side. I will not tell you to bring her to King’s Landing now, as she needs her space at least in the beginning, but when the time comes that you feel her spirits are well enough to return to court, please do bring her. It will do her good to be with all her family. Not just me and Aelinor but her cousins, and there are also many at court who hold the princess in great esteem.”

“I understand, Your Grace. It may take some time; we must all allow ourselves to grieve before we rise to our feet again,” she said, as much about her daughter as it was about herself. “But I promise to move our household to King’s Landing as soon as my daughter is well enough.”

The king and queen were satisfied with her answer, and after asking Alys to send them a word of Aelora’s state with regularity, they boarded the royal flagship that would take them back to King’s Landing.

The last boat was that of Prince Maekar and his family. There were guards still loading the family’s belongings into the ship. Prince Aegon and Princess Rhae were already on board, the prince seemingly telling his younger sister the story of a mule he was given as a present by their brother when he was younger.

“Farewell aunt Alys, and the best of wishes to you and my cousins,” Daella said from behind her.

“Farewell child,” Alys responded before kissing her niece in the cheek. “I wish for your travels home to be quick and safe.”

Her niece thanked her and walked towards the ship. As they reached the gangway, she noticed one of the men who were loading the ship, a particularly tall young man with tanned skin and light brown hair, and smirked.

“Ser Duncan,” she called. “Would you please assist me in boarding the ship? I’m afraid I will fall, clumsy as I am.”

The knight’s cheeks turned red, and he spent more than a moment staring at the princess before he finally spoke. “Uh… of course… princess.” And so, the knight held her hand as she walked the gangway onto the ship. Once there the princess thanked him, her hand touching his arm for a second longer than appropriate, and left towards the cabin.

Interesting…

Before long, Prince Maekar made his appearance, the ship ready to leave the harbor, awaiting only his order. Much to Alys’ surprise, he addressed her.

“Alys.” She looked at him, unable to hide her surprise. “I don’t think I ever wished you and your family my condolences. Aelor was… I did not know your boy well, admittedly, but I know he was a bright and happy boy who charmed any who met him. His loss is felt by everyone, and even though I’m not the most adept at showing it, you have my deepest sympathies.”

Alys was too stunned to speak. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out of it.

“You and your girls, of course. Aelora… uh … I can imagine what she feels at the moment… Please give her some condolences in my regard.” There was a pause as he hesitated, maybe thinking if he should utter his next words or not. After a moment, at last the prince found his words. “And tell her that she can always send a raven to me if she ever needs a word of advice or simply someone to confide in.”

Alys was shocked.

Those were the last words I expected to hear. From Maekar Targaryen of all people.

“Uh, thank you, Prince Maekar, for your kind words,” she said, unable to hide her surprise. “I will pass them onto my daughter; you can count on that.”

He nodded and boarded the ship. Alys, along with the guards, courtiers and smallfolk that had come to the Port of Dragonstone to watch the ships sail into the Blackwater, watched as the ships departed the island.

When her party returned to Dragonstone, she asked for her daughter’s ladies. She met Marina Darklyn and Saera Scales at the main hall of the Stone Drum.

“Has my daughter left her chambers?” Alys asked.

“No, my Lady,” Marina replied.

“And she won’t eat,” Saera added. 

Alys grew worried. She barely eats, but she has never outright refused the food brought to her.“Thank you for your service, my ladies. I will tend to my daughter now.”

And so, after requesting a meal from the servants, Alys climbed the stairs up to her daughter’s chambers. When she arrived, she dismissed the ladies that lounged in the room, ordering them to close the doors behind them. Then she moved to the adjacent room, separated from the previous one by an arch, where her daughter’s bed stood. She was lying on it, awake and staring at the ceiling, tears running from her face into the sheets below, leaving them stained.

Aelora did not seem to notice her until she sat on the bed. She looked at her daughter, at the sorry state she was in. She wanted to cry too, but she knew she needed to be strong. Her daughter needed her, and watching Alys shed a tear would only make her feel worse. Alys laid on the bed and embraced her daughter. Aelora embraced her back and buried her head on her chest, her tears now staining her dress.

Alys remained in that position for some time, stroking her daughter’s hair and whispering sweet nothings into her ear. There was a knock on the door, the meal Alys had requested. From the bed Alys ordered the servants to leave it on the table on the other room. She turned to Aelora.

“Sweetling, the servants brought your dinner.” Aelora shook her head. Alys held her daughter’s head and kissed her forehead. “You must eat deary. You’re getting too thin; you’re nearly all skin and bone. Please, do it for your mother; it hurts me to see my little girl like this.”

Her words were thankfully enough to make her daughter eat a few bites. She ended up eating less than half the plate, but it was better than nothing.

After she put her daughter to sleep, she went to the nursery to bid good night to Daenora. Alys felt bad for the little time she spent with her other daughter recently, busy with Aelora and the funeral.

“Sleep well, my little hatchling,” she told her sleeping daughter as she put her back in her bed. “I promise I will spend more time with you from now on.”

When at last she left her rooms, her maids moved to help her undress, but Alys dismissed them.

Finally, alone in her room, Alys released a breath she did not know she was holding, and the rush of emotions that came into her made her feel dizzy. It felt like the weight of the loss she suffered had finally become too much for her to hold, and for the first time since she saw the body of her son, she allowed herself to cry.

Her legs lost the strength to hold her, and she fell into the ground, sobbing and trembling as a despair she had not felt since her husband’s death threatened to swallow her whole. She remembered the face of her son; from the moment he was first laid on her arms by the midwife to the last time she saw him alive as they broke their fast the morning of his last day.

“My boy!” She wailed in between her sobs. “My baby boy!”

And my baby girl, who though still here in body, seems to have died that day as well.

Chapter Text

She stood on a hill close to Dragonstone, dressed in only her smallclothes, staring at the sea.

The color of the waves mirrored that of the sky, an endless ocean of grey that invited Aelora to jump into it, letting herself be engulfed by the ocean and taken by the current.

“Aelora…” She heard a familiar voice whisper her name from behind her.

When she turned around however, she found not a soul, the hill being only occupied by her and the ashes of her brother’s funeral pyre.

“Aelora…” She heard it again. She looked around, but again she could not find the source of the voice. Her heart began to beat faster.

“Aelora…” The voice whispered again. As she heard the whisper, she noticed the ashes beginning to stir. Before her eyes they were rising slowly as if caught in a whirlpool until Aelora could faintly tell a figure was being formed.

“Sister…” Her heart was now thundering inside her chest as the figure gained the form of a man she was all too familiar with. The sea and skies became agitated as well, as strong gusts of wind slashed against her, dark clouds forming above the hill.

“Wife…” The ashes were gone and in their place was a body, dressed in faded red and black garments with rips and cuts in the arms, legs and chest, allowing the red and bloody skin below to show. The extremities of his fingers were scorched, and his arms and legs bent and twisted, with shards of bone protruding from his skin. His neck was turned in an unnatural angle, his head looking towards the sky, blood leaking from his nose, ears and mouth, the skin on his cheeks peeling off. With chilling speed, his face turned towards her.

“Killer…” His dead blue eyes pierced her, his face turning to a snarl as his broken arm rose, finger pointing at her.

The winds were now blowing with incredible strength and speed while rain began to pour, and the black clouds turned to a thunderstorm. Aelora could not move nor speak.

“Do you have nothing to say for yourself, kinslayer? Can’t manage to utter a word to the brother you murdered?” her brother’s body asked, his once sweet voice that always made Aelora swoon now sounding guttural and wrong.

“I… I…” The words were stuck in her throat, her chest getting tighter. “I never…” She was shaking and having trouble breathing.

“Never what? Never meant to kill me? Liar ! You never miss a shot; you threw that stone on purpose. You wanted me dead so you could have Dragonstone and the throne for yourself. Admit it!”

“No! No, I would never!” she cried. “It was an accident! I swear it!”

The corpse approached. With every step he looked more haggard, his eyes red and bloodshot and his twisted limbs scrawnier. His bony fingers wrapped around her arms, his fingernails digging into her skin and drawing blood.

“Don’t lie to me! You wanted me dead! Confess!”

“No! Please!” She was a sobbing mess. “I love you Aelor. Please, you have to believe me.”

“Lies! You don’t love me, you never did. You don’t kill the ones you love!” His words poured from his bloody mouth with a spite and hatred that made Aelora sob even harder.

Before she realized, they were right at the edge of the cliff. His dead blue eyes locked with hers.

“You are a murderer and a liar; it is you who should be dead.” And before she could plead further, Aelor pushed her off the cliff. She plummeted towards the grey waves, and as she touched them, she spasmed as if she had fallen into solid ground.

She instinctively sat up. She coughed, struggling to fill her lungs with air. Her heart felt like it was fighting to burst from her ribcage, her whole body was shaking violently, and her smallclothes were clinging to her sweaty skin.

As her awareness of her surroundings grew, she realized she was in her bedchamber. She looked around, but she was alone. She noticed the silver glow coming into the adjoining room through the windows. It was still nighttime. Aelora laid back on her bed, her sight turned to the bed canopy.

The nightmares again.

She had been plagued by them every night for the last few weeks. All of them consisted of Aelor coming to her, to accuse her of his murder and demanding a confession. Aelora wondered if it was his spirit that entered her dreams as she slept, haunting her nights as the memories of him haunted her days.

Mayhaps he seeks vengeance for what I did to him.

Aelora could feel the tears threatening to leave her eyes once again. She felt like that was all she did these days, cry and scream and sob. Even the people of the castle had already grown accustomed to it. The guards posted at her door did not even come in anymore whenever she woke up screaming, terrified by yet another nightmare.

She moved her hands to her face and interlaced her fingers with her hair.

I don’t know how much longer I can endure this state of being.

She wanted to stop feeling as she did. She wanted to find the will to move, to ride, to read and even to eat as she did before, but she felt as if there was an invisible force weighing her down, preventing her from taking action to leave her current state of desperation and constant grief and anxiety.

Her mind flew for the millionth time to Aelor. Before, she could always rest assured that her brother and husband would make her feel well. He had always been the only one who could drive away her sadness and her worries. His words were like a spell that could make Aelora smile and laugh in a single sentence. Sometimes he didn’t even need to say anything, his touch or his mere presence was enough to lift her spirits.

That would not happen this time. It would never happen again. She would never see his face, or feel his touch, or hear his voice ever again. She was past their last kiss, their last hug, their last lovemaking. All she had left of the love of her life were memories and dreams that would never come to be realized.

She would not have a child to remember him by either. She knew many were certainly hopeful that, even if Aelor was dead, he may still have left a son inside Aelora, a new Prince of Dragonstone to succeed as the next king. They would be disappointed. Aelora was not with child, of that she was sure, she would’ve felt it if she were, and as the moons passed those who carried such hope would know it as well.

Tears were streaming down her face again. She hugged herself, trying to find some semblance of solace in her own body, but it was in vain.

I can’t take this anymore. I need him!

She needed to see him, there had to be a way to be close to him again, she could not stand to be separated from him for the rest of her days. With her mind now racing, she quickly rose from her bed and walked to the doors, slamming them open.

The door on the left flew into the guard’s face, hitting him on the nose and sending him to the ground wailing. Ser Donnel of the Kingsguard had better reflexes, managing to dull the impact of the right door with his shoulder.

“Princess?” he asked, confused.

Aelora didn’t answer, instead running down the hallway as fast as her short legs could take her.

I need to find him. I need to see him.

She said it to herself again and again. She ran all the way to the outer courtyard. From the colors of the sky, she could see the sun would be rising soon, and there were already servants busy at work. The gates were open, so Aelora ran out of the castle and only allowed herself to stop when she reached the hill where her brother had been burned.

She looked around, nearly out of breath, hoping to find any trace of him, but she found herself staring at an empty hill. The ashes weren’t there, neither was her brother.

She fell to her knees and brought her hands to her face. She felt like the despair was eating her alive. She could not suffer to be apart from him another moment. She wished for Aelor, any version of him, even if it was the mangled and broken body that haunted her dreams she would take it. Anything but the emptiness she felt from his absence. She could not live like this.

The words he had said in her dream rang in her head.

It is you who should be dead.

She rose, slowly, and walked to the edge of the hill, to the cliff where she could see the dark waters of the Gullet, the waves crashing against the rocks below the cliff. There was a sense of calmness to the waves, the way they came and went, as if they were a mother rocking her babe to sleep. The thought creeped upon her and she felt the urge to jump, but she stopped herself.

No… not like this. Aelor and I… we shared a womb; we shared a life… we should share our deaths as well.

She turned her back towards the sea. Her mind was blank as she walked through the grass and stone of the island, but she knew where she was going. She hadn’t been there since it happened, but it was perhaps the most vivid memory she had, so she let herself go, and only stopped when she was gazing down at the fissure on the ground.

There was smoke coming out of it, and out of many other cracks and holes that decorated the base of the Dragonmont. It smelled of sulfur and brimstone, and the floor was peppered with ashes in certain places.

Aelora could not see how deep the fissure went, and she doubted she would be able to see the end of it even if the sun was already in the sky. Instead, there was a black abyss staring back at her.

She wondered how long it would take for her to hit the bottom, if her body would look like Aelor’s, with broken limbs and burns.

She prepared herself to make the jump, and as she did, more and more thoughts flooded her head.

Will I be with Aelor when I leave this world? What if his soul is in the heavens but mine goes to the deepest of the seven hells? The soul of a kinslayer would never be allowed by the gods to enter their sacred realm.

Her chest tightened and tears were streaming down her cheeks again.

What of the loved ones I leave behind? How will Mother feel when she finds out what I’ve done? What of uncle Aerys and aunt Aelinor, of Aegon and Daella? What of Daenora? Will my little sister remember my face when she’s older? Will she remember Aelor’s?

Questions kept mounting inside her head, to the point where she could hardly hear her own thoughts. Her head was pounding, and she felt her legs lose their strength, sending her to the ground.

She cried not only for the pain and grief she had been feeling for the past few weeks, but also out of frustration for not managing to find in herself the will to jump.

The thought was alluring. If she was dead, all the grief she was feeling in her heart would be over. There would be no more pain, no more guilt. She would be free of her torments. Yet for some reason, she still did not do it.

Why?

She stayed laid down next to the hole, lost in her thoughts, time a construct she was unaware of.

“Over here!” She heard a voice shout in the distance. “I found the princess! Tell the others!”

She heard and felt the heavy footsteps of the men approaching, but she made no attempt to move.

“Princess?” A male voice unfamiliar to Aelora spoke. She didn’t answer.

“We have been searching for you for quite some time. Your lady mother has sent men all across the island to find you.”

There were more men approaching, surrounding her, but none dared touch her.

“Princess…” A different man spoke. “We should return to the castle at once.”

She made no attempt to move.

“Princess? Princess!” A familiar voice spoke. Suddenly, white armor covered arms were picking her up, and her face turned to see Ser Donnel of Duskendale, her sworn shield and the kingsguard that had been sent to Dragonstone with her family. He looked at her with a worried expression. He took off his white cloak and wrapped it around her body, which until that point had only been covered by her dirty smallclothes, a simple once-white wet tunic.

He walked to his horse and lifted her up onto the saddle, then saddling himself. As they galloped back to the castle, Aelora looked up at the sky, the sun now fully showing itself, flanked by two white clouds hovering closer on each side. Aelora closed her eyes.

It was a deep sleep, dreamless. Given the nightmares she had been plagued by every night, she was thankful.

She woke up in her bed, dazed and confused. She did not remember how she got there and could not tell how much time had passed.

“You’re awake at last.” She heard her mother’s voice, only then noticing her sitting in a chair next to the bed. “You slept for a day and a night. Dawn is breaking.”

Her mother rose from the chair and sat on the bed next to Aelora. Her blue eyes clashed with her own purple ones as she looked at her with a face that showed worry, but also a hint of relief.

“You have no idea of the fright that you’ve given me, child. When Ser Donnel came to tell me you had run from your rooms without giving any sort of explanation, I grew worried, but when they told me that you were found in that… that place…” She turned her face, but not quickly enough for Aelora not to notice her eyes were fighting back tears. “I… I thought you had… gods…”

“I’m sorry I made you feel that way, Mother.” She turned her face towards her again, no longer fighting the tears, and after a moment she hugged her daughter.

“It is the first time I’ve heard your voice in more than a moon’s turn,” her mother said, tears still streaming from her face, but in a tone that clearly conveyed how happy she was. Aelora had not even taken notice of the fact that she had not uttered a word to her mother in so long. “I’ve missed your sweet voice so much. I refuse to be parted from it for so long again, do you hear me?”

“Yes,” Aelora said, hugging her back.

When they separated, her mother rose from the bed.

“I will send the maids to prepare breakfast for us. We can eat in the balcony together. And you will eat, Aelora, I will shove the food down your throat myself if I must.”

“I will Mother, I promise.”

“Good.” And with that, she took her leave.

Aelora stood sitting on the bed. She felt bad, knowing the anguish that she made her mother feel. It would have been a thousand times worse had she actually jumped.

That still puzzled Aelora. She had felt such despair that she was willing to end her own life to stop her suffering, yet when the time to actually do it came, she just couldn’t bring herself to it. Was it cowardice? A mere lack of strength to do it? Intervention from the gods? From Aelor?

She did not know, but her mind did go back to the questions that ran through her head in that moment. Apart from Aelor, her mind went to her mother, to her uncle and aunt, her cousins and her sister. Those were the people she had closest to her, the people who loved her and who she loved back. Could it be that, on some level, it was the thoughts of them that kept her from jumping?

Her questions were interrupted by her mother’s return. After removing Aelora from her bed, she took it upon herself to bathe her, dress her and brush her hair. Aelora argued that she could do it herself, or call the servants if she needed any assistance, but her mother overruled her.

Once she was sitting in the balcony, wearing a simple long sleeved dark blue dress, her hair tied in a braid, the servants brought the breakfast her mother had ordered.

There was no lack of options, from barley bread to sweetcakes, from bacon to pies. So many savory smells invaded Aelora’s nostrils her stomach let out a growl in anticipation.

Her mother smiled.

“It seems your appetite is returning. That is some lovely progress,” she japed, though there was a relief and hopefulness hidden behind her words, Aelora knew it.

“Your uncle Aerys and aunt Aelinor told me to send a raven occasionally. I understand that it is still too early to even consider returning to King’s Landing, but it would please them greatly if they received a letter written by your hand.”

Aelora considered it. She still felt little urge to do anything, but she knew how much joy a letter, even a short one, would bring to her uncle and aunt.

“I shall send them a letter then,” she told her mother, who smiled at her before taking a bite out of one of the sweetcakes.

After she pushed it down with a glass of iced milk sweetened with honey, she spoke again.

“The king wasn’t the only uncle of yours who wished to hear from you.”

Aelora pondered.

“Uncle Joffrey?” she presumed. After the king, he was the most doting of her uncles.

“No,” her mother continued. “Your uncle Maekar.”

Aelora was surprised at her mother’s words. Her uncle Maekar had always been a cold and distant man and had never shown any particular interest in Aelora.

“I was surprised at first, shocked even. Before he boarded his ship, he told me that if you needed someone to confide in that you could send him a raven. It was only days later that I realized the reason he showed such concern.”

Aelora was confused. What reason could her uncle Maekar have to be so concerned about her?

Her mother’s face grew more serious.

“If there is a man on this earth who might understand how you feel it would be him. You were only a child at the time, but you remember your uncle Baelor’s death, don’t you?”

The realization came to Aelora. She had memories of her uncle Baelor; he had been a kind yet imposing presence, and always managed to be the center of attention at any feast or tourney or ball. Aelora distinctly remembered how he would pick her and Aelor up and sit them on each of his knees to tell them stories of the Dragonlords of Valyria of old. Aelora was always delighted to hear them; they were her favorites as a child.

When the Red Keep received news of his death at the Tourney of Ashford, she vividly remembered being in her grandfather’s solar playing with Aelor while her grandfather watched over them and taught their cousin Matarys how to play cyvasse. When he received the letter and read its content, the king collapsed. Aelora remembered screaming, and Matarys moved to help him back up. He summoned his council, grandmother and aunt Jena, Baelor’s wife, and left with Matarys.

She and her brother were not told how he died, but there was no lack of whispers in the capital, so the events reached the twins’ ears eventually. Baelor Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and Hand of the King, died in a trial of seven defending the honor of a mere hedge knight, after taking a blow to the head given to him by his brother Prince Maekar. She also remembers the other words whispered about her uncle.

The same ones they shall whisper of me, no doubt.

She was certain they were lies. Her uncle Aerys once told her the only people Maekar took joy in being in the presence of were his wife and uncle Baelor.

Aelora had lost her appetite again. She pushed her plate aside. Her mother, probably noticing her change in demeanor, spoke up.

“You don’t have to do it, of course. It was merely a suggestion; you don’t need to do anything you do not feel comfortable with.”

Aelora turned her gaze to the scenery. The balcony was turned to the east, in the direction of King’s Landing. She could see the island of Driftmark in the distance. The sea was calm and reflected the glow of rising sun.

“I will send a letter to King’s Landing… I may send one to Summerhall.”

Her mother was happy with her answer.

“Good.” She reached for her hand from across the table. “I feel that happier days are approaching.”

Aelora gave her mother a small, forced smile.

She would not go so far as to speak of happiness, though she wasn’t going to dash her mother’s hopes. But she would make an attempt to get out of bed every morning. She wouldn’t be riding and hawking and dancing any time soon, but she could take small steps, take it slow and steady.

There was a pile of books one of her ladies had brought to her chambers. She could start reading again.

It is my favorite activity. I should be able to find the strength to open a book and read at least a few pages.

After they left the balcony, her mother left her to tend to her duties as the lady of the house. That would be Aelora, in name at least, but she felt no desire or will to do it herself.

Maybe someday.

Her mother did ask if she wanted to accompany her, or walk the gardens with her ladies, but Aelora stated she preferred to stay in her chambers for now. Alys Arryn, ever used to getting her way, didn’t push her. She simply gave her a kiss and left.

Once she was alone, she took a piece of parchment, ink and a quill and went back to the table on the balcony.

She dipped the quill in the inkwell and began writing.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall of Summerhall was fuller than it was most days, much to Maekar’s annoyance. He sat in the Lord’s chair on a raised platform of stone at the head of the hall, guards posted throughout the walls on both sides from one corner to the other, and his trusted Maester Melaquin by his side.

“The Lords Caron, Fowler and Hunt, Your Grace,” the maester announced. “They seem to come to seek mediation regarding a dispu-” Before the maester could finish, he was interrupted by Lord Caron.

“I come to seek justice, My Prince, and to hold a traitor to the realm accountable for his crimes,” he spoke, in an accusatory tone.

“Lies, My Prince. It is I who was attacked. Lord Caron’s men invaded the Prince’s Pass and clashed with mine, unprovoked,” Lord Fowler countered.

“The Dornishman lies, Your Grace. I was there, I saw the sacked villages with mine own eyes. Fowler and his dogs started this!” Lord Hunt interjected, from Lord Caron’s side, his hate-filled gaze turned to Lord Fowler.

Before they could bicker any further, Maekar spoke.

“I must admit my confusion, My Lords. I do not understand why these matters are being presented to me and not to Lord Baratheon and Prince Maron, as they are your liege lords. It is they whose writ extends over your lands, and if they cannot come to a resolution, then the matter should be brought to my brother, the King,” Maekar reminded the lords, somewhat annoyed. He did not like strangers in his home, much less when they appeared uninvited and bringing petty disputes with them.

“It was I who presented the idea to my good-brother, Your Grace. Summerhall is closer than either Storm’s End or King’s Landing, and as the King’s brother you stand a representative of the crown in the Marshes. I witnessed you come to my liege lord’s seat of Horn Hill once, sent by your brother the king to speak on his behalf and settle a border dispute House Tarly faced with House Blackmont. It was my belief that, with Your Grace’s mediation, we would be able to settle this matter conclusively,” Lord Hunt explained, in a deferent tone.

Lord Caron, however, was wrathful in his words.

“We witness the breaking of the King’s Peace! Ever since the days of Aegon the Conqueror have the lords been forbidden from waging war against each other. I awoke one day to receive reports that my lands were being ravaged by a force of Dornishmen. It happened near the border my lands share with Dorne, a few miles from the Prince’s Pass. Fowler rebels against the authority of the king and must be killed for this treason!”

Lord Fowler spoke next, trying to defend himself. “This is an absurdity, My Prince! Lord Caron invaded my lands; it is him who is the traitor here, not me!”

“I was defending myself! Did you think an unprovoked attack on my domain would go unanswered? Two of my villages were pillaged and any peasants who tried to defend themselves were put to the sword. My house’s honor demanded vengeance!” Lord Caron screamed at Lord Fowler, red of face and with a murderous look in his eyes. “Though I don’t expect a Dornishman to know much of honor.”

Fowler’s answer to the insult was to pull his sword from its scabbard. Caron followed suit, and soon enough the sound of steel banging against steel rang through Summerhall’s Great Hall. Lord Hunt drew a dagger from his belt, but before he could use it Maekar rose from his seat.

“Disarm them!” he ordered the guards, who immediately took hold of the three lords and confiscated their weapons. The men tried, to no avail, to escape the guards’ grasp, still screaming insults at each other, vowing to destroy the other’s house and burn the other’s seat to the ground. They only stopped when Maekar’s voice bellowed through the hall.

“How dare you? To come into my home, to plead for mediation no less, and drawing steel instead. You shame yourselves, my lords, yourselves and your houses. This is an affront on mine own honor, and that of my family, not to speak of the king. I am of the mind to throw all of you into the cells just from this farce alone.” His authoritative tone brought the lords to submission, who were now more worried about the prospect of being sent to the dungeons than with the feud they came to solve.

“Your Grace, if I may…” old Maester Melaquin said, in his usual soft voice. Maekar nodded. “This trouble on the border, it is a strange affair. We have the words of each of the lords, but no proof of who started what. And, of course, Lord Hunt is right when he says that you represent the crown in the Marshes. Perhaps it would be best to send someone out to glance over the affected villages in order to get a better understanding of the situation. Once we have the truth of the events, we may judge those responsible accordingly.”

The maester’s advice was reasonable, Maekar thought.

“It shall be done, then.” He turned back towards the hall and addressed the lords. “The breaking of The King’s Peace is an affront not only on my brother King Aerys, but on the realm as a whole. On behalf of the Crown, I will have answers. I will personally lead a small expedition into the area to uncover the truth of the situation, and when I return, those responsible for the damage will suffer the King’s Justice. In the meantime, my lords, you shall remain in Summerhall as honored guests. Is there any objection?” 

If the lords had any, they did not dare utter them to Maekar’s face.

With the audience concluded, Maekar told Maester Malequin to make sure he put Lord Fowler and Lords Caron and Hunt in quarters of the castle as separate from each other as possible, and to keep them apart while they stayed at Summerhall. Afterwards, to relieve his nerves, he donned his armor, picked up his trusty mace, and went to the training yard.

He expected some time sparring with his knights would soothe his head, as it always tended to do. However, his hopes were dashed when he reached the yard.

“Is that all the strength you can muster, Dayne?” one of the knights said in a mocking tone, as another beside him laughed. A third one was sparring with his nephew. Maekar sighed.

Not a day goes by without one annoyance or another.

“You can soften your knees, boy, you’re not fighting in the Dornish sands, ha ha!” Ser Criston Cafferen laughed, accompanied by Robert Grandison as they watched his newly knighted nephew fight the more experienced Ser Bernarr Fell. The courtiers of Summerhall were mostly comprised of junior members of the surrounding houses in the Stormlands and the Reach, who sent their cousins, nephews and nieces to Maekar’s seat to serve as knights and squires and cupbearers for him and his sons, and as ladies-in-waiting for her daughters.

While the Lords themselves, along with their heirs and daughters, were sent to King’s Landing.

He misliked having Summerhall be seen as an archive of distant family members, though he understood why it was that way. King’s Landing was the capital, the main source of political power in Westeros, where lords schemed and plotted, where marriages and alliances between the scions of the great houses were brokered. His home, as the seat of a Targaryen prince, was the second-best choice to curry royal favor, and thus the noble houses sent minor cousins to represent them.

The men currently bullying his nephew were each an example of this. Ser Robert was the son of Lord Grandison’s cousin, Ser Bernarr Lord Fell’s nephew, and Ser Criston was Lord Cafferen’s thirdborn son.

Fell parried Dayne’s blow, and his next attack forced him to let go of his sword. When his nephew lunged to get his sword back, the knight stepped on his hand with one foot and pushed the sword on the ground away with his other. He smirked, and without removing his foot from the boy’s hand, addressed him.

“It seems the sword is not your weapon, Dayne. Mayhaps the spear would fit you better, being the more familiar weapon in your lands,” he japed.

“From what I’ve heard the favored weapon in his lands is poison. Fitting, that a land of cowards would choose a woman’s weapon,” Ser Robert added. The insults served only to light a fire inside Maekar’s ward, who used his free hand to punch Ser Bernarr in the groin.

While the man took a step back and fell to his knees, his companions, whose smirks had been replaced with looks of shock, and soon enough scowls, turned their attention to the Dornishman.

“You’re going to regret that, boy,” Ser Criston sneered, but before they could come to blows, Maekar decided it was time to make his presence known.

“What is the meaning of this?” As he spoke, they all froze. Ser Robert, with a very different disposition from the one he had shown the moment before, was the first to speak.

“My Prince.” He bowed. “We were merely trying to assist your ward. As older and more experienced knights we felt it was our duty to guide the young man, to teach him our techniques so he can improve as a fighter. But the boy is ungrateful and instead of heeding our lessons he chose instead to employ unscrupulous attacks, unbecoming of a true knight.”

“It’s true, My Prince. He kicked Ser Bernarr in the balls,” Ser Criston said, which made his nephew chuckle, and Ser Bernarr, who was still hunched over, to look at him with a hateful gaze. Maekar threw a look at him, which lead him to grow serious again.

“Thank you, Sers, I will speak to my ward. You may leave us.” Maekar waited until the knights were out of earshot to speak. His nephew beat him to it though.

“They wer-” he started, trying to defend himself, but Maekar interrupted him.

“I know they were lying, Samwell, I saw the whole thing. The issue I have is that this keeps happening. You should have learned by now to pick your battles more wisely, to not engage when those three lackwits come goad you into a fight. You are seventeen; those men are older and stronger.”

“I was training by myself. They were the ones who came to me.”

“And that is also part of the problem. There are plenty of Dornishmen at Summerhall, along with men of the Reach and Stormlands who were swayed by my father’s efforts of integration and put the past behind them. Instead of searching for safety in numbers, you isolate yourself from everyone.”

“You spend most of your time alone too, uncle, and you manage well enough.”

He turned around and went to pick up his sword. Maekar was frustrated with the boy’s words, but he also saw the truth in them, and understood his difficulty in being in the presence of others.

‘Tis like I’m talking to myself when I was his age.

“You are correct, nephew, I do manage well enough. Because I am the lord of this castle, and a Targaryen Prince besides. No man in the realm stands above me but the king. You, on the other hand, are no more than the son of a third son of some Dornish lord. Your station does not gift you with the impunity that mine does.”

His nephew, still with his back turned, muttered, “I just want to prove that I’m worthy.”

Maekar knew what he was referring to. Like many a younger son with no lands or titles to inherit, Samwell had to find another path to follow in life. And while other boys could hope to pursue a place in the Kingsguard, or a plot of land gifted for their valor in battle, or even the Faith and the Citadel if they had the mind for it, Samwell, as a man of House Dayne, had a different position he could aspire to.

The Sword of the Morning.

The title given to the most distinguished warrior of House Dayne, and along with it came Dawn, the ancestral greatsword of the family, a pale blade made from the heart of a fallen star -- or so said the legend his wife told him once when they visited Starfall, the seat of House Dayne, and saw the blade above the mantel of the fireplace of the castle’s Great Hall, where it stood to this day. Whatever the truth, the blade did have a strange glow to it, and was as strong as Valyrian steel.

Maekar had once met the previous Sword of the Morning, Ser Ulrich Dayne, Dyanna’s uncle. A peerless warrior, even in his old age, and a charming man who loved drinking and singing as much as he loved fighting. Samwell grew up idolizing him, even if he was but a babe when the man died.

Maekar went to the stand and picked up a blunted sword. He got into position and caught the boy’s attention.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“If you wish to be the next Sword in the Morning, boy, then you have a long path ahead of you. And unlike those three oafs, I can teach you one thing or another about fighting.”

Samwell smiled and raised his own sword.

By the time they were done, the sun was setting. His ward was lying on the ground, panting heavily, while Maekar went to put the swords back in their place.

“Every bone in my body hurts.” The young knight groaned.

“You’ll feel better after a bath and a good night’s rest,” Maekar told him bluntly.

“I will feel sore, you mean. And I’m bruised as well,” he retorted.

“Maester Malequin will have an ointment for that; ask him.”

After a minute of silence, Samwell rose up from the ground. “Thank you for this, uncle.” Maekar did not know what to answer back, so he simply nodded and ordered his nephew to go take a bath.

“Samwell,” Maekar called out to him one last time as the boy left to his chambers. “You do not have to surround yourself with people if you do not wish to, but having at least one sparring partner or two would help you improve faster. And they would be better company than a straw man. Even I had my brother ever at my side growing up.”

Samwell told him he would think on it and went inside. Maekar stayed in the yard watching the sun for a moment, before going inside as well.

As he approached the doors, they opened to reveal his firstborn son Daeron. Ever unaware of his surroundings, he failed to notice his father was standing in his way, crashing into him. Maekar stood unmoved as a statue while his son stumbled and fell.

“What?” He looked up, confused. “Oh, father… Good morrow,” he blurted, his cheeks red and with the stench of wine on his breath.

“The sun is setting, Daeron, not rising. And you’ve clearly been awake long enough to be in your cups,” Maekar said bluntly, barely concealing his disgust.

“Just a sip of Arbor red to help wash down breakfast, nothing more,” he said. When the disappointment in his father’s face was clear, he did what he always did in times of strife. Slither away as quickly as possible. “Uh, I was just on my way to… to make my way across our lands on horseback, to ensure our people are safe from any villains and bandits who may threaten them,” he said, quickly making his way to the stables.

Maekar sighed. He knew well enough that the only lands his son would be crossing was the road between Summerhall and Red Stone, a nearby village and the location of the closest brothel. He didn’t even bother ordering Daeron to accompany him with the men tomorrow, he knew how futile it would be to expect him to be up early in the morning, and how useless he would be in the rare chance where he did join them.

What offence have I given to the gods that they curse me with a sot for an heir?

Part of Maekar felt ashamed for thinking such thoughts of his own children. As a father it was his duty to love them as they were, even if others might not. He learned that lesson from his own father, from the way he always doted on Aerys and Rhaegel, even if they were no great warriors or leaders. But he would also be lying if he said he wasn’t disappointed with the progeny fate had given him.

Baelor had been gifted with two boys as gifted as he had been, and Rhaegel had raised a prince of great wit, known as capable of capturing hearts and minds with a mere glance. Compared to this, what did Maekar have?

His firstborn spent every waking hour of his life drunk or with a whore, taking no interest in the intricacies of ruling, his second son was an exile he could barely stomach to think about, Aemon was a maester, bound to be forgotten by the realm, and Aegon, though perhaps the best of his sons, thanks in no small part to his childhood spent living as a squire to a Ser Duncan, was for that very reason thought of as lesser in the eyes of the nobility. And even if that wasn’t the case, he was the fourth son of a fourth son. How high could he ever really hope to climb?

Maekar pushed these thoughts away and made his way inside. As he walked through the hallway leading to his family’s apartments he came face to face with Ser Duncan, who grew flustered when he gazed upon him.

“Your Grace?” he asked.

“Duncan, good that I find you, it saves me the trouble of looking for you. Tomorrow I will lead a small force to the east, near the Prince’s Pass where the Caron and Fowler lands meet. You and Aegon will join me.”

“Oh… of course, m’lord, uh, Your Grace. I shall be ready at dawn,” he said, all but running from the hallway. Over the years Maekar had grown a certain level of respect for Ser Duncan the Tall. He was a humble and loyal knight, and had raised his youngest boy to be a good man, for which Maekar was thankful even if he would never say as much out loud.

Walking further down the hallway he noticed the door to his daughter’s room was left open. Approaching the doorway, Maekar witnessed his daughter, dressed in a lilac robe, sitting by the window brushing her hair, humming a sweet melody as she gazed at the darkening sky. Maekar could not help but be reminded of his late wife whenever he looked at his elder daughter. She had inherited her brown hair, square jaw and full lips. They were also alike in temperament, willful and loud women the both of them, though with a love for finer things as well, most of all singing. Dyanna had the habit of brushing Daella’s hair while singing to her before bed, a habit Daella later took upon herself to continue, doing it to her younger sister.

It hurts to merely look upon her. She looks just like her mother.

“Father?”

Maekar had been so lost in his thoughts he had not realized his daughter had noticed him by the door.

“Do you need anything?” she asked, clearly confused by his presence.

“Uh, no, nothing. Sleep well, daughter,” he said, quickly shutting the door before she had time to answer.

Alone in his room he could only think of the beating his wife would give him if she were there to witness his behavior.

Blood of the Dragon, Prince of Summerhall, The Anvil… scared of mine own daughter of eight and ten.

…

“… and you should’ve seen the way Lady Vaith screeched after Dunk said it! She threatened to send us to the dungeons or have us hanged!” Aegon and the men laughed as he told them of one of his adventures with the knight. Hearing of the trials and tribulations that the two went through made Maekar wonder if it had been a good idea to send his son to wander the roads of Westeros at nine years of age as squire to a hedge knight.

“I’ve never been the best at talking to highborn ladies,” the knight said sheepishly.

“We could not have known that mentioning how sweet Dornish blood oranges are would bring into the poor woman’s head memories of her time as one of my great-grandfather mistresses,” his son added, still laughing.

Maekar silenced them as they reached the sacked village. The townspeople were working on rebuilding their burned homes and mourning their dead. Maekar spent some time questioning a few of the old men and widows, all of whom told the same story. A group of men in shaggy clothes who came from the east, numbering in some accounts to about sixty, in others a hundred, armed with old knives, swords and makeshift spears, led by a man on horseback dressed in old brown light armor and adorning himself with a cloak made of black and white feathers. According to the villagers, the man announced himself as king of these lands, claimed they were his subjects from now on, and informed them his men would be relieving them of their possessions as tribute to him, their new liege. The men of the village chose instead to defend their homes, and that defiance cost them dearly, as the outlaws burned the town and killed any who did not surrender their coin, food, or women.

“They came from the east? But the Prince’s Pass is to the south,” Ser Duncan, who had fought in the marshes before and knew the lay of the land said.

“And from the way they were described these were no knights in service to a lord. ‘Tis more likely we are dealing with a group common bandits,” one of his knights added.

“The villagers say that once they were done pillaging they left the way they came,” said Aegon. His son was visibly angry at what had been done to the smallfolk. “We can assume they returned to their hideout, to share the spoils and celebrate their victory.”

“I will send scouts to the surrounding areas. These bandits must have a camp somewhere. The sooner we find its location and kill them, the sooner we return home,” Maekar decided.

He sent the scouts forth. The following day, one of them returned bringing word of the bandit camp, hidden inside a cave at the base of one of the mountains. The entrance was lightly guarded, and from the numbers the townspeople had given Maekar, he had more than enough men to overwhelm whatever force may lay inside. With their target marked, they moved.

The fighting was quick and easy. Maekar’s men were better equipped, trained in ways the bandits could not match, and they held the numbers advantage three to one. They lost merely one man, and four others were wounded, with Maekar himself suffering merely a cut on the left side of his belly while fighting three men at once. The fighting stopped when all the outlaws were dead on the ground.

All but one. The leader.

Ser Duncan fought him, easily subduing his opponent, but kept him alive so that Maekar could dispense the king’s justice.

“Unhand me!” the man spoke, struggling while being held by two of Maekar’s men.

“You stand in the presence of Maekar of House Targaryen, Prince of Summerhall and brother to His Grace, King Aerys, First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. On behalf of the Crown, for the crimes committed against the king’s subjects, I sentence you to die,” Maekar declared, wanting to be done with it as quickly as possible.

The man was forced to his knees. He looked at Maekar with defiance in his eyes.

“The only king whose will is recognized around these parts is mine,” the man spoke, looking up at Maekar with defiance in his face.

“King?” Maekar could not hide his amusement at his words. “I could swear it was my brother who sat the Iron Throne.”

“Aye, that may be true, but here in the Red Mountains ‘tis the Vulture King who rules. ‘Tis me the smallfolk should pay tribute to.”

Maekar looked over the man. His skin was pale, and his features were not those of a Dornishman. Maekar judged he must hail from the Stormlands. Looking around at the bodies, he could see that some looked Dornish, others had the looks of Stormlanders.

“And how exactly did you acquire such an army, Your Grace ?” The sarcasm dripping from Maekar’s lips did not go unnoticed by this would-be Vulture King.

Would-be is the right term. The Vulture Kings of old had thousands of men hiding deep in the mountains, with the crown having to organize so-called “vulture hunts,” expeditions into the Red Mountains, in order to crush them. This man managed to enlist barely a hundred mutts to his cause.

“There’s always the malcontent, hiding under every stone. Men unsatisfied with their lord or brigands who just like spilling blood.” The man curled his lips into a twisted smiled, madness clear in his eyes. “‘Twas simple, really.”

Maekar had heard enough. The fate of common criminals was to hang; however, not wanting to wait for a rope to be found and a noose to be made, he strapped his spiked mace onto his belt and commanded his son to give him his sword. Once he had it in his hand, he beheaded the outlaw in a single swing.

The following day, after giving back to the townsfolk their stolen goods and returning to Summerhall, Maekar entered the Great Hall holding a cloth bag, flanked by Maester Maelquin and Aegon. Lords Caron, Hunt and Fowler were already waiting, standing on opposite sides of the hall, aware that the guards had been instructed to seize them should they lash out at each other as they did before.

Maekar made his way to the head of the hall, turning to face the lords.

“My Lords,” he addressed them. “It is with great pleasure that I announce that the Crown has uncovered the truth of the events that transpired near the Prince’s Pass.”

“Marvelous news, Your Grace. The king’s justice may finally be delivered.” Lord Hunt smirked, looking at Lord Fowler.

“We discovered the culprit of these attacks to be a madman believing himself to be a new Vulture King. He managed to conjure a small group of bandits and brigands, commanding them to descend on the villages near to them. Scouts were sent to locate this camp, and once they did, my men and I made short work of the mongrels.”

“Mine own lord father fought against the last Vulture King, Your Grace. It was his and the late Lord Dondarrion’s campaign that brought him down,” Lord Caron informed the king. “It is a known fact that the vulture kings are sponsored by the Dornish to raid the marches. This clearly implicates Lord Fowler. It was surely him who set these animals upon my lands,” he accused.

Lord Fowler looked at him in disbelief. “Have you lost your wits? The Vulture Kings have always been bandits prowling the Red Mountains, and their ties to Dorne are nothing more than tales spread by the likes of you to justify your hatred of my countrymen. Trust that before our union with the Iron Throne, whenever there were incursions they were done under our own banners.”

“So you expect us to believe that this Dornish bandit bringing fire and sword onto my good-brother’s villages right next to the border you share has no connection to you? Do you take us and the prince for fools?” Lord Hunt spoke in outrage.

Maekar, tired of these men, intervened. “I never said the man was Dornish, Lord Hunt.” Maekar held the bag with one hand and removed the severed head of the Vulture King with the other, grasping it by the hair and showing it to the lords. “As you can see, this man hailed from north of the Red Mountains.”

The lords were silent for a moment, their gazes locked on the head of the outlaw, before Lord Caron insisted.

“Well… we… we have no way of knowing that the man is not Dornish. The northernmost Dornishmen, Stone Dornishmen as the first King Daeron once named them, are the least influenced by the Rhoynar, carrying more Andal and First Men blood in them than their southern counterparts. Lord Fowler’s own complexion is proof of that.”

“Perhaps,” Maekar acquiesced. “Were it not for the fact that the bandit camp was found in your lands, Lord Caron, to the east, not to the south. Your own men could have searched for their hideout and vanquished them, just as mine did, yet instead you used them to bring destruction into an unrelated lord’s lands, with not a shred of evidence that he was responsible.”

Lord Caron grew pale, the severity of the situation he found himself in settling in. It fell to his good-brother to pour oil on the troubled waters.

“My good-brother acted rashly, Your Grace, but his fury was righteous, even if misdirected. His villages were pillaged, and his smallfolk were slaughtered. Any lord in such a situation would be enraged.” He then turned to Lord Fowler, his voice sounding sweeter than it ever had since they had first set foot in Maekar’s home. “My Lord, surely there is an amicable way to settle this matter. Perhaps my good-brother could offer compensation for this mishap.”

Lord Fowler seemed pleased with the prospect. “I can accept such terms,” he spoke. “If the amount is adequate.”

“It seems the matter is settled then,” Maekar declared, readying himself to send the lords away and retire to his chambers.

“My Prince,” Maester Malequin interrupted. “Wouldn’t it be best if the crown decided the value of this compensation? So as to prevent a situation where the lords cannot reach an agreement and require intervention once again?”

Maekar sighed.

It took hours for the lords to reach an accord, and even then, said arrangement was only reached after Maekar lost his patience and forced the lords into accepting terms.

I cannot comprehend how father and Baelor could ever stand to listen to these oafs bicker as regularly as they did. One day of this and I feel like flinging myself from the top of the Hightower.

After reaching his chambers, Maekar undressed. He looked at the cut he suffered fighting the bandits in the mirror. It did not hurt, and after Maester Melaquin cleaned it, it would heal quickly, ultimately becoming just another scar adorning his body. Maekar took some time to look at his reflection. At two-and-forty he was thickly built and powerful; battle scars were present on his left shoulder, his back and on his right arm. His cheeks were also marred with pox scars he had gained in childhood, which were partly hidden under his square-cut beard. He had his father’s violet eyes, and his hair was a near-white silver, though he inherited his mother’s olive skin.

Maester Malequin entered the room carrying a wooden tray with his usual utensils and bowed.

“My Prince, I’ve come to see your wound.”

Maekar sat on a pillowed bench and allowed the man to do his job. Before he started, however, he took a small letter from the tray and gave it to him.

“A raven came today, Your Grace.” Maekar gazed upon the red three-headed dragon on the seal of the letter. The maester continued.

“The letter comes from Dragonstone.”

Chapter Text

Heads bowed as Aerys made his way through the halls of the Red Keep towards the small council chamber. The surprise on the courtiers’ faces was evident; it was a rare sight to see the king in any place that was not the library or Maegor’s Holdfast. Aerys had no doubts that rumors would start soon enough about the reason the king felt the need to attend a small council meeting.

Aerys would pay them no mind, as always.

Whatever ludicrous story they come up with will be eclipsed by whatever scandal they uncover tomorrow, and where there is no scandal to uncover, they will simply invent one. Such are the ways of the court.

The real reason he was attending the meeting was merely because his Hand requested it. Aerys did admit he was curious as to why his uncle felt the need to summon him, as Brynden Rivers rarely felt the need to ask for his input when it came to ruling the seven kingdoms, just as Aerys rarely felt the need to intervene and rescind any of his orders. The one-eyed Hand was competent, it was the reason Aerys chose him for the position.

As he reached the Small Council chamber, the guards bowed and opened the doors. The chamber where the small council met was spacious and richly furnished, with tapestries hanging on its walls depicting dragons and wyrms and wyverns of varying colors and sizes, and a pair of black Valyrian sphinxes flanking the door. In the middle stood a long table, with the members of his council all present and awaiting at his pleasure.

The head of the table was empty, as it was his place to take as king. To the right was Bloodraven, Hand of the King; next to him sat Ormund Lefford, Lord of the Golden tooth and his Master of Laws, followed by Ser Daenar Celtigar, the young heir to Claw Isle and his Master of Coin. On the table’s left side was Benjamin Grimm, Lord of Greyshield and Master of Ships, followed by the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, the famed Ser Gwayne Corbray and lastly Grand Maester Wallace.

The position of Master of Whisperers was vacant, as Lord Bloodraven’s skills negated the need for it.

The councilmen rose when they noticed Aerys arrive.

“Your Grace,” they all said, bowing.

“My lords,” he answered, taking his seat. They all sat as well, initiating a tense period of silence, with Aerys looking at each of them whilst they looked silently at him, each waiting for the other to speak.

After a moment, Brynden Rivers finally spoke.

“Your Grace, we are sorry to keep you from your duties,” he began, his voice and face portraying no emotion, as usual. “As your small council we have steadfastly striven to rule the realm according to your will and wishes, and with this noble goal in mind I have, as your Hand, spoken with your voice in any matters that come to arise.” Lord Brynden paused and looked to his fellow councilmen. “There are certain matters, however, where we feel the king alone can pass judgement.”

The men nodded their heads, agreeing with the Hand’s words. Aerys’ curiosity was piqued.

“And what , uncle, is this matter you speak of?” he asked.

“… That of your succession, Your Grace.”

Aerys was not surprised by his uncle’s words; in fact, he had been expecting it. Aerys had named Aelora his heir without consulting the small council, and he was not blind to the reservations many lords would certainly have about his decision. It had been close to two turns of the moon since his proclamation and the council had not questioned him; it was only a matter of time.

Whatever arguments his lords may offer -- and they certainly would -- his mind was made up. Aelora would be queen once he was dead; he would see to it himself. Aerys alone knew what he saw in her, in the little girl who would come to him in the Red Keep’s library asking for books on whatever matter she was interested that week, and who was capable of reading tomes levels above what a child her age should be able to read. Aerys never had much patience for children, or most people for that matter, but there was something he saw in that bright and inquisitive child that endeared her to him, qualities that she kept as she aged. She remained as hungry for knowledge at seventeen as she had been at seven, with the added benefit of knowing how to talk to people, a quality Aerys lacked.

His worries for what would be of the realm, and of his House, once he died and Rhaegel sat the throne, were much assuaged by knowing that Aelor and Aelora would be there to aid him, and then to rule after him. The beloved prince, gregarious, brave and bold to charm the lords and inspire loyalty in them, and the bright princess, diligent, charitable and kind, to rule by his side ensuring peace in the realm and full bellies in the smallfolk.

Aerys saw in the young couple, who loved and cherished each other so openly and always moved together as if two halves of the same being, a second coming of the Conciliator and the Good Queen.

It was not to be. Sweet Rhaegel died before Aerys’ own eyes choking on his supper, and young Aelor had now followed his father to the pyre. Aelora was the only one left of the vision he had for the future, and though seemingly broken by these events, Aerys hoped he could still see his niece out of the darkness that had fallen over her and have the qualities that made him adore her so much surface once again.

Truth be told that in most instances he let Brynden Rivers rule as he pleased, but on this matter he would not bend.

“I was not aware there was any matter pertaining to my succession. It has been settled since the death of my nephew, may the gods keep him, when I proclaimed his sister and widow, my niece, as the new Princess of Dragonstone. I did it in the throne room whilst sitting the Iron Throne; you were all present for it, may I remind you.” He spoke with as much authority as he could muster.

“We remember, Your Grace. And as your small council, it behooves us to ask you to reconsider,” the ghostly pale man answered.

“I shall not, my Lord Hand. I have appointed Aelora as my heir, and the decision is final.”

“Your Grace, I understand the love you may have for your niece, but as Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, matters of duty come before those of the heart,” his Hand insisted, his piercing red eye now showcasing a certain level of annoyance.

Not used to being overruled, uncle. A mistake on my part, perhaps, that you forget who wears the crown.

The Hand continued. “By naming a girl heir, the crown comes to be perceived as weak at a time when strength is needed more than ever. We have lost two princes in quick succession, the second of which died at the hands of the girl now set to inherit. Many lords will look at this and search for an alternative, one which the black dragons across the sea will gladly provide.”

Aerys sighed. “So that is what this is truly about. Your obsession with the Blackfyres.”

“‘Tis not an obsession, Your Grace, I am merely aware of the threat they pose to House Targaryen.”

“A threat you so competently neutralized, by taking their would-be king captive, preventing Bittersteel from crowning the next of Daemon Blackfyre’s sons,” Aerys countered.

“The existence of an elder brother matters little and less to their likes, as we well know. Not only did they seek to usurp your father, His Grace the late King Daeron, using vile falsities as pretext, but they ignored the fact that even if such slanders were true, then the rightful king would’ve been Aegon IV’s eldest legitimized son, Balerion Otherys. By their own account they show themselves to be pretenders. They will have no trouble crowning Haegon Blackfyre, even if Daemon the Younger yet breathes.”

“I doubt it. Daemon has been under our custody for five years, yet Aegor Rivers has made no move to crown the black dragon’s fourth son. And if my memory does not falter the excuse given at the time of the rebellion was that there was no certainty that Balerion Otherys was truly my grandsire’s son, as his mother, the pirate queen, was said to have had a husband in every port. We have nothing to say that the Blackfyres would usurp their own heir, and if they did, that would only make their cause weaker,” Aerys said bluntly.

Lord Lefford decided to intervene on behalf of the Hand. “Your Grace, with all due respect, I feel that, even discounting the Blackfyre threat, the Hand’s position has merit.” The Westerman straightened his back and cleared his throat. “As your Master of Laws, it is my duty to advise you on legal matters, including those of succession. Simply put, Your Grace, Princess Aelora cannot be your heir. As the precedent set by events such as the Great Council of 101, the Dance of the Dragons, and the ascension of King Viserys II tells us that no woman may inherit the Iron Throne, the crown going to the eldest male relative of the king from the senior line.”

“Is that the precedent set by such events, my lord?” Aerys asked rhetorically. “Because if I remember the histories correctly my great-grandsire ascended to the Iron Throne because he was the most powerful man in the continent, having ruled as Hand for a decade and a half while his brother’s daughters were locked in the Maidenvault, without allies save for their mother and her house. He simply declared himself king, and the princesses had no power to contest his rise. The Dance of Dragons too, was a dispute fought over succession, and it was settled with steel and dragonfire, not laws. Even King Jaehaerys’ own ascension was through conquest, when he rose against his uncle Maegor, who had himself acquired the throne by force. If anything, my lord, the precedent here is for the Iron Throne to go to whoever has the bigger army or dragon.”

“Well…” His Master of Laws stuttered, scratching his bearded chin. “Well, yes, but in the instances where succession was settled peacefully, women were deemed ineligible as well.” He ran his fingers through his golden hair, finding his footing once again. “King Jaehaerys chose his second son Prince Baelon as heir after his eldest son’s death, ahead of said prince’s daughter, the Princess Rhaenys. And then years later, when Prince Baelon died, he convened the Great Council to decide who should be his successor, where again the male claimant was chosen over Princess Rhaenys and even her son.”

“You are correct, Lord Lefford, King Jaehaerys chose .” Aerys pointed out. “After Prince Aemon’s death, he chose his second son Baelon as his new heir, appointing him as Prince of Dragonstone. After Prince Baelon’s death he convened the Great Council and based on its decision he appointed Baelon’s son, the first Viserys, as the new heir. Let us not miss the detail that it was still the King, not the council directly, that named Viserys the heir. And following the steps of his grandsire, Viserys then made his daughter Rhaenyra the Princess of Dragonstone, an act later disputed by the family he built with his second wife. As we can see, the precedent you interpret as barring women from succession can just as easily be interpreted as stating that succession is decided through the appointment of a Prince or Princess of Dragonstone by the monarch.”

“That may be how the law sees it, Your Grace, but reality is often more complicated.” It was his Master of Coin who now spoke, Ser Daenar Celtigar, at five-and-twenty the youngest member of his small council. “Time has shown that when it comes to succession, be it Maegor the Cruel, The Dance of the Dragons or the Blackfyre Rebellion, the lords follow whichever claimant benefits them the most, not whoever the law dictates the most righteous. If Your Grace stands by your decision of making the princess heir, allowing a woman to ascend the throne, some lords may take it as an opportunity to press the claim of other, more senior female claims, who will gain strength from this development.”

Aerys knew who he was referring to. “You speak of your lady wife’s mother, do you not?”

“I do, Your Grace.” He answered honestly. “Princess Elaena is one of the most influential figures at court. She is the last living child of King Aegon III, whilst Princess Aelora is a descendant of his younger brother Viserys II.  Even if we make the claim that her eldest legitimate son, Viserys Plumm, is in truth the bastard child of Aegon IV, as it was rumored at the time of his birth, her second son, Lord Robin of Parchments, is wed to a Lannister, and her eldest legitimate daughter Laena is wed to the future Lord of Storm’s End. This web of alliances would become a problem, were you to recognize the validity of the female claim, My King.”

“My cousin is a few years shy of her seventieth name-day, Ser Daenar, and I can assure you, as someone who has known her my whole life, that she will not press her claim. Elaena is content in the storied life she led, wishing to spend her final days surrounded by her children and grandchildren, away from any politicking more serious than court gossip. And once the Stranger lays claim to her, were Robin Penrose to raise his banners in defiance, his alliances would prove fruitless. Lyonel Baratheon will not threaten his position of supremacy in the Stormlands by making a vassal of his king, and the Westerlands are ruled by a girl, who will certainly not wish to make her position weaker by overthrowing another woman.”

“All this talk of the laws of man and of the will of the lords is mute.” It was Benjamin Grimm, the Master of Ships, who now spoke in a waspish tone. “There is a law much simpler that reveals the truth in this matter.”

“And what law is that, Lord Grimm?” Aerys asked the oldest member of the small council.

“The laws of nature, Your Grace.” The Master of Ships stroked his long gray beard while looking at the men as if his words were the most obvious truth ever uttered in history. “Just as a lord rules over the peasantry, and a king over the lord, and the Seven above rule over us all, so does man rule over woman. They have soft bodies and softer hearts, made to love men and to raise children. A woman cannot hope to lead an army the same way a man cannot hope to birth a child. We complement each other, what one has the other lacks. A woman may temper a man’s fires at times, but she is not fit to rule over him.”

“As far as I know women have ruled over men. The Iron Throne might be an exception but to the rest of Westeros, though a son comes before a daughter, a daughter comes before a brother. Plenty of ladies have ruled over their fathers’ lands, and many still do today. Lord Lefford’s own heir is his daughter, not his younger brother. Would you claim otherwise?”

“A lady who inherits for lack of a brother still has her Lord Paramount to lead her. And in the event of one of the kingdoms falling into the hands of a woman, there is still the King above her. A queen who rules in her own right would have no man to stand above her. Her gentleness would spell ruin on the kingdom,” he said with the utmost certainty.

Aerys would laugh if his Master of Ship’s stupidity wasn’t so insulting.

“Pray tell then, my lord, of the gentleness of Nymeria of Ny Sar, who conquered Dorne and ruled over it for over two decades. Tell me of how all the other princesses that followed her through the millennia after brought Dorne to ruin. I would also like to invite Lady Danelle of Harrenhall, along with Lady Rohanne of Coldmoat and little Lady Lannister, and all the other ruling ladies of Westeros to the Red Keep, so you can tell them all about how they are unfit to rule their domains. I may even invite our dear Lord Lefford’s daughter, so you can speak to her yourself. Would that please my Master of Ships?”

Lord Grimm’s face was red, whether from the humiliation or anger Aerys couldn’t say, nor did he care, in all honesty.

“I proclaimed Aelora my heir. That is my will, and that is what shall be done. Are there any other words of defiance from any of you?”

If the men of the small council had any, they kept it to themselves.

“If that is your will, Your Grace, as your small council we will strive to make it so.” Grand Maester Wallace spoke for the first time since the meeting began. “I would advise you, however, to take action in order to ensure your will is respected after Your Grace is no longer here to enforce it. Any offices and positions of power should be filled with men of proven loyalty, who we can be certain will respect the King’s wishes and sit the princess on the throne when the time comes. We should also prepare a ceremony of investiture for the princess, much like the one made for her brother, and for their father before him, with the addition of an oath of loyalty from the lords of the realm. Prince Maekar and his sons, as the closest male relatives, should be seen swearing the oath before all others, so the lords might see them by the princess’ side, to dissuade any from coalescing around them and their claims. Might I suggest we also court the great houses somehow? To soften them to the idea of being ruled by a woman. And, of course, we must find the princess a worthy husband, a man powerful enough to protect her position, but not so ambitious as to usurp her power…”

Aerys listened to the Grand Maester attentively. Each of his measures were sound, though implementation might prove more troublesome in some of them more than others.

“All that shall be dealt with in due time. Now, are there any other matters to be presented before this council?”

The meeting then moved to the typical issues: taxes and ships, Blackwood and Bracken enmity, and other such matters. Aerys found himself drifting off, lost in his thoughts.

The words of his small council would certainly be the thoughts of many other lords. By putting Aelora in this position he felt he was honoring her, and doing what was best for the realm by leaving it to someone who seemed to have the qualities necessary to rule, but what if he was wrong? Would the lords of Westeros ever accept Aelora as their queen? Was he simply bringing war and destruction on the realm upon his death, as Viserys I and Aegon IV had?

These questions lingered in Aerys’ head later that evening as he made his way through Maegor’s Holdfast up to the queen’s chambers. When he entered, Aelinor was already sitting at the table, with the food served and the servants ready to serve him.

“Lord husband.” Aelinor nodded.

“Lady wife.” Aerys kissed her cheek and took his seat. He sent the servants away, having grown tired of having people around him, and began serving himself.

“You attended a small council meeting today. It’s on the lips of half the court.” She said as they ate. When Aerys simply nodded, she continued. “I assume it was a matter of great importance for you to be present.”

“My leal lords, as faithful members of my small council and humble servants of the realm felt it was their duty to voice their displeasure over having made Aelora my heir and sought persuade me to rescind my decree.”

Aelinor grew worried. “And did you?”

“Of course not,” he said quickly, his wife’s expression changing to one of relief. “I did not make Aelora Princess of Dragonstone on a whim. And no matter how much they badger me about it my mind will not waver.”

“I’m glad. I understand that your choice of heir may be contentious, and some will certainly raise an issue with it, but I assure you, husband, that whatever may come you have my support, and the support of many who love our niece and wish to see her prevail,” the queen said, holding his hand.

Aerys smiled at her.

“I can always count on you, Aelinor. I do have my doubts sometimes, that by thrusting her into this position, especially when she is in such a vulnerable state, I may be putting her in harm’s way. But I believe that if we move to strengthen her position, to the point that no opposition formed against her has the hope of prevailing, she may yet thrive as heir and later as queen.”

“She shall,” Aelinor encouraged further. “And her family is here to help her see it through.”

They smiled at each other.

“Speaking of family.” Aerys remembered. “Any word from my brother?”

“No ravens have arrived from Summerhall,” she said. “Your brother is ever a man of few words, though it is my hope that our talks on Dragonstone have planted the seeds of reconciliation… perhaps in time he will reach out, if the gods will it.”

“We can only hope…”

They ate the rest of their supper in a comfortable silence.

After the plates had been taken by the servants each of them picked up a book and sat in a chair by the fireplace. It was a habit they had developed in the early days of their marriage, to sup together and then sit next to each other reading until one of them grew tired and wished to retire to bed.

It was not the activity most couples spent their evenings partaking in -- but then again, Aerys and Aelinor had never been like most couples. In all honesty, Aerys looked at Aelinor as his closest friend and confidant, and he knew that she felt the same about him, even if he knew part of her wished to have more.

The children my brothers gave their wives. The love Rhaegel shared with Alys and Maekar with Dyanna as well. Things that try as I might I have never been able to give her.

Aerys had never felt the love a husband might feel for a wife towards Aelinor, or the lust a man should feel for a woman. The fault did not lie with his queen, for he had never felt love or lust for anyone else either. He loved his family, Aelinor, his brothers and their children, and a few close companions he had befriended throughout the years, but that love was not of a romantic nature. It was a feeling that had always eluded him, though Aerys did not feel poorer for it. He was content in his existence as it was.

“It seems we have chosen the same subject today, husband.” Aelinor said while looking at the book on Aerys’ lap. The Dance of the Dragons, A True Telling by Grand Maester Munkun. In his wife’s hands was The Reign of King Viserys, First of His Name, and the Dance of the Dragons That Came After by Septon Eustace.

“I suspect both choices were made with same intention.” He chuckled.

“As you once told me, it is one of the many beauties of history that one can learn about the mistakes of those of the past so he can learn not to commit them himself.” She smiled.

Aerys smiled back at her.

Let us try to be better than our forefathers then.

Chapter Text

Aelora watched the sun emerge from the sea from her balcony. There was not a cloud in the sky, and if it stayed that way it may come to be one of the rare sunny days Dragonstone witnesses in the year. The beauty of the sunrise could not be wholly appreciated though.

She had been progressing so steadily as of late. She had begun reading again, sleep came more easily and with fewer nightmares. She dined with her mother every night and had even walked the gardens once with her ladies-in-waiting. Somedays she even woke up feeling life was worth living.

Today was not one of those days, however. A gloom had set within her, threatening to swallow her whole and leave nothing behind. It was the second day of the twelfth moon of the 217th year After the Conquest, her name day.

His name day.

It was the first name day in Aelora’s life she spent apart from her twin brother, and his absence was felt with every waking breath. There was no bushel of lavender roses waiting for her when she woke, no kiss or caress and no sarcastic remark about how happy he was she managed to endure yet another year by his side.

It hurt to not have any of it, and it hurt more to think about how she would never have it again. Every name day celebration she would have from this one until her last would be celebrating her and her alone.

It felt wrong. Aelora felt wrong.

She heard the doors of her bedchamber open and left the balcony. Entering the room was her mother, dressed in a simple light blue dress adorned by nothing but a silver chain belt and her blonde hair tied into a braid. It was unusual to see her in such simple attire.

The two women looked at each other for a moment before meeting in the middle of the room and embracing. Aelora noticed tears beginning to run down her mother’s cheeks as she approached with her arms stretched.

They stayed in each other’s arms, the only sounds to be heard in the room being her mother’s small whimpers. Aelora thought about how this was the first time she saw her mother cry since the day they brought Aelor’s broken body before her. Having spent more time with her mother these past few weeks Aelora had come to notice how truly devastated her mother was by the loss of her only son, even though she hid it almost perfectly. She presented a calm and collected front to the servants and the lords and ladies, taking care of the affairs of Dragonstone with as much efficiency as she always had since Aelora’s father was given the island and its vassals by the king, and she doted on Aelora, supporting her through her grief without showing her own pain. But Aelora could see the cracks. She could see her jaw clench every time Aelor’s name was uttered or how she turned her gaze away from Aelora at dinner whenever she was asked how she was feeling, to which the answer was always that she was “quite fine” followed by a change of topic.

“I will not wish you a happy name day, for I know that to be impossible,” her mother finally said, breaking the hug and holding her daughter’s hands.

“I could do without a feast, I admit.” Aelora sighed.

“Fear not, I made sure you would not be disturbed today. There will be no celebrations.”

Their conversation is interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Come.” Her mother called.

Maester Uthor came in holding an object in his hand Aelora couldn’t quite make out. “My Lady, Your Grace.” He bowed slowly. The old maester of Dragonstone looked ancient, likely in his seventh decade if not older, with a wrinkly face and thin, skeletal hands. “I have retrieved the key as you asked,” he informed her mother, slowly extending his hand towards her to give it to her.

“Thank you, Maester Uthor,” Alys said, taking the object from him. The elderly maester bowed again and left, walking in his usual tortoise pace. Her mother turned back to her, holding the key in her hand. It was made of a black steel with distinctive rippled patterns, which Aelora recognized as Valyrian steel, made in the shape of a dragon’s head breathing a pillar of fire and adorned with a red ruby in the place of its eye. It was a bit larger than a regular key, and its design made it stranger as well, not being like the simpler and smaller ones of Valyrian design used for the other keys in Dragonstone.

“I wanted to give this to you,” her mother said, giving her the key. “I may not be able to give you happiness on this day, but I can offer you a distraction from your sorrows.”

“What does it open?” Aelora asked.

“You have always been a lover of the histories.” Her mother caressed her cheek, giving her a nostalgic smile. “Stories of Old Valyria were always your favorite as a child, and I remember how you loved to explore the old places of this castle whenever we came to visit. You’ve read the books and scrolls, and seen the murals and statues, and ventured into the old vaults below the castle on occasion. You know this castle like the back of your hand; you’ve seen all of it. All but one place, if I remember correctly.”

Aelora realized then what door the key opened, and why it was so distinct from the others.

“The deepest vault.” She gasped. “The one where the skulls of the dragons Aenar the Exile brought from Valyria are kept,” she said, looking at the key in awe. It was the only place of the castle she had never ventured.

Aelora had been an easily frightened child, and there was little more frightening in the Red Keep than the skulls of the dragons of House Targaryen, which hung on the walls of the throne room. She remembered hating having to stand in attendance as her grandfather made decrees or heard supplicants from the Iron Throne. The great skulls were black as onyx with long sharp teeth, and when she looked at them, she felt as though they were staring back at her, mouths open and ready to devour her. She vividly recalled spending entire court appearences looking at the ground so she would not have to perceive the heads of the once mighty beasts, or begging Aelor to create an excuse for them to be taken by the nursemaids. Aelora quite liked the dragons, but she preferred them as illustrations in a book.

As she grew, of course, the fear dissipated and was replaced with wonder and excitement at the skulls, to the point where now she could name all the dragons the skulls had belonged to just by looking at them. The thought of seeing the skulls of the last dragons to see Valyria at its height filled her with a sliver of joy, something she had up to this moment felt would be impossible on this day.

“Thank you, Mother.” Aelora hugged her, being hugged back in turn.

After her mother left, she dressed herself in a gown of black silk and tied her hair in a moonstone hair net. As she left the room, she sent Ser Donnel of the Kingsguard, her sworn shield, to go train in the yard, assuring that she would have him recalled when she returned to her chambers.

Servants and noblemen wandered about the main hall of the Stone Drum, where she was intercepted by her ladies-in-waiting.

“Your Grace,” they all said in near unison. Each of them was sporting a gown in their respective houses’ colors, half of them sleeveless, and all of them a thinner fabric than what was usual on Dragonstone. Five of her six ladies were present, all but Daenys Celtigar, who Aelora hadn’t seen with the other ladies for some time, in the rare instances where she had been in their company.

“Good morrow, My Ladies.”

“I would like to be the first to offer my sympat-ow!” Bethany Stokeworth did not manage to finish the sentence before Maia Rosby’s heel squashed her toes. She looked at the other ladies’ disapproving glares and opted to suffer in silence.

What followed was an awkward silence, with the ladies waiting for Aelora to say something and Aelora not knowing what to say. Alannys Massey, ever the one to take charge of things, finally spoke.

“We were on our way to share a breakfast, Princess. As it is such a lovely day, we thought it would be a good idea to break our fast in Aegon’s Garden. Would you like to accompany us?”

“Uh, no, Alannys, I don’t really possess the appetite at the moment. But thank you for the invitation, I hope you enjoy the rare sunny day to bless the island.”

The ladies thankfully did not insist and allowed Aelora to continue her path. She reached the easternmost hall of the Stone Drum, where a flight of stairs met its end at a great gate comprised of two doors shaped as leather wings, flanked by two dragon statues made of an oily black stone. The doors creaked as Aelora struggled to push them open. It had been a long time since they had been moved.

It makes sense, this part of Dragonstone lost its use more than half a century ago.

The door had probably been opened for the last time when Aelor and Aelora had played hide and seek with their cousins, thinking the caves their ancestors used as stables for their dragons would be a fun place for children to play.

It was only after Aemon got lost in the caves for an hour and Matarys tripped and broke his elbow that we discarded the idea.

Beyond the gate was a wide and tall hallway. Aelora walked until the hallway split into two different paths. Knowing that the path to the left would lead her to the dragons’ lairs, she followed the one to the right until the walls widened even more to form a large chamber.

The first of the vaults was a rectangular hall made to store old artifacts House Targaryen had brought from Old Valyria when they left, or ones they acquired or made afterwards. All of them were filled with dust and cobwebs, for no servants ventured here, with only members of the Targaryen family and the long extinct Order of the Dragonkeepers being allowed in this part of the castle.

Aelora moved first to the corner of the room where two old suits of armor stood mounted on a stand. They were elaborate and clearly made by someone highly gifted in their craft. They were made of black steel scales, though not Valyrian steel, and the breastplate encrusted with several small purple gems that together made the figure of a dragon spreading its wings. The edges of the shoulder pauldrons and the gauntlets were adorned with sapphires, and below the breastplate was a belt in the shape of a golden dragon followed by a skirt made of linen and leather straps. The design was different from the armors of Westeros – the closest she could think of was the small contingent that once accompanied an envoy from the Free City of Volantis to King’s Landing, but even those seemed lesser compared to this piece. This one was older and made in the time when Valyria ruled the world.

Aelor tried to put on the armor once, though their cousins thankfully stopped him before he could do any damage. Aelora also remembered returning to this place years later to search the old scrolls for information on the sex of dragons in order to settle a debate with Uncle Aerys, who was a firm believer of Septon Barth’s “Unnatural History,” unlike her.

Thinking back on it, why did our mothers and fathers allow a group of children to go play in deep caves and old vaults filled with ancient and priceless relics?

Next to the armors was a small stone block with two helmets Aelora assumed belonged to the armors, both also made of black steel and adorned with sapphires, each having the figure of a dragon on top, one with its wings spread upwards as if taunting its enemies, the other with its wings tilted downwards as if defending the wearer of the helmet. After the helmets, there was a dust-ridden table with some Valyrian short swords and daggers. One of the daggers, though its design was plain, was made of Valyrian steel and had a dragonbone hilt.

Aelora didn’t pay much attention to it; weapons and armors had never piqued her interest. The opposite side of the vault was the one Aelora preferred, and the one she had spent the most attention on when she came here before. The wall was carved from one corner of the room to the other with diamond-shaped entrances, each containing one or more scrolls or tomes. Aelora felt giddy just from looking at them, and much like she did when she was a child, she traced the wall and picked at random. Her hand landed on a hole with several small, yellowed scrolls, one of which she took, opening it to reveal a short message with a faded stamp of a crowned stag.

“These are the only hands your bastard shall have of me.” Aelora gasped, immediately recognizing the words as those of the last of the Storm Kings, Argilac the Arrogant, who, outraged by Aegon the Conqueror’s proposal of wedding his bastard half-brother Orys Baratheon to Argilac’s daughter and heir, cut off the hands of Aegon’s envoy and sent them back to Dragonstone along with the message. Aelora was holding none other than the very message that had served as pretext for Aegon’s Conquest.

She gleefully perused through some of the scrolls, losing track of time, before finally deciding to move on.

On the opposite side to the one she entered, the walls narrowed again, revealing a staircased corridor, which Aelora descended until the walls widened into a second vault. The round chamber was smaller than the last, though still spacious, serving as an antechamber of sorts to the vault where the dragon skulls were kept.

The room did not contain treasures like the one before. Instead, figures had been carved out of the walls, and a great sculpture made of the same fused black stone was found at the center. Aelora examined it first.

The great pyramid-shaped sculpture was divided in three levels and showed the twelve main deities of the Valyrian pantheon, all depicted as humans with draconic horns and wings, as the Valyrian gods were most often depicted.

At the top, with their backs turned to each other, were Dahrion, king of the gods and god of the sun and sky, and Tegonya, goddess of the earth and moon, and Dharion’s queen.

Below them, stood their four divine children: Balerion, the god of war, Vaghar, the goddess of fire and Balerion’s sister-wife, Elenarys, goddess of the seas, and her brother and husband Lykaxes, the god of peace.

Finally, below them and on Aelora’s eye level, stood each of their children. Syrax, the goddess of love and beauty, stood between her cousin Meraxes, the god of fear and secrets, and her brother Nedenkyon, the god of courage and ambition. Several Valyrian myths told of how Syrax enjoyed setting the two gods, who vied for her, against one another, sending them on impossible quests so they would prove themselves worthy of her, only to never conclusively choose one, leaving them in permanent conflict with each other.

Next to Meraxes was his brother Mirrys, the god of labor and diligence, looking with disgust at his cousin Jomoz, the god of revelry and pleasure, who looked back at him laughing.

Between Jomoz and Nedenkyon stood the last of the main Valyrian deities, the goddess Lentaera, depicted as a winged child. The sister of Meraxes and Mirrys, Lentaera was the goddess of joy and family, and considered the protector of children.

Aelora turned away from the old gods once worshipped by the dragonlords and focused on the dragonlords themselves. The figures carved on the walls were those of the Targaryen Lords of Dragonstone, starting with Aenar the Exile, who fled Valyria with his family and made the island his home, and ending with Aegon the Conqueror, who conquered Westeros.

Aelora traced the lords in chronological order, starting with Aenar. The Lord who Left was shown stern and proud, his eyes gazing straight ahead with a certain melancholy in his gaze. Aelora wondered if the sculptor chose to depict the Dragonlord in that way purposefully, as if Aenar was looking at the shores of the Valyrian peninsula for the last time.

Though the statues carved out from the wall were black, the detailed way in which they were sculpted showed that the clothes worn by the old lords were richly patterned and embroidered, with different borders around the edges of their tunics and capes. On their heads were Valyrian diadems decorated with enamel pictures of dragons and encrusted with precious stones, with hanging pendants dangling from pearl strings attached to the sides or back of the diadems.

Flanking Aenar were his two wives. She knew one to be a sister of Aenar’s named Elaenys, and the other a woman from one of the forty families of dragonlords that had ruled the Valyrian Freehold before the Doom whose name she couldn’t recall. Aelora noticed they stood a head shorter than their husband, much like most of the women portrayed, probably signifying their position as consorts.

After Aenar was his son and successor, Gaemon the Glorious, the greatest Lord to rule Dragonstone until Aegon the Conqueror. He was also the last Lord of Dragonstone to take more than one wife until Aegon the Conqueror, for though the practice was not unheard of in Valyria, it was not as common as one would think. To Gaemon’s left was his wife and sister Daenys the Dreamer, the woman responsible for sparing House Targaryen from the fate of the other dragonlords, if legend was to be believed. Uncle Aerys was always partial to the story of Daenys’ dream, but Aelora was a bit more skeptical. The Valyrian Freehold’s families constantly clashed in their endless pursuits of power and glory, one rising while the other fell. It was entirely possible that House Targaryen was merely one of those who fell, being exiled to the periphery of the empire after coming to blows with another House and losing, or falling victim to enemy plotting.

Gaemon was succeeded by his children, Aegon and Elaena. Unlike the previous women, Elaena stood as tall as her husband, for she had not been a mere consort, but a ruling Lady in her own right. From Daenys, Gaemon the Glorious was given only Elaena, with Aegon and his other daughter Daena being children from his other wife, Valaenora Velaryon of Driftmark, the first of many unions between the two Houses, and the first time House Targaryen joined their blood with that of a dragonless house. Upon Daenys’ death, realizing that he would never have a pureblooded son, Gaemon wed Elaena to Aegon and declared them joint heirs. After he died the half-siblings ruled together.

Aegon and Elaena had no daughters, so they had no choice but to wed their sons, Maegon and Aerys, to maids of Valyrian descent with no dragon blood. As such, Elaena picked Aella Celtigar for Maegon, and Aegon wed Aerys to his cousin's daughter, Saeryna Velaryon. Lord Maegon took hold of Dragonstone after his mother’s death, keeping it only for a year before dying of a wasting illness without producing an heir of his body, and the lordship passed to his brother.

Whilst his brother’s marriage was childless, Aerys’ was quite fruitful, with Lady Saeryna bearing him three sons and two daughters. The eldest, Aelyx, wed his twin sister Aelyxa, though the siblings’ infamous hatred for each other prevented them from furthering their line. Their distaste for each other was so great that Aelyxa left Dragonstone on her dragon Meraxes for Driftmark, never to return. Her husband did not make any attempt to retrieve his wife, and when at last he passed, Aelyxa chose to wed the Lord of Driftmark rather than attend her brother’s funeral to light the pyre.

The marriage of Aerys’ second son and daughter, Baelon and Aerea, did not fare better. Though betrothed as children and wed young, Baelon refused to consummate his marriage, preferring to spend his time flying on his dragon and traveling the free cities. He was ever in the company of his lifelong companion, a Braavosi water dancer by the name of Arnor Antaryon. He ruled Dragonstone for a short time after his elder brother’s death, before he too died in a tragic mishap when his dragon flew into a galley, getting caught in the wreckage and drowning with their rider.

Lacking a sister to wed, the last of the brothers, Daemion, wed the Lady Calla of House Celtigar. Unlike the marriages of his brothers, this one proved to be a union of love, though not without its fair share of tragedy. The records Aelora found on this rebellious generation told of a total of four pregnancies that ended well before their term and five babes who were either stillborn or died shortly after birth. Only one sickly child survived infancy and lived on to further the line of their House.

Aerion Targaryen succeeded Lord Daemion. Sculpted next to him was his cousin and wife, Valaena Velaryon, the daughter of Lord Vaelor of Driftmark and Aelyxa Targaryen. An elusive figure, little is known of him. Aelora thought it ironic, given the fact that all the existing information on the Targaryens of the time before the Conquest came from the chronicles he wrote himself, which were kept in the vault below Dragonstone.

The three last figures sculpted out from the walls were also the most well-known. Aegon the Conqueror, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, and his sister-wives, the Queens Visenya and Rhaenys. Little and less needed be said about the Conquering trio, so Aelora moved on to the gargantuan doors at the end of the chamber.

Aelora looked above the doors’ archway where there was a stone plaque with Valyrian glyphs. “Here rest the ashes of those who once were fire made flesh, and whose power brought the world to heel,” she read.

She took the key from her pouch and inserted it into the keyhole. Whatever mechanism unlocked the door seemed to be jammed from lack of use; it took Aelora using both hands and all her strength to turn the key – though when it did turn, the doors seemed to open by themselves, as if an invisible force was commanding them.

Beyond the doors was a great cavernous hall, larger than the previous two combined. Aelora stepped into the chamber, looking in awe at the gargantuan remnants of the mighty beasts that once upon a time ruled the skies, along with everything and everyone beneath them.

The five black skulls rested above stone altars that had the name of the dragon carved into them in Valyrian glyphs. Each of the altars had the dried remains of melted candles surrounding them, much like the candles a worshiper of the Seven would light before the statues of the aspects in a sept.

The Valyrians did name dragons after their deities often. Could it be that they used their remains as a form of worship as well?

Aelora focused first on the largest of the skulls, the one that rested on the altar in the middle of the chamber. It was as large as Balerion’s, with some of its teeth being bigger than Aelora herself, and the horns around his head grew straight and tilted upwards, as if forming a crown. In the altar was written the name “Dahrion”. She knew that to be the name given to the largest and oldest of the dragons brought from Valyria; it had been the mount of Aenar the Exile and his granddaughter Elaena before dying of old age.

Three of the other four dragon skulls were nearly as large, suggesting that those dragons were the remaining three that came from Valyria with Dharion and Balerion. Aelora knew them to be named Lykaxes, Jelmazma and Kastaqelos, and judging by their size, they too must have died of old age.

The last skull, smaller than the rest, was the one belonging to the dragon Pelarys, the mount of Lord Baelon. Aelora found it ironic that a dragon named after the Valyrian word for wave would come to die from drowning.

She took her time inspecting each of the empty-eyed skulls, counting the teeth, comparing the shapes and sizes of the horns, imagining what the rest of their bodies could’ve looked like…

She did it once… then again… and then a third time, until hours had passed.

She made it her mission to memorize even the most minute detail of each of the skulls, for the sake of her curiosity, of her love for history, of her thirst for knowledge… and of her hope to forget what day it was.

That was the truth that Aelora, try as she might not, had to eventually admit to herself. Her venture into the depths of Dragonstone had been nothing more than an attempt at distracting herself from the fact that it was her and Aelor’s name day, and the deep sadness that his absence brought. And though it had worked well enough in the beginning, she found that the more effort she put into not thinking about it, the harder it became not to.

She looked one last time at the skulls before turning away and leaving the way she came, all the way back to the gate that led into the catacombs, closing it behind her.

Having lost the track of time, she asked a passing servant what time of day it was. The old woman bowed and informed her it was midday.

Not feeling hungry enough to lunch, Aelora decided to take a stroll through Aegon’s Garden. It was as beautiful as ever, with its pine trees and bushes filled with roses and other flowers. It was a fine place for someone looking for some peace and quiet; it was rare to run into someone else among the hedges, and the only sounds to be heard were those of nature.

Aelora found it the most pleasant place on Dragonstone, and she even preferred this garden to those of the Red Keep.

Approaching the small cranberry bog, Aelora came face to face with Daenys Celtigar, the youngest of her ladies-in-waiting, sitting on the ground attaching flowers into a circle of thread.

“Lady Daenys,” Aelora greeted.

The little lady looked up quickly, startled. The moment her dark purple eyes landed on Aelora’s face, she immediately rose up, letting go of the thread.

“Princess!” She bowed. “I- I was not expecting you here. I shall leave at once.”

“There’s no need, truly,” Aelora said, in an attempt to soothe her. She picked up the incomplete flower crown. “I used to make these when I was your age,” she smiled, reminiscing over the past. “This one is shaping up to be very beautiful.” She handed her the crown.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Daenys took the crown in her hands.

“I noticed you’ve not been with the other ladies-in-waiting recently. Has something happened?” Aelora asked.

Daenys gave her a confused look. “I just… I thought that… after the mishap with the roses I wouldn’t be welcome anymore,” she explained, fidgeting her fingers.

Aelora remembered the day she woke to Daenys offering her a bushel of lavender roses. It was painful to be reminded of your dead husband first thing in the morning, but she did not blame the girl; she had no idea, and her heart had been in the right place.

She reached out and hugged the child. “Your intentions were pure, Daenys. You’ve done no harm, and I assure you, you are more than welcome among my ladies.”

The Celtigar girl hugged her back. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

When they broke the hug, Aelora spoke first. “The ladies must be sharing lunch at this time. You should join them; I’m sure they will be delighted by your company.”

Daenys nodded and left the bog. After a while Aelora did too.

She walked through the hedges until she reached a familiar shrub filled with beautiful lavender roses, plucking one of them before returning to her chambers. She ordered Ser Donnel to not let anyone in and send word to her mother she did not wish to have company that day for dinner.

She spent the rest of the day in the balcony, with the rose in her hand, looking out into the sea and sky, until the sun had been replaced by the moon.

She hoped that the next sunrise brought a happier day with it, and she hoped that one day she would not need distractions to get through her days.

Chapter Text

Dear Uncle,

I hope all is well in your seat, lands and household. I write this letter in the hopes of receiving guidance. According to my mother, you have offered your support to me, as someone who has suffered a similar tragedy in your past, and as such, I come to you for the counsel of someone who understands my circumstances and might help me vanquish the dark shadow that has blanketed my soul, so I may heal the festering wounds afflicting my heart.

I feel half dead most days. Much to my mother’s despair, I barely manage to eat, for appetite does not manifest itself. Sleep does not come easily, and when it does, it’s often racked with nightmares. I find myself unable to think of little else but that day, and any distraction I find lasts only for a short time before the thoughts creep back into the forefront of my mind.

How do I rid myself of this grief? Of the guilt? Of seeing my beloved everywhere I look, all the while knowing he shall never return to me.

How do I make it stop, uncle?

Princess Aelora of House Targaryen

Maekar had lost count of the times he read the contents of the tear-stained letter he’d received nigh on a week past. He had tried to conjure a response half as many times, but the words kept eluding him.

Maekar cursed himself. What was he thinking when he made that offer on Dragonstone’s harbor? He never should have let Aelinor’s words goad him into such foolishness; he had no knowledge of how to console a grief-stricken widow. And what sort of advice could he even give the girl? It was not as if he could tell her to keep her thoughts and emotions to herself and beat something or someone with a mace when she felt overwhelmed by them. That was what he did at the time… what he still does today, truth be told, but he knew it was not the right thing to tell his niece.

Shameful as it was to admit, he had never paid much attention to Aelora, nor to her brother and sister, nor his nephews by Baelor. The memories he had of her were of a smiling little girl, always holding her twin brother’s hand as they ran through the halls of the Red Keep spreading mischief and causing chaos, from the time they dropped green Myrish dye into the washerwomen’s basins, painting several court ladies’ gowns a garish green color, to the time they rubbed nettles on all of the old Grand Maester’s undergarments. His royal mother and father had found their little japes endearing; Maekar had always found them annoying. Regardless, wherever one twin was, the other could not be far.

In many ways, Maekar had been the same with Baelor. His father used to say Maekar started following his eldest brother the moment he learned to walk, and he remembers spending his afternoons in the courtyard training with Baelor, even when the master-at-arms told him he was too young. Most of his childhood memories include his brother, whether it was sparring in the yard, sitting together at feasts, and just discussing issues that Maekar had never felt comfortable discussing with anyone else… until he met Dyanna.

Even after thirteen years he could barely stomach to think of her, so he decided it was best not to. Giving up on the endeavor of giving his niece a response, the Prince of Summerhall dropped the letter onto the table and left his chambers for the training yard.

It was a warm day in the Marches, but it didn’t stop his men from going about their business in the courtyard.

He saw his nephew Samwell exchanging sword blows with a young soldier that seemed about his age. Samwell deflected a blow from his opponent and proceeded to strike him with his elbow, causing the soldier to drop his sword. The boy yielded and went to pick up his sword, spouting a comment that made his nephew laugh. It was the first time Maekar had seen his nephew laugh since his arrival at Summerhall.

Close to them were his son Aegon and Ser Duncan the Tall, also sparring, and his daughter Daella watching the swordplay from inside the castle through a balcony.

The former hedge knight was the tallest man Maekar had ever met, standing an inch shy of seven feet tall. He was strong as an aurochs, yet despite his size he also managed to be swift, as the blows he was landing on Aegon could attest.

Aegon, too, had grown taller. The once small and skinny boy Maekar had given away to serve as Duncan’s squire was now a strong, slender, and handsome newly knighted youth of seventeen. His nature had changed as well, Maekar found out as soon as he and Duncan joined him at Summerhall after their adventures. The insolent, mischievous child that left his home returned a kind and charitable soul, quickly becoming the beloved of the local smallfolk, whom he treated with a respect Maekar had seldom seen in any member of the nobility, much less one as high as a prince. From his childhood he still retained his boldness and sharpness of tongue, giving Maekar the occasional political headache to deal with. But despite the trouble he could be, as Maekar watched him spar, he was mostly just glad to see him back home.

The match ended with the two men agreeing to a truce.

“First time beating you to a draw, Ser,” Aegon said in between huffs. “A few more years, and you’ll be old and tired to the point I can win the duel!” 

“Mind your tongue, boy.” Ser Duncan wiped the sweat off his brow. “You’re not too old for a clout in the ear,” he said with a smirk.

They stopped their banter as Maekar approached. “Ser Duncan. Son,” he greeted them.

“Your Grace.” The knight bowed his head.

“Father,” his son greeted. “If you were hoping to have Dunk as a sparring partner, I’m afraid I’ve tired him out already,” he japed, though his smirk was quickly replaced with a scowl when the tall knight’s hand landed a playful blow to his ear.

“Ow!” It was Ser Duncan’s turn to smirk. Aegon, though clutching his ear, looked at the former hedge knight with a smile, his admiration and love for his former master clear in his eyes.

He’s never gazed upon me that way. None of the children ever have.

A part of Maekar wanted to resent Ser Duncan. For his role in Aerion’s exile and in Baelor’s death, for being more of a father to his son than Maekar had ever managed to be, for always defending those too weak to defend themselves, and for always gaining the love and respect of the people who crossed his path, even when he by accident said the wrong thing.

Yet, despite all of it, he couldn’t. Aerion brought his exile upon himself. Baelor would’ve fought for a worthy cause regardless of those involved, and in any case, it was Maekar who dealt that cursed blow, not Duncan. Staying true to the knightly vows and being quick to make friends were admirable qualities no man should be hated for having. And as for Aegon, he could only thank Duncan for the way he raised his youngest boy; he could not and would not fault him over the fact that his son didn’t love Maekar as much, for he had done nothing to deserve such love.

“Ser Duncan, I would like a word with my son,” Maekar said, breaking the playful banter between the knight and his son.

“Of course, Your Grace. I’ll put the weapons back in the stands; most of the men seem to have left the swords where they trained. Terrible lack of discipline, I’ll have to speak to the lads.” Duncan picked his and Aegon’s swords from the ground and left them to go around the yard picking up the discarded weapons.

Aegon turned to him, curiosity plain in his face. “What do you wish of me, Father?”

“I…” What do I wish of you, son... “Your skill with the sword is improving. You have the makings of a fine knight in you.”

“Thank you, Father,” he said, clearly surprised at the praise.

Maekar continued. “Ser Duncan’s lessons clearly paid off, in more than a few ways.”

“What do you mean?” Aegon asked.

“You seem to have learned more than skill of arms from him.” To his horror, the words were pouring out of his mouth faster than he could stop them. “You returned to Summerhall a man of great compassion, bravery and kindness. You show love for the smallfolk we rule, and they love you in turn. The servants and men-at-arms of the castle find you to be the most approachable of our family; it does not escape me that they come to you when they have concerns, and it is you who then comes to me to voice them.”

What Maekar said next brought him great shame, but still he allowed it past his lips. “You are the only one of your brothers and sisters not raised at my side, apart from Aemon. Mayhaps that is why you became the best of them.”

To say his son was shocked by Maekar’s words would not do it justice. Aegon’s mouth opened, then closed, and then opened once more, yet no words came out.

Maekar, in his turn, turned his gaze to the side, unable to look at his son.

A tense silence followed.

“It’s not your fault,” Aegon finally said. “I have my fair share of fond childhood memories from the time before you made me Dunk’s squire; you and Mother did well enough.”

“Your mother alone, you mean,” Maekar argued, “Daeron was not a sot when she lived, and the girls might’ve gotten better instruction had she been here to guide them.”

“Daeron drinks to escape his dreams. Regardless of how he was raised, those dreams wouldn’t have vanished,” Aegon reasoned. It was not the first time his eldest son’s alleged prophetic dreams were brought to Maekar’s attention. He knew that some Targaryens were said to possess the gift of clairvoyance, and he knew Aegon believed his brother to be one of these so-called dreamers, though Maekar himself remained skeptical.

Aegon went on. “Aerion was always a monster, ever since I can remember. It is his nature; nothing can be done about it.” On that matter Maekar agreed. His second son had always possessed a black heart, even before Aegon was born, and no amount of disciplining from either him or Dyanna had ever managed to change him. He might as well have been born from Maegor the Cruel’s loins.

“Aemon is as good of a man as I am, if not better. He is far wiser as well,” Aegon said of his favorite brother, whom Maekar had not seen in years.

I could have visited him at Oldtown several times by now. Another failing on my part.

“Rhae is… a difficult child, but she might outgrow her petulance and impertinence, as I did mine. For the most part,” he laughed, and even Maekar felt himself smile slightly.

“And as for Daella, she’s grown into a charming and dauntless young woman, and I can attest that she takes her duties as acting Lady of Summerhall quite seriously.” There was a pause, and a flash of sadness in his son’s eyes before he continued. “She reminds me of what you’ve told me about Mother, in a lot of ways.”

It was Maekar’s turn to frown. “That she does,” he said. He turned to the balcony where his daughter had been watching Duncan and Aegon, but she was no longer there.

“Hm, Dunk seems to have vanished,” Aegon looked around, searching for the tall knight. “Probably went to give the boys a clout in the ear for not cleaning up after themselves, heh,” he japed. “Mayhaps I’ll join him after a bath.”

Maekar cleared his throat. “Yes, I… I have other matters to attend to as well. I’ll see you at supper,” he said, parting from his son and returning to the castle.

Back inside, he released a breath he did not realize he was holding. The effort it took to have that conversation with his son was greater than any battle Maekar ever fought. It was certainly not something he wished to repeat, it made him feel… vulnerable, it was as if he was undressing himself before the other person. Maekar misliked the feeling.

It also made him feel lighter afterwards…

His thoughts were interrupted by a high-pitched voice echoing through the hall.

“No! I said I shall play Floris the Fox, and you three are to be her husbands!” Rhae Targaryen shouted at the three servants who stood before her, each of the men paler and more frightened than the next.

“I- we- I meant n- no insult m’lady. We just don’t know the s-sto–” The trembling man was unable to finish his sentence before Rhae cut him off.

“Idiots! Lackwits! How are you not familiar with such a well-known legend, you imbeciles?!” His daughter of three-and-ten raged.

“I would not think it fair to blame three common men of the Stormlands for not knowing a legend that hails from the Reach, cousin.” The words came from one of Daella’s ladies-in-waiting, who for some reason unbeknownst to Maekar were tending to Rhae instead.

His younger daughter turned her gaze to the older girl, the red in her thin face enhanced by her braided pale silver hair. “You are not here to think, Teora, you are here to serve me! Speak again and I’ll have my father take your head and gift it to me!”

“Doubt he will,” his niece said to the shock of the other ladies and of the servants. Teora Dayne, the second born child of the Lord of Starfall, his late wife’s elder brother, had inherited the nature commonly found among the women of her homeland. A blooming beauty of sixteen with piercing hazel eyes and flowing brown hair, always dressed in her house’s white and lilac, she looked down at the princess, defying her.

Rhae opened her mouth to scream once more, but before she could, Maekar spoke. “What is the meaning of this?”

All eyes turned to him. His daughter’s arrogant pout swiftly turned into a childish smile, “Father,” she called, “we were playing pretend. The story of Floris the Fox.”

“Are you not meant to tend to my other daughter?” He addressed the women, ignoring his daughter.

“Princess Daella sent us to tend to the Princess Rhae for the rest of the day, uncle,” Teora addressed him. “She thought the princess could use the company, lacking ladies of her own.”

Rhae gave the Dornish girl a murderous look, whilst Maekar sighed. “Return to my daughter’s side,” he told Teora, who bowed and left with the remaining ladies trailing behind her. “And you,” he turned to the three servants, “return to your tasks, whichever they are.”

Rhae watched them leave without protest. She reached out to her father’s hand. “Will you play with me?” she asked, her violet eyes peering into his.

Maekar quickly let go of her hand. “I have other business to attend to,” he said bluntly, “and if you wish to play, mayhaps it is better to find willing playmates rather than forcing the servants. They are men, not toys,” he told his daughter, before walking away, leaving her alone in the hall.

As he reached his chambers, he ordered one of the guards to summon Maester Melaquin to tend to the wound he suffered fighting in the Marches. Inside the bedchamber, he sat in a chair and took off his tunic, revealing his naked torso. Maester Melaquin entered the room soon after.

“The wound seems to have healed completely, Your Grace,” The Maester said after inspecting the wound and cleaning the zone. “Soon it will be just another scar to prove your valor.”

Maekar hummed in response. “Melaquin…” he started, unsure of how to proceed with his request. “Throughout the years you have proven yourself to be a man of unmatched loyalty to me and my family. You are one of the few people I judge worthy of my trust…” he confessed to the older man.

“You flatter me, Your Grace,” The old Maester said, though his face portrayed worry, no doubt due to how uncharacteristically Maekar was acting. “Do you feel unwell?” he asked.

Maekar snorted. “No… my niece, the Princess Aelora, sent me a letter nigh on a week ago, as I’m sure you remember,” he began. “In that letter she asks me for advice on how to overcome her grief.”

“An understandable request,” the Maester said. “Your Grace is the princess’ uncle, and due to your own… past tragedies… surely know better than anyone else what advice to give the Princess Aelora. You are the most fitting man to assist her in overcoming such an unfortunate event.”

“The problem is I do not feel as though I am, Melaquin. I cannot tell the girl to follow in my footsteps; it does not feel right. I cannot tell her to shun the company of those she has left, keep her thoughts to herself and run to the training yard whenever one of them threatens to pour out from her mouth,” he said, growing frustrated.

I will not have her spend her days banging steel together just loudly enough to drown out the sound of her own thoughts.

“Then why do you do it, Your Grace?”

“I do not know!” he shouted at the Maester, curling his hands into fists. He breathed deeply before continuing. “And it is not relevant. I do not need help; she does.”

The men stayed in silence for a moment before Melaquin broke it. “May I see the letter, Your Grace?”

Maekar gestured his head at the table between them where the letter stood. The Maester picked it up and read through it.

“Hm, interesting,” he noted after a while.

“What is it?” Maekar asked. He had read the letter himself countless times, and doubted Melaquin would notice something he hadn’t.

“The Princess did not use her title. She should’ve signed the letter as ‘Aelora of House Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne’, rather than merely ‘Princess Aelora of House Targaryen’,” the good Maester observed.

Maekar, meanwhile, failed to see the relevance. “What of it?”

The old Maester gave Maekar a disapproving look. “My Prince, if I may be so bold, had fate chosen a different path and His Grace, King Aerys, had made you his heir, appointing you as Prince of Dragonstone, how would you feel possessing the title that once belonged to Prince Baelor?”

Maekar realized then what the Maester meant. He felt confident in his guesses as to the thoughts that were going through his niece’s mind; he had felt them in part when he thought he was going to be made Hand of the King by Aerys. The feeling that he did not deserve the place Baelor had occupied, the ever-present agonizing thought that he was stealing his brother’s rightful place. All of this and more would surely be present in his niece’s head as well.

“What do I tell her, Melaquin?”

“Well, Your Grace, the way I see it you already have a path ahead of you. You may not know what the princess should do, but you know for certain what she should not do. I advise you to start with that, so the princess might learn not to commit the same mistakes as you, My Prince,” the Maester said, advising Maekar on what advice to give. “You can start by advising her to not push away those around her. To not keep her thoughts within her until they become unbearable. You can tell her not to attempt to shut out her thoughts with short-lived distractions. Mayhaps telling the Princess of your own thoughts and experiences with grief could be enough to give her some perspective on her own.”

Maekar listened to his friend’s wise words, thanking him for his service before he dismissed him. Once he was alone, he took a piece of parchment, ink and a quill and sat at the table.

He dipped the quill in the inkwell and began writing.

Chapter Text

The guards bowed before opening the doors of the small council chamber to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. It stood empty and clean, unlike many other chambers of the Red Keep; the servants were still busy ridding the halls of the remnants of the celebrations that had welcomed the 218th year after the Conquest.

Aelinor had made it a point to arrive earlier than her husband’s Small Council, in order to better her chances of winning the coming confrontation.

Half of those men have spent the last eight years trying to convince Aerys to cast me aside for a new queen. They will try just as hard to remove me from these chambers.

When she was first told of the small council’s efforts to have Aelinor cast aside in the beginning of her husband’s reign, she was outraged. Many a night were spent weeping at the thought of having her station usurped for a lack of heirs that was no fault of hers. Today, however, all she could do was laugh at the idea. The men of her husband’s council could put the blame on Aelinor all they wished, they could line up all the great beauties of the Seven Kingdoms before Aerys and let him have his choice, they could even wed him to as many wives as Maegor the Cruel once had: they still wouldn’t get the Prince of Dragonstone they so desperately desired.

It would be best for them to come to terms with the fact that any maiden brought to Aerys’ bed will die as such… as I eventually had to.

Arriving early also allowed her time to think about her niece, and the dire situation at court.

Word of the princess’ state had traveled through Blackwater Bay, reaching the streets of King’s Landing and the halls of the Red Keep. The citizens of the capital spoke of a mad woman, a little girl who lost her wits to grief and guilt. The lords and ladies spoke of a weak and frail princess who refused to leave her chambers and had to have her mother badger her into eating and bathing herself, as unfit to rule the realm as she was to rule herself.

A few spoke of the curse that would be brought upon the realm if a kinslayer ascended the throne. Not as many as one would think, though, probably because the main opposing claimant had that same stain, as did the man who had been ruling the realm in all but name for the entirety of her husband’s reign.

All this would have to change. Of course, Aelinor knew the one who could best fight these accusations was Aelora herself, by being present at court and proving to lord and commoner alike that she was worthy of the Iron Throne. But as that wasn’t a possibility at the moment, she would need to work on her niece’s behalf to restore her reputation to what it had been when she was her brother’s beloved consort, and the most precious maid of the court.

Observing the small council would be a good start. From what Aerys had told Aelinor, none of the men were in favor of Aelora becoming queen; she needed to know which of them could come to be persuaded to her side and which needed to find themselves stripped of their places.

The first of the members to arrive was Grand Maester Wallace. About half a decade older than Aelinor, Wallace was chosen by the Conclave of the Citadel to succeed the previous Grand Maester, who died of the Great Spring Sickness after contracting it in his attempt to treat King Daeron and Queen Myriah. The man was short, with a long, wrinkled face and a grey widow’s peak. He had a quiet disposition, not speaking unless spoken to and preferring to serve in silence and to be left alone when not needed. This did little to gain him friends, and, coupled with his interest in alchemy and his controversial opinions on matters of healing, had gained him an ominous reputation as a practitioner of the dark arts.

Aelinor saw nothing wrong in his disposition; it reminded her of Aerys, in fact. And the only unusual position she knew the man to hold was his vehement opposition to the practice of bloodletting.

Upon seeing her, his red-rimmed eyes widened with surprise. “Your Grace,” he bowed. “What an unexpected pleasure it is to find you in the small council chambers.”

“Indeed,” she smiled at the Grand Maester.

Brynden Rivers was the next one to arrive, accompanied by Lord Grimm, Ser Daenar Celtigar, and Lord Commander Gwayne Corbray. At two-and-forty, her cousin stood shy of six feet tall. He was thin and gaunt, with the palest skin Aelinor had ever seen on a living person, white as milk, save for a winestain birthmark on the right side of his face that extended from his throat up to his right cheek, vaguely shaped like a raven. His hair was just as pale, running slightly past his shoulders, with the front brushed forward to partly cover his missing eye. His complexion, coupled with the scar he refused to hide with a patch, and with his one remaining red eye, gave him the look of a demon; an observation not far from the truth, Aelinor thought. She misliked and mistrusted the Hand of the King, both from the ruthless and often cruel ways with which he ruled her husband’s kingdom, and from his arrogant demeanor. He was king in all but name and he knew it, which only served to infuriate Aelinor further.

The men stopped their conversation when they saw her, staring in surprise; all but Brynden Rivers, whose red eye regarded Aelinor with suspicion.

“Your Grace,” The Hand greeted her, nodding his head rather than bowing. “Is there something you need? The small council is about to convene.” His tone made it clear he was inviting her to leave.

“So I’ve been told, cousin,” Aelinor responded. “It is the reason I’m here. I shall preside over the council today.” As she said it, Lord Ormund Lefford, the last of the small council members, arrived, looking mildly shocked by her words.

Bloodraven’s eye narrowed, Ser Daenar looked confused, Lord Grimm disgusted.

“The King did not inform me or the council of your presence,” the one-eyed Hand sneered at her. Aelinor took great pleasure in Brynden’s transparent mislike of the situation. The mere presence of someone who could dispute his authority was enough to anger him.

For all the power you hold, My Lord Hand, you are still beholden to the King’s whims and wishes. You should be reminded of your place more often.

“Well, he informed me, your Queen. Please do take your seats.” She gave the Hand a wry smile and sat down on the king’s chair at the head of the table. “Consider this small council in session.”

One by one, the men of the small council took their seats, each eying Aelinor or Bloodraven with apprehensiveness. Once all were sat, Aelinor spoke. “Shall we begin?”

Grand Maester Wallace cleared his throat before removing a small letter from his grey sleeve. “A letter from the Citadel,” he said, passing it to Lord Lefford, who sat by his side, so he could read it and pass it around the table. “It was carried by a white raven. Autumn has yielded to winter.”

Around the table faces fell, Aelinor’s included. The last summer had been a long one, beginning in Aerys’ early reign, in the year 210 AC, lasting for five years before breaking to a two-year autumn. A long and warm summer it was, which according to some meant an equally long winter.

Some will take it as an ill omen, no doubt.

“The inevitable cycle of the seasons continues.” Brynden Rivers seemed to be the only man unmoved by the announcement. “We’ve had two years to prepare for this winter; things shall resume as they always have.”

“Agreed,” Aelinor said. “What else?”

“Another raven came bearing the news of Ser Eustace Osgrey’s death,” the Grand Maester added.

“Good,” the Hand snickered, in a rare display of emotion. “The realm has rid itself of another traitor,” he proclaimed with triumphant glee.

Few things roused Brynden Rivers as much as talk of House Blackfyre and its supporters. He had been more adamant on severely punishing the lords that had supported Daemon than even King Daeron and Prince Baelor, whose throne had been threatened. Aelinor had always been curious about the Hand’s reasons.

“Old Eustace was the last of his line, wasn’t he?” Lord Lefford, the Master of Laws, asked. “He lost his sons fighting in the rebellion if I remember correctly.”

“From what I’ve heard, Rohanne Webber gave him a son and a daughter in their five years of marriage,” Aelinor answered.

“That is mentioned in the letter,” Grand Maester Wallace informed the council. “The marriage pact between Ser Eustace and Lady Webber stipulated that their children would bear the name Osgrey, with the eldest son taking the name Webber when the time came to inherit the lordship of Coldmoat, and the second son becoming Knight of Standfast upon his father’s death. As there is no second son, in his final will Ser Eustace stipulated that their daughter would inherit Standfast, and their son would inherit his mother’s house, title and lands upon her death. Lady Rohanne has accepted this arrangement, proclaiming her daughter the Dame of Standfast and her son the heir to Coldmoat. The letter was signed by her and came to us accompanied by a transcript of Ser Eustace’s will.”

Lord Grimm scoffed at the Grand Maester’s words. “Lady Webber presumes too much. Why should this girl receive Standfast when she has a living brother?”

Aelinor protested. “Surely, Lord Grimm, you wouldn’t wish for such an ancient and illustrious line as that of House Osgrey to end, when there is a viable heir of Ser Eustace’s body.”

“There sure is, Your Grace. The girl’s brother, Old Osgrey’s son,” the grey Master of Ships countered. “The boy is already an Osgrey; there is no reason why he shouldn’t inherit both Coldmoat and Standfast. Both castles have belonged to House Osgrey in the past, if my memory serves me right.”

“What of House Webber, then?” Aelinor asked the old lord sharply. “Why should they lose their station – one higher than that of House Osgrey, mind you – simply because there is no second son? We have two children available, there is a clear solution that saves both Houses’ station, and both Ser Eustace and Lady Rohanne agree to it.”

“Why was the matter brought before this small council at all? Lord Rowan is Standfast and Coldmoat’s liege. Matters of succession pertaining to his vassals should be brought to and solved by him, not brought directly to the king,” Brynden Rivers observed.

“The Red Widow knows she’ll get no help from the Rowans,” Lord Grimm affirmed bluntly. “A cousin of hers was wed to a Rowan woman, and he had always coveted Coldmoat for himself. He’s dead now, but he left sons. Half-Rowan sons who would be all too eager to relieve her of this matter of succession by having Lord Rowan promote them as her heirs.”

“A proposition the Rowans would wholeheartedly support,” Brynden Rivers quipped.

“As would you, Your Grace,” Lord Grimm addressed Aelinor. “If the Osgrey boy is given Standfast and the Webber cousin is made heir to Coldmoat, both Houses get to keep their lands. A most judicious proposition, I’d say.” He gazed upon Aelinor with his head held high and arrogance clear in his face.

Aelinor was quick to retaliate. “So you would support disinheriting not only the daughter but also the son whose rights you claimed to defend just a moment ago? Such fickleness does not become a member of the small council, My Lord.”

She smirked as the Master of Ships’ face contorted in rage. “You dare question-”

“That’s enough,” Brynden Rivers interrupted him. “The lack of a clear heir to Standfast gives Ser Eustace the right to name who he wishes to pass his lands and titles to. The solution presented by Lady Webber has merit and is accepted by both her and Ser Eustace as the heads of both Houses Webber and Osgrey. As such, it is the will of this council that Ser Eustace’s will should be respected. Does anyone oppose this notion?”

The small council chambers stood eerily silent, with not a single one of the councilmen raising an objection.

“Very well,” Bloodraven continued. “Grand Maester Wallace, after this meeting you shall write to Coldmoat informing Lady Webber that her husband’s will shall be upheld. You will also send a raven to Goldengrove informing Lord Rowan of our decision, telling him that, thinking of his interests as a great lord of the realm, the crown intervened to stop Coldmoat and Standfast from coalescing into a single entity and creating an overmighty bannerman who, as the son of a man known to have been an ardent supporter of the black dragons, could come to pose a problem for him and the realm.”

“As you command, My Lord,” the Grand Maester declared.

Bloodraven stole a quick look at Aelinor, and she thought she could see his lips quirking upwards into a smirk for a moment. “What other subjects are there to discuss?”

Ser Daenar Celtigar, Master of Coin, nervously spoke up. “There is a matter that I wish to bring attention to,” he said meekly, looking at anything and anyone who wasn’t Brynden Rivers. “As all are aware, trade with the Free Cities of Essos has always been one of the cornerstones of our treasury’s prosperity. One needs only look out a window at the Blackwater where countless ships are entering and leaving King’s Landing’s harbor to see the great importance of having stable relations with the polities of Essos… with that in mind, I would like to bring to this council’s attention the… measures… adopted by the Free City of Tyrosh when it comes to trade with the Seven Kingdoms.”

If the intricacies of trade were a subject that roused little interest in the men of the small council, the mere mention of Tyrosh was enough to capture their attention. And none seemed so invested in what the young Master of Coin had to say than Bloodraven, whose gaze left poor Ser Daenar even more unnerved.

“Go on,” uttered the Hand.

“A new Archon has been elected recently. Upon taking power, his first move was to form a lucrative alliance with the Free City of Lys. Since formed, the price of Tyroshi and Lysene goods being sold to us has increased exponentially, as have the taxes imposed upon Westerosi goods being exported to those cities, along with the port fees the ships who carry them must pay to anchor.”

“Relations with Tyrosh have been strained since the previous Archon took power.” It was Ser Gwayne Corbray who spoke, for the first time since the meeting had begun. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was a man of few words, preferring to observe and listen, rather than partake in discussions about matters he knew he was unqualified to speak on. “Your complaints of tariffs and taxes have been brought up before, Ser, both by you and your predecessor.”

“With all due respect, Lord Commander, but this is different. The price of goods has doubled, and the value of the fees has tripled. These concerns are not shared by the other Free Cities according to the word I’ve received from our envoys, which means the Tyroshi and Lyseni are applying these values solely against Westerosi ships and merchants, and that is the least of it.” The Master of Coin’s face grew even more serious. “Reports have reached us that a new fleet of pirates has infested the Stepstones, with several Westerosi ships having been lost already. After further investigation and cooperation from our envoys to the other Free Cities I can say with certainty that the only ships affected by these raids are those flying Westerosi flags or found to be on their way to trade in our ports. Even though Lys and Tyrosh are the cities closest to the Stepstones, their coffers remain unaffected, and they have sent no fleets to clear out these alleged pirates.”

“They don’t even deign themselves to attempt to be subtle,” Aelinor observed with growing frustration. “These are at best offensive trading practices. At worst they’re acts of war.”

“I did not think the Tumitis boy would be so bold,” Brynden Rivers quipped, as if partly amused by the situation. “My expectations were that he would continue his father’s policy of cold diplomatic relations and subtle price increases.”

“What do you mean, My Lord?” Lord Lefford asked.

“This new Archon of Tyrosh. His name is Tyssario Tumitis, the son of the previous Archon -- and the nephew of Daemon Blackfyre’s widow.”

The air in the small council chamber seemed to thicken upon the revelation.

“The boy’s father has been affected by a wasting illness for the past few years, so rather than running for reelection he threw his weight behind his son,” the Hand continued. “Young blood is always most eager to prove itself.”

“We should have never gone into bed with the Tyroshi,” Lord Lefford lamented.

“Yet another curse placed upon us by the Unworthy before the Stranger took him,” Aelinor sighed.

The entanglement between the Seven Kingdoms and the Free City of Tyrosh was one that stretched back three decades. It started in the year 184AC when Aegon, Forth of His Name, known to the histories as Aegon the Unworthy, betrothed his bastard son Daemon Waters to the daughter of the Archon of Tyrosh, in exchange for a fleet of ships in an eventual conquest of Dorne. That most despicable king died that same year, and on his deathbed doomed thousands of his subjects’ lives by legitimizing all his many illegitimate children, including Daemon, who took the name Blackfyre after the sword of kings that his father had gifted him.

Aegon’s son and heir, Daeron the Good, kept his father’s promise, wedding Daemon to Rohanne and paying the promised dowry to the Archon, costly as it was. Though Aelinor’s good-father ruled justly and wisely, fixing the excesses of his father’s reign, many lords had grown rich off of these excesses, and sought to return to the way of things as they had been before.

Many pretenses have been used to justify the treason of the Blackfyre Rebellion; the growing Dornish influence Daeron allowed at court, Aegon IV’s awarding of Blackfyre to Daemon symbolizing that he wished for him to succeed him, the all too convenient rumors that Daeron was no son of Aegon’s, but a bastard of Queen Naerys with her other brother Aemon. All excuses, as far as Aelinor was concerned.

In her mind, the true cause of the Blackfyre Rebellion was the same one that serves as the driving force of most wars.

Man’s ambition.

One needs only look at most of the lords that declared for the Black Dragon. The second and third houses of the various kingdoms, such as the Hightowers and Peakes, the Swanns and Estermonts, the Reynes and Westerlings, all of these eager to replace their liege lords. Houses who saw the influence they acquired due to the corruption allowed to fester during Unworthy’s reign diminished thanks to King Daeron’s policies and wished to be rid of him for it, such as the Lothstons, the Butterwells and the Brackens. Houses who once loomed large in the histories of the Seven Kingdoms, but through the centuries saw their holdings and titles diminished and saw in Daemon a chance to get them back, such as the Osgreys and the Mandrakes.

How many fathers and sons were lost due to the heedless ambition of these men? How many wives and mothers preferred to slit their wrists and jump from their towers rather than endure the pain brought upon by their losses?

Aelinor herself lost three brothers to the war, and she would neither forgive nor forget those responsible for it.

Regardless, the rebellion failed. Daemon Blackfyre was killed in battle and his family fled to Tyrosh, where they remained to this day.

King Daeron was aware of the danger the exiled Blackfyres posed, and how greater that danger would be if supported by Tyrosh’s wealth and fleet. As he was wont to do, he chose to solve this matter with a marriage of his own, to tie the Tyroshi to him rather than the Blackfyres.

Ever since the fall of the Kingdom of the Three Daughters, a short-lived union between the Free Cities of Lys, Myr and Tyrosh, Tyroshi politics were headed by two rival families who rose to prominence during the chaos of the separation, the Tumitis and the Ryndoons. Whilst at the time Rohanne’s father was Archon, a marriage pact and a favorable trade deal with the Head of the Ryndoon family made the Tumitis lose the next election, with Kier Ryndoon becoming the next Archon and his daughter Kiera set to become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms one day, as the betrothed and later wife of Prince Valarr.

And all was well until that dreaded year of 209AC, when the Great Spring Sickness came and took King Daeron, his queen, Valarr and his brother Matarys, severing the ties Tyrosh had built with House Targaryen.

In 210AC, Rohanne Tumitis’ father was elected Archon once more, marking the decline of relations and trade with Tyrosh, and though he only occupied the position for little less than two years before dying, his son was elected after him, continuing his father’s policies for the entirety of his five-year term. Now this new boy, the third Tumitis in a row to be elected to the position, has taken the reins of power, and seems to have made it his objective to buy a war with Westeros.

Aelinor did not doubt Rohanne herself was part of this folly as well. That evil bitch , Aelinor thought bitterly. She played a part in instigating the first rebellion, why not in this one as well?

“Can we be certain that this represents the prelude to an invasion?” asked Grand Maester Wallace. “To any man who believes the Blackfyres to be the rightful royal lineage, the king in their eyes would be Daemon the Younger, whom we hold hostage. The Blackfyres in Essos cannot gather support without a king, and they can’t hope to invade Westeros without sacrificing the life of their brother.”

Brynden Rivers was quick to respond. “Daemon’s life means little and less to that ilk. My treacherous brother Aegor didn’t care enough about his life to prevent him from traveling to Westeros and enacting his pathetic excuse for a rebellion, if it can even be called as such,” Bloodraven spat. There was an unmistakable scorn in his voice whenever the topic was Aegor Rivers. “His brother Haegon is certainly cut from the same cloth, having been raised by Bittersteel himself. Most likely he’s hoping we execute Daemon, so he can then present himself as the rightful successor to his father.”

“’Twould be the best possible time to invade.” Lord Grimm snickered.

Aelinor turned her attention to him once again. “And what do you mean by that, Lord Grimm?”

The old man, clearly as displeased by her presence as she was by his, turned to her. “Your Grace, if I may speak plainly, the realm is in the worst state it’s been since the aftermath of the Dance of the Dragons.” He turned his gaze from her and addressed the remaining men at the table. “We are ruled by an absent king uninterested in fulfilling his duties to the realm, whose House stands weakened and divided, with the death of two heirs in quick succession and the king’s last remaining brother away in a self-imposed exile from court, and who has now named for his heir a mad and sullen girl ill-suited to wear the crown. The North, the Riverlands, The Westerlands and the Reach are presently ruled by children, their vassals emboldened to act out of line with impunity, all the while across the Narrow Sea the black dragons, who many of these Houses once fought for, plot to invade the Seven Kingdoms with the aid of two Free Cities. To say that the crown is vulnerable would be an understatement.”

The Master of Ships’ words were followed by a tense silence, with the men of the small council awkwardly looking at each other to see who would denounce them as slanderous lies, but none came forward. The men of the small council did not voice their agreement with Lord Grimm, but Aelinor could see it in their faces. Brynden Rivers, meanwhile, ignored them all, seemingly deep in thought.

Aelinor, in her turn, glared at the Master of Ships. Part of her could see the truth for what it was, but another part felt a need to defend her husband and his reign. In the end, it was the latter urge that won out.

“You paint such a depressing picture of my husband’s reign, Lord Grimm.”

“It is the truth as I see it, Your Grace,” The Master of Ships replied curtly. “Hate me if you must, but let it never be said that the Lord of Greyshield was a lickspittle who favored false flattery over the harsh truth.”

“The king cares a great deal about the realm, I can assure you of that. The crown fell upon him by chance; he was not prepared for it. As such he chose to surround himself with wise men who would counsel him and guide his reign in the right direction. I would say that a king who does not do every task for himself, choosing to delegate it to the man most suited for it, is better than a king who does every task by his own hand, even when he lacks competence. As for his choice of the Princess Aelora as his successor, though she is in a fragile state at the moment, once mourning has run its course I can guarantee that she will rise to the occasion. The princess herself will make sure you all see the qualities that my husband and I see in her, mark my words.”

Lord Grimm did not answer her. Not because she bested him, but because he didn’t need to. One needed only look around the table to see that her words had not changed any minds. Nonetheless, Aelinor forced herself to remain hopeful.

Words are wind. One day Aelora will prove them wrong through her deeds.

“Are there any other matters this council wishes to discuss today?” Brynden Rivers asked.

“Several, My Lord,” Grand Maester Wallace affirmed. “First, mayhaps we should deliberate on a problem that has risen in the Riverlands. We have received ravens from both House Bracken and House Blackwood about-” The Grand Maester was interrupted by sighs and grumbles from every soul in the chamber.

Aelinor listened intently to every issue raised in the remainder of the council meeting, though she didn’t speak her mind on any of them.

Once the council was dismissed, Ser Willem Wylde of the Kingsguard, her sworn shield, accompanied her to the gardens, for earlier that day she had informed the servants that her and Aerys would have their lunch together there.

As she passed through one of the many fountains, she stopped to look at her reflection in the water. She was dressed in a long brown coat trimmed with white fur which was brought together at the center of her waist by a silver and pearl girdle belt. Underneath the coat she wore a dress of sea green silk, trimmed with Myrish lace the color of silver. Aelinor owned plenty of sea green dresses, in honor of her mother. Though made a Penrose by marriage, Laena of Parchments was too proud of her heritage as the firstborn child of Baela Targaryen and Alyn the Oakenfist to ever wear any colors other than silver, sea green, black or red, and she always made it a point to instill that same pride in her children. She was the main force that pushed for her marriage to Aerys, a union she considered her greatest achievement, even moreso than her brother Ronnel’s marriage to Princess Elaena.

The face reflected in the water had once been one of the comeliest at court, and a few would say it still was, though Aelinor doubted the truth of such words more and more. With each day she noticed a new line on her face and her deep purple eyes lose the vibrancy she could swear they once had. Her brown hair, which was styled in two loose braids at the side of her head which connected at the nape of her neck to form a bun, was developing a few gray streaks, and she had no doubt that in a few years that would be the only color it would have.

It is the way of things, Aelinor often told herself. She would turn eight-and-forty this year; it was only natural that her age would begin to show-- truth be told, she should feel lucky that it took as long as it did. Yet try as she might, she could not ignore the part of her that dreaded it, that mourned the loss of her beauty.

Your beauty didn’t serve you much anyways; it wasn’t enough to stir Aerys’ passions.

The bitter thought was expelled from her mind as soon as it formed. She turned away from the fountain and resumed her walk. Thoughts such as those brought her back to a shameful time, a time before she had made her peace with Aerys and the circumstances of their marriage. She had been a bitter and resentful woman then, outraged at her husband’s lack of interest in her and distressed with her lack of children, a distress that grew with every passing year, as her good-brothers’ wives gave their husbands child after child while she remained a maid. 

It was more than just shame of the perceived failure of providing her husband with children. For Aelinor motherhood had always been one of her greatest desires, and her husband’s unwillingness to even so much as consummate their marriage hurt her. That hurt had first turned to sadness, as she blamed herself for her inability to stir her husband’s interest in her, then to rage and bitterness, as she blamed her husband for refusing to do his duties.

She’d hated Aerys for quite a few years. Out of spite she belittled him and questioned his manhood. One particular act she would regret until the end of her days. It had been the day Alys gave birth to the twins. The birth of two children on the same day, coupled with Daella’s birth a few moons prior, had left Aelinor in an unsettling state, and she found herself drinking one too many cups of wine to cope with her envy and resentment. Unsteady on her feet, she stumbled into Aerys’ bedchambers at night and tried to force herself on him, ripping his clothes in an attempt to undress him.

Aerys restrained her and forced her out of his chambers, not speaking to her for more than a moon’s turn after that.

That night had led her to the pits of desperation, and she turned to the gods for comfort. She went to pray at the Great Sept of Baelor daily, beseeching the Mother Above to bless her with a child or to compel her husband to fulfill his duties. But the requested divine intervention never came, and at a certain point Aelinor grew tired of being ignored. She went to the sept less frequently now, even if her reputation for piety and the occasional jape that she begged the Father Above to impregnate her remained.

When she reached the small gazebo where they were to have their lunch, Aerys was already present, waiting for her. Her husband was spindly and stooped, with long straight hair. He had a long, thin face, a long, thin mustache and a long pointed beard, and his purple eyes were red-rimmed from reading. Aelinor noticed that the dark red doublet he was wearing was the same one he had worn yesterday at dinner. His obsession with reading often made him forgetful of other tasks, such as changing his clothes. Though he was two years younger than Aelinor, he looked older than his years.

“Wife,” he greeted with a nod, smiling at her.

“Husband,” she greeted him back, mimicking his gestures.

They sat at the table as the servants attended to the food.

“So how was the meeting?” Aerys began. “Was Brynden Rivers’ outrage at your presence as priceless as the image conjured in my head?”

Aelinor let out a laugh. “It was even better. Though I must admit that was the only good moment of that dreaded meeting.” Aelinor informed Aerys of all the topics addressed in the council, including Lord Grimm’s assessment of his reign.

“Harsh as it may be to hear, his assessment is not incorrect,” he admitted, “though nonetheless I thank you for your defense of me, and especially of Aelora.” He took a bite of the roast boar.

“Even so, that does not mean we must stay idle. If House Targaryen is divided, it falls on us to reunite it. I know we agreed to give Aelora whatever time was needed to remain on Dragonstone, but she needs to be here, to be seen and to learn the ways of kingship. If we do not prepare her for her future role, then we are merely signing her death sentence.”

Aerys pondered her words. “You’re right. She did answer our last letter herself, instead of Alys. Mayhaps that’s a sign that she’s recovering. We should send a raven broaching the subject of a return to court, delicately of course. We shall not force her to come.”

“And when Aelora returns, we will need to prepare a ceremony of investiture for her, where she is named Princess of Dragonstone before the lords of the realm. That includes Maekar. It will be the perfect opportunity to broach the subject of returning to court to him as well,” she added.

“Of that I’m less hopeful,” her husband said, “though it doesn’t hurt to try.”

“We must,” Aelinor affirmed with growing emotion. “I miss the children. I need them once more by my side.”

Aerys gave her a look of sympathy, reaching out for her hand. “I know you miss them. I do too.”

They stayed in comfortable silence for a time, eating and enjoying the views the garden had to offer.

“I’m sorry that I never gave them to you.”

Aelinor turned to her husband. “Hm?”

“Children,” he clarified.

“Aerys, I-”

“I know, I know,” he interrupted her. “We’ve made our peace long ago on this subject, and thank the gods that we did, for we’re both much less miserable now than we were a decade ago. Even so, I’m sorry. It was the one thing you wanted most, and the one thing I couldn’t give you.”

“There’s nothing to apologize.” She assured him. “As you once told me, the gods saw fit to make you the way they did, there is nothing to be done about it.” He had told her that when Aelinor decided to finally let go of her resentment and mend their relationship. He spoke of his lack of desire for people, and how disgusted the thought of sexual intercourse made him. It took some time for Aelinor to come around after years of dejection, but that conversation, and others like it that they ended up having, where both communicated their thoughts and emotions and tried their best to understand each other’s position, were the best things she could’ve possibly done.

Aerys would never be her lover, but in time he became her dearest friend, and it warmed her heart to know that the feeling was mutual.

“And besides, I’ve long ago learned to make the best of our circumstances,” she continued. “I may not have children of my own body, but I have our nieces and our nephews, and they are more than enough to fill my heart with love.”

Aerys smiled at her, and she at him in turn.

“Bring us some parchment and ink, please,” he ordered the servants. “What shall we tell our niece?”

Chapter Text

Aelora stared at the documents in front of her, frustrated by her own ignorance. She had been sitting at a desk in her mother’s private audience chambers in Sea Dragon Tower for nigh on an hour trying to make sense of the numbers in front of her. Sprawled throughout the desk were ledgers and documents with sums of the taxes paid to Dragonstone from its vassals which, on her mother’s orders, Aelora was meant to look over.

It was the fourth moon of the year, and even though there were still some days when she gave into her feelings of melancholy and hardly left her bed, she had made considerable progress pertaining to her life. She broke her fast every day with her mother in her chambers, often lunched with her ladies-in-waiting in the Stone Drum’s great hall, and supped with her mother and her sister Daenora in her mother’s solar. At Alannys Massey’s urging she had once left the castle to visit the nearby village’s markets, and she was even beginning to communicate with the servants and courtiers in full sentences rather than the nodding or ignoring from before.

She was still a long way from the high-spirited charming princess that left an impression on any guest of the Red Keep, but she was treading the path to reach that destination, one step at a time.

Something that had helped a great deal in the process of lifting her spirits was the correspondence she regularly shared with her uncle Maekar.

The fact that they shared habitual correspondence with each other still surprised her. Even before Uncle Baelor’s death, when all the sons of King Daeron and their households inhabited the Red Keep, Maekar had always been distant to Aelora and the other children. He was a serious and sullen man, who seemed to tolerate no company other than his brothers, his wife and his children, and even the latter fell victim to his reclusive ways after Aunt Dyanna passed. Aelora’s cousins would complain to her of their father’s neglect when they played together. From that day onwards her uncle could be found only in the courtyard with a mace in his hand or on formal occasions scowling and grinding his teeth, awaiting the moment it would be appropriate to leave.

It was even worse after the Tourney at Ashford Meadow. Aelora had only seen her uncle on five occasions since then, the first being when he returned from the tourney with Uncle Baelor’s ashes; Aelora only managed to see Aunt Jena slapping him and attempting to land several blows on him before collapsing into his chest, uncontrollably sobbing, before her mother and Aunt Aelinor removed the children from the hall. The second time was Uncle Aerys’ coronation, where she remembers her uncle standing frigid as stone as the High Septon placed the extravagant crown of red gold, made by Aegon IV and worn by Daeron II after him, on Aerys’ head. The third time was the following day when, sitting upon the Iron Throne, Uncle Aerys named his small council, appointing Brynden Rivers as the Hand of the King, whereupon Maekar rose in protest, leaving the Great Hall and the capital as a whole when the king did not go back on his decision. Aelora didn’t see her uncle for years after he withdrew to Summerhall, the fourth and fifth time being her father’s funeral and then Aelor’s, where he stood on that cursed hill overlooking the sea with his usual scowl.

Yet, despite his coldness, despite how unapproachable he had come across to Aelora her whole life, he ended up being the person who understood the way she felt best. She’d read his first letter so many times she knew the words by heart, for the advice they gave had been the catalyst for her change.

Niece,

I am writing this letter to tell you that I understand and sympathize with your position, and though I admittedly may not have the gentlest of touch when it comes to delicate matters such as this, I shall do my best to be tactful with the words I choose to give my advice to you.

By now you have surely been drowned by condolences from both strangers and loved ones, all of them wishing upon you the strength to recover from your loss and pull through your grief as quickly as possible. Such words may give you the idea that you will one day be free of the memory of the tragedy that befell you, that the name of the one you lost will no longer bring forth unimaginable pain. It is a lie; the wound that festers in your heart is one that will never heal, not fully at least.

I say this to you not out of cruelty, but so that you are not left falsely hoping for a moment that will never come. From my experience, the feelings of grief, guilt and even rage never truly go away, or even diminish, one simply gets used to their presence; one learns to bear them, to live with them.

My council is that you fight the urge to succumb to them. The pain can be so unbearable that it removes the strength to so much as rise from your bed or eat the food served to you. You must do your best to contradict the urge, an effort that may seem impossible in the beginning, but will come more easily the more you do it.

The same applies to the people around you, whom you will instinctively push away in your self-loathing. Allow them to approach you, and approach them yourself, for if they are true to you, they will wish nothing more than your happiness. By shutting everyone out and locking yourself away, with your own thoughts festering inside you, you will only be hurting yourself.

Lastly, I advise you not to participate in activities solely as an attempt to drown out the sound of your own thoughts. Those distractions are temporary and, inevitably, the thoughts you try so hard to suppress will creep into your mind once more. If you remain mindful of their existence, they cannot catch you unawares.

I hope these words of mine grant you the perspective you seek, and that each one of your days becomes easier to bear than the last.

Regards,

Maekar of House Targaryen, Prince of Summerhall

The words did grant Aelora some perspective, as did the ones they shared in their subsequent letters. Their thoughts were not exact mirrors of each other in every aspect - for example, in the way her uncle claimed in one of his letters that he could not recall landing the blow that killed Uncle Baelor, whilst Aelora had even the most minor of details of the event of Aelor’s death engraved in her mind - but nonetheless their circumstances were close enough that a bond was starting to form, and Aelora felt she had benefitted immensely from it.

Her mother thought the same, from the looks of it. Beholding such developments, Alys Arryn decided it was time to begin the process of transferring the day-to-day rule of Dragonstone into Aelora’s hands. Her mother still undertook most of the duties herself, not wishing to overwhelm her daughter. She ordered the servants to their tasks, she handled the nobles who lived in the castle or who visited for whatever reason, and it was her who sat the high seat of Dragonstone twice a moon to hear petitioners in the Great Hall—including the smallfolk, whom she had decided to allow into the castle for the occasion. Her goal, however, was to have Aelora eventually take these matters into her own hands one by one, so she had decided to start with the matter of taxation.

As if summoned by her thoughts, her mother entered the chamber.

“How are you faring, sweetling?” she asked.

“I’m just about at my wit’s end,” Aelora huffed. “I am incapable of making sense of these numbers, mother.” She took her hand to her forehead, in frustration. “How am I even meant to know that Lord Celtigar paid the sum he should?”

Her mother gave her a reassuring smile. “You’ll make sense of them soon enough, I’m sure.” She moved behind the chair Aelora was sitting on, rubbing her hands over Aelora’s shoulders and landing a kiss on her head. “Sums and numbers were always your brother’s favorite subject, you know?”

“I do,” Aelora smiled, remembering how Aelor used to tell her that numbers, unlike most other aspects of ruling, were simple and exact. Two and two shall forever remain four. People are much more nebulous and abstract than numbers , he used to say.

“Now, there are reports made by our tax collectors that show in detail where the total sum of coin comes from in your vassals’ lands, but if you wish to be given a more general view of how much to expect from each seat, you can always look at the sum paid by each seat in the years prior,” she explained, moving to her side and examining the ledger in front of Aelora. “Hm… that can’t be right,” she said, more to herself than to Aelora.

“What?” she asked.

“Three thousand gold dragons from Claw Isle? I’ve looked through your brother’s reports before and that is a noticeable discrepancy from the past years,” Alys searched the desk for the ledgers that included the annual taxes of Houses Sunglass and Bar Emmon. “The Celtigars are second only to the Velaryons in wealth among our vassals, yet the sum they presented is near those of Sharp Point and Sweetport Sound. Unless something unusual happened, they are not paying their due.”

As Aelora observed her mother, a question formed in her head. “Why did I not share Aelor’s lessons in matters of administration?” Aelora asked, turning to her mother.

“Hm?”

“We shared a Maester when it came to learning history, geography, heraldry and languages, but apart from that I was instructed by septas in things such as music, embroidery, poetry, and some basic arithmetic, whilst Aelor went on to be taught by maesters and councilmen in statecraft and warfare and philosophy,” she explained. “I understand that that is the regular education given to girls and to boys, but it was not the case for you. Grandsire gave you the exact same education he gave Uncle Joffrey and Uncle Denys. Why did you not do the same for me?”

Her mother looked at her apologetically. “I… you’re right. It was a failure on my part, I see that now. The truth is, since your grandfather betrothed you to your brother as children, and especially after your father became heir, I painted in my mind a picture of the future I wished for you and Aelor, of him as the dashing, bright and strong king and you as the beloved sweet queen. As such I gave each of you the education I felt would best shape you into those positions, never thinking you would be more than your brother’s consort, and as such wouldn’t have to worry yourself with such matters. I was so fixated on that ideal future that I never dared conjure the thought that…” Her mother paused, her face growing heavy. “That circumstances change. That accidents happen.”

Aelora rose from the chair and wrapped her arms around her mother.

“Don’t blame yourself, mother,” she reassured her. “No mother ever dares imagine that she might come to outlive a child of hers. I don’t blame you for not torturing yourself with such thoughts.”

Aelora broke the hug and sat once again, pouring over the ledgers once more with her mother’s help.

“A raven from Uncle Aerys and Aunt Aelinor arrived this morning,” Aelora informed her mother, once they were done. “They asked when I would return to King’s Landing.”

It was clear from their letters that the king and queen wanted Aelora back at court. They mentioned the subject in every letter they sent; at first as a wish for the future, then as a veiled suggestion, and now as a direct question. Aelora wondered if one day a letter would arrive carrying an order.

“Your uncle and aunt mean well. They miss you dearly,” her mother said, “and there is merit to their suggestion, from a political point of view. It would do well for you to be seen and heard at court, so your future subjects might come to know you and get used to seeing you in a position of power and influence.”

“You mean so we can gather allies and strengthen my position, so that when the time comes, I ascend the throne unopposed.”

Her mother looked at her in surprise.

“I’m not so naïve as to think that simply because Uncle Aerys decreed that I would succeed him my position is secured. I know the histories.”

“Then you understand the importance of playing this game. The first step is to put your pieces on the board.”

Aelora pondered her mother’s words, or tried to, at least. It was as if a pit opened in her stomach and her head grew heavier whenever she thought of the challenges she would have to face when she returned to the capital. “I understand, mother,” she said, not wanting to disappoint her by outright rejecting the idea. “I will give it some thought.”

Her words were enough to placate her mother, and she left soon after. Aelora looked in the mirror, adjusting her hair with her fingers, which that day she wore loose and falling down her back, and smoothing the skirts of her dress. It was a simple black velvet dress with long sleeves that reached the floor, her only accessory being a chain of red gold at her waist.

Once she was finished, she left the chamber. Her sworn shield Ser Donnel of the Kingsguard, who had been standing guard by the door, bowed, and together they walked the battlements all the way to the tower shaped like a screaming dragon called the Windwyrm. She had made plans to lunch with her ladies-in-waiting in one of the solars of the tower.

As she approached the door, she could hear voices and giggles coming from inside already.

“… Ladies, ladies, please,” Alannys Massey silenced their laughs. “I have an announcement.”

Aelora stopped by the door, not wishing to interrupt, but still curious to know what her friend had to say.

“I have consulted with Maester Uthor this morning about my recent indispositions, and he has confirmed our suspicions,” she announced, with utter glee clear in her voice. “I am with child!”

Cheers erupted from the other ladies, who were quick to congratulate her. Aelora opened the door and walked to Alannys’ seat.

“Your Grace, our dear Alannys just announced-” Bethany Stokeworth began before Aelora cut her off.

“I heard it, I was about to enter the chamber,” she smiled, moving to hug her friend. “Congratulations Alannys, what a blessing this is for you and your family.”

“Thank you!” she said, hugging her back. Each of the ladies took their seats, Aelora at the head of the table.

“With any luck, we have a future Lord of Duskendale at the table,” Marina Darklyn japed.

“A distant future, I hope,” Alannys took a hand to her as-of-yet flat belly. “Your grandfather is still the lord, and if the gods are good your father and brother each have a long tenure before my son inherits the title.”

The ladies partook in comfortable conversation as the servants brought in the food. Aelora grinned and interjected here and there, her smile becoming more forced with every passing minute.

Your friend is with child. This is great news; you should be happy. Why are you not happy?

Much as she wanted to feel overjoyed by her friend’s pregnancy, her mind could only force upon her memories of all the conversations she shared with Aelor over the years about the children they would have. Their talks of names, of how they would surpass the Conciliator and the Good Queen in their number of children, of the color of the eggs that would be put in their cradles. All these memories and more came rushing into her head.

Worse than the feeling of sadness, was the other one that manifested itself, one who brought Aelora shame.

Envy.

It was one thing to feel sad at her own misfortunes, it was another to feel resentful over others’ blessings. It was wrong, it was something that should not hold space in her heart and yet it did, which only made her feel worse. It was not the first time that she felt this way, and she could not help but be reminded of another piece of advice from one of her uncle’s letters.

Sometimes it is difficult to rise above the irrational thought that every fortunate thing that happens to someone else is an insult from the gods to you. Indulging in such thoughts, succumbing to them, can turn you into a bitter shell of a woman, niece, but the truth is they will not go away simply because you will it so. Were it that way we wouldn’t have those thoughts in the first place. You cannot control the feelings you have, but you can control how you act. Do not endorse dark thoughts with dark actions.

He had the right of it, of course, though Aelora still wished she didn’t have such feelings in the first place.

As the meal ended, and the ladies left the solar, Alannys approached her. “Princess, a moment of your time, please?”

“Of course,” Aelora answered.

She waited for the other ladies to leave before continuing. “I could tell you were forcing your smiles all throughout the meal. Is something amiss?”

Aelora felt like a mouse caught in a trap. “Was I too obvious?”

“Not to the other ladies, I’m sure. But when you’ve been in the constant company of someone since childhood, at a certain point it becomes easy to tell when they are hiding a frown.”

Alannys Massey had been her first lady-in-waiting, a constant companion and dear childhood friend. Of course she would notice something was amiss. Aelora sighed and sat in her chair. “I’m sorry. This was meant to be a joyous moment for you. I did not wish to ruin it with my own unhappiness.”

“Does it pertain to the announcement of my pregnancy?” Alannys pulled her own chair and sat in front of Aelora, reaching to hold her hands in hers. “I apologize if it came across as me flaunting my good fortunes, I swear to you that was not my intention.”

“I know, I know, there is nothing to apologize for,” Aelora reassured her. “And I meant it when I congratulated you. I’m truly happy for you, I know how much you’ve been praying for this.” Alannys had previously shared with her and Aelor her worries over her fertility. She and Ser Denys had been wed on the day of her sixteenth birthday, and in six years of marriage they had no children to show for their efforts. This long-awaited pregnancy was a great relief for the young couple and their families.

“It is simply that… the matter of children and pregnancy unleashes within me a feeling of loss for a time that will never come to be,” she admitted.

Alannys said nothing, opting instead to reach for Aelora, in a warm embrace. They stayed that way for a time before Aelora finally broke the hug.

“Thank you,” she told her old friend.

“My arms are open and available at all times, as they have always been,” Alannys said, and smiled reassuringly at her.

“Well, I supposed hugging you will become harder as the belly grows,” Aelora japed, making both girls laugh.

The two bid their farewells and went their separate ways. Aelora felt she had been out and about enough for the day and wished to retreat to her chambers.

As she made her way through the inner courtyard in the direction of the Stone Drum, Ser Donnel spoke.

“Princess… I couldn’t help but notice the face you made by the door of the solar when the Lady Alannys announced her pregnancy.” Aelora stopped and turned to him. “As your sworn shield, I feel compelled to offer myself, should Her Grace ever need a person of trust to vent to. It is part of the Kingsguard’s vows that we guard the king’s secrets, and I would extend that to the king’s heiress as well.”

Aelora was surprised by the knight’s words. Ser Donnel had been named to the Kingsguard in the latter reign of her grandfather, and he had a presence in her memories since childhood, but he had never sought to be familiar to her, observing his duties quietly and speaking only when spoken to. Nonetheless, she had always known him to be an honest and honorable man, and his face seemed sincere to her.

“Thank you, Ser Donnel. You are a true knight,” she said before resuming her way.

She spent her afternoon reading the tome Ruined Cities, Stolen Gods, which went into detail over the fall of the Kingdom of Sarnor to the Dothraki people, soon after the Doom of Valyria.

Soon after night had fallen, her mother and sister entered her chambers for supper. Aelora had wrapped herself in furs, for the nights had gotten colder.

“Lora! Lora!” her sister Daenora ran into her arms.

“Oof, you’re getting heavier, hatchling.” Aelora chuckled as she picked her sister up.

Her sister grew serious. “I’m not a hatchling. I’m a big dragon now. Roar!” She roared to make her point.

“Turning four years old has convinced your sister that she is too grown to be a mere hatchling. She has decided she is now Balerion reborn,” her mother informed her.

“Oh,” Aelora turned back to her sister. “You know, Aelor and I also played dragons when we were your age. Dragons have big wings, and they can fly anywhere they want to, you know?”

“Yes, and they burn things!” Her sister shouted before she left Aelora’s lap and started running around the room flapping her arms as if they were wings.

“That too, I suppose.”

Eventually the food was brought in and they all sat at the table eating.

“I was thinking it was time for us exchange apartments,” her mother said in-between bites.

“What? Why?” Aelora asked while chewing her food.

“Sea Dragon Tower is the space traditionally reserved for the ruler of the castle. Those were the apartments occupied by your father and I, and by your uncle Baelor before him and by all the other Princes and Lords of Dragonstone before that,” she explained. “They should be occupied by you now, as the ruling Princess of Dragonstone.”

“You brought that matter to Aelor when he became Prince of Dragonstone and he told you that we always occupied these chambers when we visited Dragonstone and preferred that it continued that way.”

“Yes,” her mother conceded, “and it was very sweet of you two to allow me to stay in the chambers your father and I shared, but as we discussed this morning, circumstances change. You are the Princess of Dragonstone; you should take the apartments that befit your station. They are much more spacious than these, and they have adjoined rooms that you can use. A private audience chamber to treat with visiting lords, a solar to entertain esteemed guests.”

Aelora could see where the conversation was going, and she found the way her mother was choosing to go about it frustrating.

“We are not in King’s Landing, mother, you can state your intentions plainly. You wish for me to take up the duties of running Dragonstone.”

“We are not in King’s Landing, but we will be one day,” her mother countered in a serious tone. “You are to be queen. The title of Prince of Dragonstone is more than a ceremonial one. When one is given the title they become a lord in their own right; they have a domain, with lands and smallfolk to govern, with vassals to oversee. The heir is given this comparatively small responsibility so he can learn the intricacies of ruling, so that when the time comes to ascend the Iron Throne, he has had some level of experience.” She sighed before continuing. “What happened was… a horrible tragedy, and I’ve given you time and space to grieve, but-”

Upon those words Aelora grew angry. “Seven turns of the moon is enough time to grieve the man I married? The man I shared a womb with?”

“A lifetime would not be enough time to mourn your losses, Aelora. I lost my son too, and husband before that,” she proclaimed, her voice louder than before. Aelora felt guilty, regretting her words immediately. “My point is that the world does not wait whilst we mourn. We must face it with a stiff lip, especially a woman in your position. You know the histories better than I, surely you don’t need me to remind you of them.”

They spent the rest of dinner in silence, with only Daenora pushing for any sort of talk with her childish displays.

Once they were done eating her mother bid her good night and took Daenora with her.

Aelora undressed and hid herself below her bed’s sheets. She felt terrible for the exchange she had with her mother. She saw the reasoning behind it, and knew it to be right, but she also knew that if she did take on the duties of governing Dragonstone and they proved too much for her she would undo all the progress she had made these past few months. The stakes would be even higher if she returned to King’s Landing. If the court proved too much for her and she was crushed under the pressure there, she would be collapsing in front of the whole of Westeros. The consequences for her cause would be dire.

I wonder what Uncle Maekar would do.

The thoughts kept haunting her until she finally gave in to sleep.

She awoke with the servants announcing that her mother was at the door, waiting for them to break their fast together. The tension as they shared the table was palpable.

“A raven arrived today,” she said, piercing the tense silence.

“Uncle Maekar?” Aelora asked. He had yet to answer her last letter, and Uncle Aerys and Aunt Aelinor had sent one just the previous day, so he was the only option she could think of.

“From the Eyrie,” she revealed.

“Oh. Grandfather?”

“It’s written in your grandmother’s hand. An invitation to the Eyrie, for us to come witness the birth of your cousin Jasper’s first child.”

Aelora raised her brows. “I thought my cousin was still betrothed.”

“He was, to a Belmore girl. Your uncle said so when they last came to Dragonstone.” Her eyes saddened, as did Aelora’s. The last time the Arryns had come to Dragonstone was to watch Aelor’s funeral pyre be lighted. “Apparently the young couple is so madly in love they could not bear to be unwed a moment longer, and as soon as your grandfather returned to the Eyrie, they demanded to be joined in matrimony immediately. Lady Beatrice announced she was with child soon after.”

Aelora could tell her mother found the notion distasteful. To prepare a celebration so soon after burying kin could be seen as an insult, though remembering her and Aelor’s own similar urge to be married, she did not take it to heart.

“If this all happened less then seven moons past, is it not too early to gather for the birth of the babe?” Aelora wondered.

“I thought so too, but your grandmother says in the letter that Lady Beatrice’s pregnancy has been a troubled one, and the maesters believe the babe will come earlier than he normally would,” her mother clarified.

“Let us hope that all goes well,” Aelora nodded. “About the invitation-”

“Fear not,” her mother interrupted her. “I will send a letter politely declining the invitation and saying that we shall pray daily to the Mother Above that all goes well, and the babe is born living and healthy.” Her mother looked her in the eyes and her expression softened. “I apologize if I took matters too far yesterday. I did it out of concern for you and your position, but I see now that witnessing how much better you’ve been this past couple of weeks may have led me to push you too far and thrust upon you a weight you may not yet be ready to bear.”

“No,” Aelora said, in a sudden burst of courage. She did not know if said courage was brought upon by her mother’s words, or something else, but whatever it was she found herself making a rash decision. “You were right. I cannot stand still forever, at some point I’ll have to take charge of my own life, else I might as well be dead.” She reached for her mother’s hand. “Which is why I think you should accept the invitation.”

Shock was written across Alys Arryn’s face. “Are you sure? You don’t have to feel pressured just because of my words, Aelora. We can stay.”

Aelora shook her head. “No, I truly wish to go. The Lords of the Vale are calm, honorable and proud, not to speak of them being my fiercest supporters. Treating with them can be taken as preparation for the far crueler beast that will be the royal court.”

Her mother’s surprise seemed to just keep mounting. “Yes. That is exactly it,” she laughed. “So it’s settled? We shall go visit my home?”

If there was still any doubt in her, the sight of her mother smiling so brightly vanquished it.

With a smile of her own, the Princess of Dragonstone gave her mother her definitive answer. “Yes. We shall go to the Vale of Arryn.”

Chapter Text

The mausoleum was built on a green hill in the moorlands close to the east of Summerhall. A beautiful place, with soft grass, small wildflowers and a large hawthorn tree beneath which one could find shelter from the sun. The view was a heavenly one, showcasing the wild beauty of the Marches with the hills and woods to the north and the Red Mountains to the south. It had a mystical air of tranquility to it, and it had been a special place for them, where they would retreat to whenever they wished to be alone or escape from their duties as Lord and Lady of the castle.

She had loved the clearing, to the point she had left it in her will that she wished to be buried there. Following her wishes, Maekar ordered the domed structure built in the Valyrian style, using the same pale stone that built Starfall, with a grand staircase at the entrance flanked by stone pillars made in the shape of dragons. He worked tirelessly to build the eternal resting place he felt his wife deserved.

The inside was spacious, illuminated naturally thanks to the star-shaped window at the center of the dome. In the middle of the chamber stood a large marble coffin with the sigils of House Dayne and House Targaryen carved into the sides, and the repeating pattern of a dragon chasing a fallen star carved around the base of the tomb. Sculpted onto the slab were the effigies of two people lying side by side.

As he approached, his gaze landed on her face, lingering there as if it could will her back to life. Dyanna Dayne’s likeness was immaculately represented in the sculpture, though the emotionless face depicted was one such a passionate and expressive woman had rarely shown in life. She wore the dress she had worn at their wedding, her favorite, and had one hand on her stomach, the other holding the hand of the man at her side. Much like his wife’s effigy, he was depicted as looking like he had at the age of nine-and-twenty, the age he had been the year when she was taken from him by the gods.

It was the custom for members of House Targaryen to have their remains burned and interred in Dragonstone or The Red Keep, or in the Great Sept of Baelor since the reign of that pious king, and though he planned to follow the tradition of having his body cremated, he had already willed that his urn should be placed next to his wife’s remains, inside their shared tomb. The chamber was large enough to fit more tombs for his children too, should they wish to rest in the same place where their mother did and their father would, and vaults could be built below for further generations of House Targaryen of Summerhall, should this be made the resting place of their branch of the dynasty.

Maekar placed the bushel of flowers next to the tomb. It was an assortment of wildflowers that could be found in this same clearing where they had shared so many lovely moments. Aegon, Daeron and Rhae each placed their own flowers, whilst Daella went about lighting the candles.

As they did every year, they stayed in quiet contemplation for a time, mourning the wife and mother they had lost, before the children left, allowing Maekar some time alone in the mausoleum. He approached the side of the tomb where Dyanna’s statue laid, caressing her cheek.

“It’s been fourteen years, my love,” Maekar addressed the statue mournfully, “and not a day goes by where I don’t long to see your face again.”

It was the tragedy of the human memory that it was so fleeting. Maekar remembered his wife very well and cherished all the many memories of their years together, yet he could also notice how, year after year, the faces in those memories became foggier, and small details took more time to remember. He feared the day would come when he would only recognize the face of his wife from the effigy on her tomb or from the portraits she left, rather than from the moments captured by his own eyes and kept in his mind.

With a heavy sigh he turned from the tomb and left the chamber, leaving the domed building and slowly descending the stairs back to the hill. He considered getting on his horse and returning home, but chose instead to walk to the hawthorn tree and sit beneath its shade, resting his back on the trunk, as he had so many times before, only now without having Dyanna rest her back on his stomach.

He gave himself a moment to bask in the view of the Dornish Marches and the quiet of the world around him. His placidity was a contrast to the first years of his widowhood; he still felt the same grief and pain over the loss of his wife, but he no longer raged and despaired as he had in earlier days. As he had told his niece in his first letter, he had simply learned to live with his grief.

His thoughts shifted to Aelora, and to the letters they regularly shared by now. It still surprised Maekar that he shared regular correspondence with his niece. He had memories of her, of course, but she had always been a peripheral figure in them, one of the many small heads of fair hair that made up the royal children of the Red Keep. Maekar could probably count on one hand the number of times he shared words with her; the same could be said for her brother, or Valarr and Matarys, and he had never even laid eyes on Rhaegel’s younger girl.

I can add uncle to the list of titles I failed to live up to , Maekar thought bitterly.

This newfound bond with Aelora was his opportunity right at least some of those wrongs, and he was even willing to admit that it felt good to have a soul who he felt understood him better than most, given their similar tragedies.

His feelings towards her were not wholly uncomplicated however, though he did not blame the girl for it. The matter of succession was one that gave him pause. Though he admonished such thoughts, and his brother had made it clear he had not named the girl heir to spite him, the feeling that he was being rejected or denied something owed to him manifested itself regardless, just as it had when Brynden Rivers was named Hand in his stead.

Maekar had a tough time wrapping his own head around such thoughts, given the fact that he did not truly wish to have such positions in the first place. Aerys was right when he had told him he did not have the subtle touch needed to rule as Hand, and he knew becoming Prince of Dragonstone would be a nightmare to him. It was Baelor’s title, not his.

Regardless, the thoughts remained, much to Maekar’s annoyance, and accompanying them were ruminations on the future of his House and the Realm. His brother, much as he loved him, was a weak and negligent king, and Aelora, from the impression he was left with by her letters, was a sweet but broken girl, unfit to bear the weight of a crown. Should rebellion or invasion come, it would be up to him to defend his kin, and chances were better than he’d like that it would come to that: if not from the exiled Blackfyres, then from one grasping lord or another.

The thoughts of possible war remained with him after he left the hill and got on his horse, returning to Summerhall. Looking at the castle from afar as he grew closer and closer, Maekar examined it with a different eye for the first time.

Summerhall was a monument to the peace and unity his father created, a great seat raised near the place where the borders of the Reach, Stormlands, and Dorne met.

It was a beautiful palace, built using the same pale red stone used to build the Red Keep. The main building was a rectangular keep, where the Great Hall and other smaller chambers were located. Two arched corridors on the opposite ends of the hall connected it to two wide domed towers, which were themselves connected to each other through another arched corridor. One of the round towers held the servants’ quarters, the kitchens, and at the top, the Maester’s chambers, whilst the other tower held chambers for the noble members of the household and guests, as well as a smaller banquet hall. Adjoited to the end of the Great Hall was a slimmer and taller tower, the tallest structure of the castle, where the ruling family had its chambers, Maekar’s being at the top.

The summer palace was indeed a beautiful sight, with luscious gardens and fountains surrounding it, and even a small lake next to it, making it look as if it were a scene out of a painting or tapestry. All Maekar could see as he approached his seat, however, was that which was not there.

Walls, arrow slits, murder holes, a gatehouse, a moat. As the symbol of peace that it was, Summerhall was defenseless. His father had meant it that way, so the realm would know that there was no need for high walls on the Dornish Marches anymore now that Dorne was part of The Seven Kingdoms. A folly, King Daeron would come to see, when Daemon Blackfyre rose in rebellion and most of the houses in the Dornish Marches chose to support the black dragon instead of the red one. Were it not for the Tyrells pressuring the Peakes and Tarlys from the west and the Carons and Dondarrions holding off the Swanns, the Selmys, and Dondarrion’s own vassal the Coles from the east, Summerhall would’ve been razed to the ground.

What if next time these Houses could not be counted for support? Nightsong was the nearest castle, and though the old Lord Caron had been a supporter of King Daeron’s peace, betrothing his eldest daughter to Maekar’s cousin Prince Mors, the heir to Dorne, the current Lord Caron loathed that his sister had been wed to a Dornishman and preserved the typical mislike of the Dornish so common in the Marches.

Maekar had seen the man’s hatred for himself not that long ago, and given how he had been humiliated before Lord Fowler and forced to pay compensation for attacking his lands, he doubted there was any love between him and Maekar.

After dismounting and giving the reins of his horse to the servants, he entered the hall and called for Maester Melaquin. As he sat in the Lord’s chair at the head of the hall, waiting, he noticed the eyes of several courtiers on him, though by now they knew better than to approach him, especially on this day.

“Your Grace,” a voice called near him. Maekar looked up to see one of his daughter’s ladies-in-waiting, a lithe creature, with auburn hair and bright green eyes. He didn’t know or care for her name, but from the sigils on the details of her belt he could deduce she was either a woman of House Ashford wed to House Grandison or the other way around. She bowed in front of him, never taking her eyes from his and giving him a generous view of her bosom.

“I can see that My Prince is feeling sorrowful on this most depressing day. As your dutiful servant, I simply wish to have Your Grace know that if there is any way I could offer… comfort, or… assistance of any kind, I am at your pleasure.”

The intent behind her words was clear for all to see, and Maekar would’ve expressed his disgust if he hadn’t been so shocked by the woman’s audacity.

How dare she? On the day of my wife’s death of all days…

Maekar’s face contorted in rage, but before he could answer, another made herself known behind the woman.

“Lady Alyce,” his daughter Daella spat, her face wrothful in a way that resembled his own. “I believe my father wishes to be unburdened by the presence of others, as he tends to. On this day above all others.”

“Of course, Princess,” Alyce said reverently, her tone and posture much different from what it had been a moment before, “I only meant to-”

“Your husband , Ser Robert, must surely require your presence,” Daella interrupted. “You should go tend to him, as dutifully as you would the prince. Leave us,” she ordered, gazing balefully at the woman.

“Yes, of course.” Alice Ashford bowed and quickly left the hall, leaving a trail of whispering courtiers behind her.

“The gall,” Maekar said to his daughter, looking at the door by which the lady had left. The encounter had darkened his mood, his teeth griding and his fingers twitching as if begging to hold a weapon so he could unleash his frustrations in the training yard.

“This clearly shows Lady Grandison is unfit to serve as one of my ladies. She shall be removed at once; I’ll have no whores about me.”

“See it done,” Maekar agreed.

His daughter remained before him, looking hesitant before she finally spoke. “Father… I have a request.”

“What is it?” Maekar asked, intrigued, for his daughter rarely ever asked anything of him.

“I would request for a feast to be thrown tonight, in celebration of Rhae’s name-day.”

“No.” The word came out of Maekar’s mouth immediately.

“Father, we all celebrate our name-days,” his daughter pleaded, much to Maekar’s growing discomfort. “I think it would do Rhae some good to-”

“I will not have your mother’s memory disrespected by throwing a celebration on the day that marks her death,” Maekar cut her off, growing even more wrothful at the thought.

“Father please-”.

“I said no!” Maekar shouted, banging his fist against the arm of his chair. “Do not ask such a thing of me again,” he warned.

His daughter looked at him for a moment, a feeling of anger mixed with sadness portrayed on her face. “Yes Father,” she uttered quickly before gathering the black skirts of her dress and turning her back on him, leaving the hall.

Maester Melaquin arrived as she left, taking his usual place by Maekar’s side. “You summoned me, Your Grace.”

“Yes, Melaquin. I would like to inquire about the state of our treasury. The defenseless state of Summerhall is a matter that vexes me, and as such I mean to have walls built around the palace, for the sake of our safety in any eventual conflict,” Maekar explained.

The maester raised his eyebrows at Maekar’s words. “Um, well… as Your Grace is aware, Summerhall has no lands attached to it but the ones in its immediate vicinity. In his wisdom, your father King Daeron decided it would be best not to cause offence to the Marcher lords by taking from their lands to build a symbol of peace with Dorne. We were fortunate Lord Caron was amenable to the cause and freely gifted the crown the small tract of land upon which Summerhall was built. As such, with no smallfolk or lords-vassal to tax, we are dependent on the allowance the crown has always so generously provided.”

“I am well aware where my household gets its coin from, Melaquin,” Maekar scolded the maester. He did not need to be reminded that he was, for all intents and purposes, a beggar at the mercy of his brother. “I’m asking if the money we possess in our coffers is enough for this project.”

“It is not, Your Grace,” Melaquin relented. “Simply put, though the allowance given by the king is enough to maintain Summerhall and give Your Grace and your family the comforts that befits your station, it is not enough to support such ventures.”

Maekar sighed and reclined further into his chair. Though it was the middle of the afternoon, and he had barely strained himself physically, he felt tired and was beginning to suffer from a light headache.

“You could request the funds, My Prince,” Melaquin proposed. “The safety of all members House Targaryen is paramount; Your Grace has a sound argument for turning Summerhall from a summer palace to a fortified castle. The crown would have no reason to refuse you.”

Maekar pondered the maester’s words. He was right, as he tended to be, but he knew that a letter requesting such an expense would find itself not just in his brother's hand, but in the hands of the Master of Coin, and therefore would be a subject of discussion by the small council. If Maekar could barely stomach being at the mercy of his brother, he retched at the thought of finding himself begging for coin from Bloodraven.

“I will retreat to my chambers for the day. I do not wish to be bothered.” He rose up from his chair, his headache growing worse. The memories of Dyanna coupled with the heated exchange with his daughter and the matter of the walls had proved too much, and Maekar wished only to lay in his bed for the rest of the day.

He left the Great Hall for the tower where his family resided, climbing the serpentine steps all the way to the top, where his bedchamber was located.

Once alone, he took off his black doublet, his boots and the rest of his mourning garments. Dressed only in a white linen tunic, he fell into bed and closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to take him.

He heard the faint noise of the door to his chamber opening. Maekar turned from lying on his stomach and raised his head so he could see who it was, but his vision was blurry. He heard footsteps approaching and a shade grew larger at the end of his bed.

“These chambers have much less color to them than when I lived here. I suppose you could say the same of Summerhall as a whole. And of you, husband.”

His eyes focused and then widened in shock as the figure in front of him became recognizable. She wore the elaborate silver and lilac dress she had worn on the day of their wedding, along with the black cloak with four red three-headed dragons sown into it that Maekar had covered her with when he took her as his wife. Her face, the most beautiful he had ever seen, looked at him with a mixture of disappointment and pity.

“Dyanna? How?” He managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper.

“The grave is a cold place, Maekar, dark and lonely,” she lamented. “The only solace a spirit can have is to watch as their loved ones carry on with their lives after you leave them. I wanted to see my sons and daughters thriving; to know they’ve been taken good care of. Instead, I find my children unhappy, and they have their own father to blame for it.”

“My Love, I-” Maekar tried to get closer to his wife, only to realize he couldn’t move. His head was pounding, and he found it hard to breathe.

“My eldest boy thrown into a life of drink and debauchery, certain to lead him into an early grave, all in an attempt to escape the visions that haunt him. Why could you not help him? My second boy exiled from his home and torn from his family. How could you allow it?”

As she spoke her figure began to change, the glittering robes being replaced by a wet white dress stained red with blood from the waist down, her hair now loose and messy and her face slick with sweat. She looked as she had been when she drew her last breath on the birthing bed.

“My third boy forced into a life of service and solitude. When did you last see him? My older girl neglected and abandoned to walk path to womanhood alone. Where were you?” She cried. “My baby boy taken to be raised by a better man with no protest from you.”

“Dyanna, please!” Maekar begged in pain as he shut his eyes, feeling as if his head was about to burst.

“My last babe, the one I died to give you,” She said woefully, her voice sounding as if it was coming from inside his head, “hated by her own father. What have you done to this family?”

Maekar gasped as he jolted awake, his body wet and shaking.

A nightmare , he assured himself. It was only a nightmare.

He hadn’t had one of those in a while. He’d almost forgotten how bad it felt to wake up in a shortness of breath, his clothes stuck to his skin due to the sweat.

He rose from his bed and looked out the window to see the sun had set. Maekar looked around the room, to make sure he was alone.

Of course I’m alone. It wasn’t real.

He repeated the last sentence in his mind three more times, but even so he did not feel comfortable in the room, opting to wrap his body in a long red coat and leaving.

He’d hoped that catching some fresh air would do him well, but before he could even reach the base of the tower, he came face to face with a commotion happening at the door to his younger daughter’s bedchambers.

“…How dare you disturb me!” his daughter screamed at the terrified serving girl.

“M-my apologies Princess. The, the Princess Daella had ordered me to bring you supper and-”

“I told her I wished to be alone!” His daughter raged, grabbing the tray the servant held and smashing it into the ground, breaking the plates and spreading the food over the floor.

“I did not know, Princess,” the girl pleaded as she knelt to pick up the pieces of broken glass on the floor. “I-I was only doing as commanded, I swear-”

“Get out! Get out immediately or I’ll have your head!” his daughter screamed before the maid all but ran from the hallway.

Rhae watched the girl flee before turning back to her room, only then noticing Maekar in the hallway, watching her.

She looked at him, as stunned as he was. Looking at his daughter, Maekar noticed that her usually straight neatly combed hair was disheveled and her eyes red-rimmed, with tear stains running down her cheeks.

His daughter stood in her spot, looking at her father for a moment longer before finally returning to her chambers and closing the door behind her.

Maekar turned back and returned to his room, where he stayed the rest of the night, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, the questions his wife had asked him in his dream plaguing in his mind.

Dyanna, what have I done to this family?

Chapter Text

The coasts of the Vale of Arryn could be seen in the ever-decreasing distance. The beauty of the shimmering blue and green waters of the Bay of Crabs could be matched only by its northern shores. It had been years since Aelora had visited, yet her opinion on the Vale hadn’t changed. It was the most beautiful of the regions of Westeros that she had had the pleasure of visiting, with its snowcapped mountains and fertile green valleys, shimmering waterfalls and lakes of translucent waters.

The vision of the coast was made all the sweeter after six days on a ship. Despite living on an island and being spared the plight of seasickness many others suffered, Aelora did not have much taste for ships and seafaring. She preferred having her feet on solid ground.

“Land at last!” Daenys Celtigar exclaimed, pointing at the outline of Gulltown in the distance. The excitement of visiting a place that was not her father’s seat of Claw Isle or Dragonstone had left the girl restless. Her happiness was palpable as she jumped up and down, her hands grabbing the railing.

“A pity. I could use another day being rocked to sleep by the motion of the waves,” Saera Scales sighed. To most people it would be taken as a jape, but those who knew the heiress to Seawyrm Isle knew she only ever felt truly happy when onboard a ship.

“Well I, for one, hope I never have to look upon the sea again,” Maia Rosby groaned as she rose up the stairs to the prow assisted by Bethany Stokeworth.

“I regret to remind you, sister, that Stokeworth is located by the sea,” Bethany told her brother’s soon-to-be wife. They would be good-sisters twice over, as Bethany was herself betrothed to Maia’s brother.

“Your suffering is at an end, Maia,” Marina Darklyn chuckled. “Gulltown is within sight.”

Maia, whose face looked almost as green as the sigil of the House she would soon marry into, looked relieved. “There better be a good ball by the end of this.”

“I’m sure that is the only thought that gives you the strength to continue,” Saera japed. Maia Rosby was a jovial beauty of six-and-ten, who enjoyed nothing so much as a good celebration. Whether it be a feast, a ball, a hunt or a tourney, one could always count on her being present. This fondness for all sorts of revelries made her close friendship with the passive and pious Bethany Stokeworth all the more peculiar.

“Lord Grafton is a wealthy man,” Alannys Massey informed her, tightening her fur-lined cloak around herself. “Those tend to take every opportunity they can to show the world their wealth. I’m sure House Grafton will host the Princess and her household in a way that befits her station.”

“He better,” Maia grunted, before taking the wooden bucket Bethany held in her hands and retching noisily into it.

Aelora turned from the conversation -- and the vomiting -- to appreciate the view once more.

“Lora?”

Aelora looked down to see her sister, who had somehow placed herself between Aelora and the railing without her noticing and was standing on the tip of her toes looking down at the sea.

“Yes, sweet sister?” Aelora asked, placing her hand on her sister’s shoulder.

“What’s below the water?” Daenora questioned, pointing her small finger at the waves.

“Hm… well there’s fish, and… sand mostly, I think.”

“And people?” her sister asked.

“People?” Aelora chuckled. “Of course not, people cannot breathe underwater; you know that already.”

“Ser Captain said his papa was taken by the sea.” Daenora looked up at her sister. “So that means he lives there now, no?”

Aelora was at a loss for words. “Oh, well… uh that’s…hm… You did not leave your dragons abandoned on Dragonstone, did you?” she said in an attempt to distract the child.

“No; Claws, Lady Scales and Ser Swoop always follow me,” her sister assured. The three stuffed dragons were her most prized possessions, and the girl took them everywhere with her, always treating them as if they were creatures made of flesh and not cloth.

“Well, it’s best to make sure they did not escape through the windows and flew away, don’t you think?”

“I’ll see to them!” she declared excitedly before running in the direction of the cabin.

As she left, her mother approached. Her face showcased a peaceful disposition, the most content it had been in a long time, though the silver circlet encrusted with blue sapphires and the jeweled hairnets that wrapped the coiled braids on each side of her head made sure she looked like the proud great lady she always strived to be.

“Our voyage is at an end,” she began, unveiling her hands from the sky-blue cloak lined with white fur she was wearing and placing them on the railing.

“The shores of the Vale look as beautiful as ever. As does Gulltown,” she told her mother as the ship approached the city.

“You might want to tell Lord Grafton that,” she quipped, turning to look at her daughter. “He is a very proud man, of the ilk that likes to feel admired.” She took one of her hands to Aelora’s cheek and caressed it. “Are you certain you’re ready for this? It won’t just be the Graftons you’ll have to hold off; there will be knights and men-at-arms, vassals and wards and septons and servants, not to speak of the people of the city. Chances are better than not there is already a mob amassing at the harbor to witness the arrival of the Princess of Dragonstone.”

Aelora was aware of all that; she had been preparing herself mentally for it ever since she told her mother to accept the invitation, but now that the moment was here the thought of jumping from the ship became more and more attractive.

Maybe I can go visit the captain’s father for a while.

“I’ve always known how to endear myself to the people, noble and commonfolk alike. You’ve taught me well, Mother,” Aelora reassured her, though she didn’t know if she was trying to reassure herself more than her mother.

“I did, you were the darling of the court,” her mother chuckled before growing serious once more. “But that was before. We’ve spent a long time basking in the quiet solitude of Dragonstone. And things have changed…”

She knew the thoughts that plagued her mother, for they were the same ones that plagued her. She had Aelor by her side before, and he had been her strength just as she had been his. Their presence at court and in the eyes of King’s Landing had always been joint. One was rarely seen without the other.

But now, for the first time, she would face the outside alone.

“I shall try my best, and that shall have to prove itself enough,” she decided.

Her mother took her head in her hands and planted a reassuring kiss on her forehead. “I am proud of you for this. This effort means a lot to me, and hopefully by the end it will mean something to you too.”

Their moment was broken by a squeal.

“Praise the Gods! ‘Tis the Motherhouse of Maris!” Bethany Stokeworth screamed in utter glee, letting the bucket fall from her hands and spilling its contents into Maia Rosby’s dress, who upon seeing her own fluids stain her clothes began vomiting once more.

Bethany, unaware of what she had caused, knelt before the prow of the ship with her elbows perched on the railing and her hands clasped, sending a prayer to the gods for protecting their ship from the dangers of the sea and allowing her to see the motherhouse with her own eyes.

Aelora admired the motherhouse too as their ship passed it. It was situated on a small island just off the harbor of Gulltown. From what she could see it consisted of a cloister on one side and a small sept on the other, with a beautiful garden, a stable and shelters made for the animals tended to by the septas and novices between the two larger buildings. Small, terraced fields cascaded from the motherhouse at the top to a small wooden quay at the base that served as the only entryway to the island.

The well-kept stone walls and slated roofs showed that the motherhouse was well funded.

After the ship passed the motherhouse, Aelora turned her sight to the city itself.

Gulltown was the largest settlement in the Vale, being one of the five major cities that Westeros could boast of having, even if it was one of the smallest, larger only than White Harbor in the North. It was said to be much smaller than Lannisport, which was in turn much smaller than Oldtown and King’s Landing. The city was located in a natural harbor, with houses sprawling around a V-shaped bay within the larger Bay of Crabs, and thick pale gray walls to protect the people who inhabited them. The most eye-catching of the buildings were the great keep at the center of the city, the old tower rising among the houses to the west, and the large sept located close to the eastern wall.

Flanking each of the seven gates that served as entrances to the city were the banners of House Grafton, House Arryn and House Targaryen hanging side by side, flowing in the wind.

Outside the southern wall, dozens of quays grew into the sea, most of them busy as ships came and went. The one in the middle stood empty awaiting the Lady Jena, the flagship of Dragonstone’s fleet, and the same ship that carried Aelora and her host, with guards in Grafton colors already lining a path from the harbor to the gate that would lead them inside the city and scores of smallfolk gathered behind them to witness their arrival.

With the ship anchored and the gangplank set in place Aelora took a deep breath and steadied herself before leaving the ship. Her mother, Ser Donnel, and her ladies walked behind her, and her servants and attendants behind them, with Targaryen men-at-arms surrounding them all.

She did her best to smile, though looking at the faces around her did the opposite of emboldening her. The crowds weren’t jeering at her, but they were not cheerful either. Most looked at her with curiosity, and many a sailor and fishwife shared whispers with whoever was by their side.

“That the one that killed her brother?” she heard a burly man with yellow teeth ask the old woman beside him.

“I heard it was her husband she killed,” said an equally large balding man, who looked to be the first man’s twin, before being shushed by the old woman.

“Quiet boys!” the woman hushed them, a mother’s worry clear in her face, “before you lose your tongues,” she warned, eying the guards in front of them.

“That’s the future queen,” she heard another voice whisper. “They say she went mad after killing the previous heir.”

She tried her best to ignore the comments, just as she ignored the accelerated beating of her heart and tightness in her chest. She began to walk faster, the faces around her becoming a blur and her shoddy mask of calm serenity beginning to slip. She stopped only when she reached the raised iron portcullis at the gate, where a man dressed in silver armor and a brown shoulder cape with nine white seagulls embroidered onto it kneeled before her, with the remaining guards following suit.

“Your Grace,” the man said as he rose back to his considerable height. He was tall, broad shouldered, and from his face Aelora judged he could be no more than half a decade older than her. He sported a well-kept brown beard and luscious curls which descended from his head to the end of his neck.

“It is my greatest honor to welcome the Princess of Dragonstone to Gulltown. I am Ser Symond Shett, Master of Seagull’s Nest, Hereditary Knight of Gulltown, and Commander of the City Watch. I hope the winds were swift and your voyage safe.”

Aelora opened her mouth to speak but she found no words to utter. With each second she stood silent -- the crowds waiting to hear the sound of her voice with bated breath -- the air grew thicker and harder to inhale, and she could feel her hands begin to tremble.

“We thank you for your kind welcome, good Ser. Gulltown looks as lovely as I remember. As do its people,” Alys Arryn declared both to the man in front of her and to the gathered crowds. “My daughter, the Princess, is quite tired from the journey, as we all are,” she said, gesturing to the ladies and attendants behind her.

“Indeed,” Ser Symond stated, his gaze landing on Lady Maia, who was still clinging to Bethany’s arm and had not had the time to change from her soiled dress. “I have been instructed to lead you to Grafton Keep, where Lord Victor and his family await at your pleasure.”

“Of course,” her mother nodded. As the guards lead them to the large carriages that would take them to the Graftons, she noticed her mother pull one of their own men-at-arms aside and give him a pouch heavy with what Aelora could only assume to be coins, hurriedly giving him orders before the man bowed and left for the streets.

“Princess, if you would be so kind.”

She was pulled from the scene by Ser Symond, who held one hand on the door of the carriage and another reaching out for her. Aelora looked at the man’s hand for a moment before taking it, allowing the knight to help her climb the steps and enter the carriage. Ser Donnel waited by the door to offer her mother his own hand.

Once all were inside, the carriage began to move down the wide cobbled street that formed a straight path from the harbor’s gate to the keep. Aelora wished to avoid the memory of the whispers she had just heard in the harbor, so she focused her mind on the city outside. The houses were well-kept, made of stone and with plenty of shops and market stands, and even the occasional manse that could only belong to a nobleman or rich merchant. It made sense, as this was the main street of the city. It served as a contrast to the houses that could be seen in the distance to the east, which were noticeably poorer. The structure that captured her attention the most, however, was the old grey tower, tall and slender, built in the design of the First Men whilst surrounded by the Andal architecture of the rest of the city.

“That’s Seagull’s Nest, my House’s ancient seat.” Aelora was startled to hear the knight’s voice; her mind had wandered so far outside the carriage she had forgotten he was there. The man cleared his throat and clasped his hands, as if trying to think of something to say to diffuse the tension. “It is situated in the oldest part of the city. The old kings of House Shett still rest there, in the crypts underneath. They called themselves Kings of the First Men, I reckon.”

“True Men,” Aelora corrected.

“Pardon?” The man asked.

“House Shett titled themselves Kings of the True Men when they ruled Gulltown, in the days before the Coming of the Andals, when the city was a much smaller, though still wealthy, harbor town. Feeling threatened by the neighboring Bronze Kings of House Royce, King Osgood III allied with the Andal knight Gerold Grafton, each taking the other’s eldest daughter to wife. When King Osgood fell in battle, Ser Gerold claimed the city for himself, taking the already rich town and turning it into the first and only city in the Vale.”

Ser Symond had a look of surprise plastered across his face; Aelora couldn’t say if he was impressed by her knowledge of his House’s history or if he was surprised to hear her speak.

“I see Your Grace is familiar with the history of the city,” he said.

“The Princess is a great lover of the histories,” Ser Donnel explained.

“Indeed,” her mother agreed, a hint of pride in her voice. “Had she been a man, I’ve no doubt she’d have been the one sent to the Citadel in her cousin’s stead.”

Ser Symond grinned at her mother. Aelora’s cheeks reddened at the praise.

“I confess I’ve never paid much attention to the maesters’ lessons.” Ser Symond turned his attention back to her. “The training yard was where I always excelled. I only remember that we were kings due to the crypts located in mine own home, and due to the fact that our hereditary title of Knight of Gulltown was given in acknowledgement of our past rule over the city. But if it is history that piques Your Grace’s interests, Grafton Keep has a considerable library. My father was known to borrow books from time to time.”

Aelora nodded her head at the man and gave him a half-smile before turning her attention back to the street. They soon arrived at the main square of the city, at the center of which was a large marble fountain with a tall golden statue of a man Aelora assumed to be Gerold Grafton, the aforementioned founder of that House. Overlooking the square was the seat he built, and which had served as home to his line since then -- Grafton Keep.

Aelora and her host were escorted from their carriages to the gate and through one of the walls that surrounded the keep into a spacious yard. A wide stone pathway went from the gatehouse to the stairs of the keep’s entrance, flanked on both sides by beautiful gardens filled with red roses and yellow marigolds. Just before the stairs stood the Graftons, the men dressed in similar doublets of black and red, with a yellow burning tower embroidered on their chests, and the women in dresses of the same style.

As Aelora approached, the oldest of the men, dressed more extravagantly than the others with golden rings adorning each of his fingers, an enamel livery collar set with precious stones securing a knee-length cape, and a floppy red velvet hat with black feathers, took a step forward and knelt, kissing her hand.

“Your Grace. Gulltown is yours.”

“We thank you for your hospitality, Lord Grafton,” she said, not as charmingly as she had hoped. “Gulltown is as beautiful as ever.”

“Not quite, Your Grace,” the Lord of Gulltown grunted as he rose, his age preventing him from doing so without effort. “Your presence makes the city shine brighter than it ever has,” he beamed.

“I seem to recall those same words being said to me when I first visited Gulltown, Lord Victor,” her mother teased as she approached the man, offering him her hand.

“And even after all these years, my words still ring true. Welcome, Lady Alys.” He kissed her mother’s hand before turning his attention back to Aelora, guiding her to where his family stood.

“I would like to present my wife, the Lady Amanda, and my daughters Ursula and Jennelyn.” The women curtsied and shared pleasantries with her.

“And my sons, Gerold, Harold, and Eustace.”

The eldest of them, Gerold, was the first to kneel and kiss her hand.

“Princess. The many tales of your beauty did not do you justice,” the man said after an uncomfortably long time of having his lips on her hand.

“You flatter me, Ser,” she said awkwardly.

The second brother, Harold, chose to mimic the gesture of his elder brother, though with less confidence and charm.

The third brother, thinner than the other two and slightly hunchbacked, kept his distance, merely bowing and blurting out a meek “Princess.”

With the introductions out of the way she was at last led to Lord and Lady Grafton’s chambers, which they had ceded to her for the duration of her stay. A great feast would be held in her honor that night, she was told by Lord Grafton, who bragged about the number of courses, the quality of the singers and mummers, and other such things. Once in the chambers she dismissed her ladies and the servants, finding herself alone at last, save for her mother who was asked to remain.

“How are you faring, sweetling?” she asked.

Aelora released a breath she didn’t know she was holding, allowing herself to fall into bed. “I suppose it could’ve gone worse. The crowds were not throwing rotten fish and cursing me as a kinslayer.”

Her mother sat on the bed next to her. “The smallfolk of the Vale have no reason to hate you. You’re a half-Arryn Targaryen princess. All you need to do is smile and wave whilst declaring your love for them and they shall cheer for you.”

Aelora snickered. “How very simple that sounds,” she said, all the while thinking of how she didn’t manage to do even that. “I shall try my best at the feast, mother, but I cannot help but fear that it will all prove too much for me to bear. I have no wish to make a fool of myself.”

“You’ll be fine, sweetling,” her mother reassured her, placing her hand on her knee. “You need only do what you’ve always done at every feast. Gossip with the ladies, flatter the lords, dance with their sons, make a toast honoring Lord Grafton for hosting us; the usual affairs you’ve always excelled at. And if it starts to overwhelm you, take one of your ladies and a guard and excuse yourself for a moment. Take a stroll through the gardens, steady yourself, and then come back.”

Aelora sighed, resigned to her fate. “May the gods give me strength.”

And there she stood later that night, sitting at the head of the table on an elevated platform in Grafton Keep’s Great Hall, her mother seated to her right and Lord and Lady Grafton next to her. Their eldest son, Gerold, had been seated on her left, with his younger brothers after him.

As the guests arrived, Aelora noticed that the supposed great feast Lord Grafton had boasted about lacked the number of guests such a wealthy and powerful lord would be expected to invite. Apart from the Graftons and the Upcliffs, Lady Grafton’s birth House, the only other families present seemed to be vassals of Gulltown. The Shetts of Gulltown, headed by Ser Symond, the Arryns of Gulltown, with their golden falcon soaring against a white moon proudly plastered on their blue doublets, much to her mother’s annoyance, and other houses so minor Aelora, who prided herself on her extensive knowledge of heraldry, didn’t even recognize.

“I was expecting to be entertaining half a hundred lords, not half a dozen landed knights and minor branches,” she whispered to her mother as the families entered the hall.

“It does not surprise me, really,” her mother said nonchalantly. “Inviting the greater houses of the Vale would mean having to contend with powerful lords and their heirs for your hand. If the only men of high enough status to pursue you are his sons, then whomever you choose benefits him.”

Aelora’s eyes widened. “I’m to be betrothed to one of them?”

“Of course not,” her mother immediately reassured. “Even ignoring the sentimental aspect of it, which I would never not take into account,” she said, reaching for her hand, “you have been a widow for less than a year, it would be unseemly to betroth you so soon. Not to mention the fact that your unmarried status is by far our most powerful weapon. Most lords will follow you for the chance to have themselves or their sons as king alone.”

“Does that not mean that I will lose their support the moment I choose one of them?” Aelora asked.

“Not if we use the time we have until then to gain their support through other means.”

Aelora chose not to push the topic further. She would not tell her mother she had no desire to remarry, for she knew she had no choice in the matter; she could only hope to delay it for as long as possible.

As the guests took to their seats and the courses began being served, Aelora found herself being the target of unwanted attention by the two eldest sons of Lord Grafton, who each competed with the other to see who could gain her favor first. Aelora, for her part, did her best to hide her uneasiness and respond to their flattery cordially enough that they would not feel offended.

“It would be my pleasure, as heir to this castle, if you would do me the honor of sharing the first dance,” Ser Gerold offered, his face close enough that Aelora could smell the peppered boar he’d just eaten.

“What a lovely idea, Ser Gerold,” she said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster, which was to say barely any.

“I would also share a dance with Your Grace, if it please you,” the younger brother immediately intervened.

“Then I shall dance with you too, Ser Harold,” she exclaimed as she drew her cup to her lips, draining it until there was no Arbor gold left.

As she was wishing for lightning to strike her and end her misery, Lord Grafton rose from his chair, cup in hand.

“I would like to make a toast to Her Grace the Princess Aelora. May her reign be long and fruitful, may her beauty and judiciousness illuminate this realm from the Wall to the Greenblood. May she find happiness in marriage to a worthy consort, and may they bless this realm with a nursery full of sons. To the Princess of Dragonstone!”

“To the Princess of Dragonstone!” the cry went up half a hundred throats as cups were raised. “To House Targaryen!” one of Grafton’s vassals roared. “To House Grafton!” bellowed another.

“And to the ever-lasting friendship between the two,” Ser Gerold raised his cup whilst eyeing her, a flirtatious smile on his lips.

Her mask of pleasantness managed through five more courses and a dance with Lord Grafton, his first and second sons – the youngest having vanished from the hall – Allard Arryn, and Symond Shett before the urge to flee became stronger.

“Lord Upcliff has been eying us for some time. He wishes to have his turn with Your Grace, most likely,” Ser Symond warned. “Mayhaps it is best our dance ends here; I do not wish to cause offense.”

“Understandable,” Aelora mumbled apathetically, her mind having left the hall three songs before.

“And in any case, I must leave. I’ve been ordered by My Lord Grafton’s maester to return to the library some books my father had borrowed.”

Aelora came back down at the mention of the library. “The library?”

“Yes, it appears my father had borrowed them shortly before he died, never managing to return them. Had the maester not come to me I wouldn’t have even noticed the books gathering dust in the tower’s old solar.”

Aelora stopped dancing as the musicians ended their tune. “Ser Symond, would you allow me to accompany you to the library?”

Ser Symond was surprised, but didn’t deny her request, leading her away from the floor. Aelora knew it wouldn’t do to leave the hall alone with the knight, so she summoned Marina Darklyn and Saera Scales to accompany them.

As the four of them walked through the halls, Aelora took the time to sate her curiosity about the books Ser Symond had brought.

“I remember reading Against the Unnatural a few years past, in order to debate my uncle, the king. He’s a firm believer of Septon Barth’s unsound claims,” she told the knight as she examined the books. “I also remember reading The Nine Voyages as a child, and I’ve read Ruined Cities, Stolen Gods a few moons past, but I’ve never read this one,” she pointed to the last book in the stack she carried, bringing it to the top.

“Lies… of the… Ancients,” Ser Symond read slowly. “Hm… rather ominous,” he shrugged.

“Your father seems to have been quite the man, Ser. As a fellow bibliophile I would’ve loved to have met him.”

“He was a good man and an even greater father,” he smiled, reminiscing. “If he was not in the barracks sharpening his weapons, he was in his solar enraptured by his books. He was loyal and true and just and always obedient to his Lord. The City Watch admired him, and the smallfolk always felt safe with him as Commander. Most men grow up wishing to be like the Dragonknight or the Falcon Knight, but the only man I’ve ever strived to be like is my father,” he confessed.

“Those are beautiful words, Ser Symond,” Aelora said earnestly. “Mayhaps you should give the books that brought your father such joy a chance; you may come to find the same joy he did in them,” she suggested as she placed the stack of books in his hands. “What better way to honor him?”

Her question seemed to have left Ser Symond deep in his own thoughts.

As they opened the door to Grafton Keep’s library, they noticed a candle lit in one of the tables in the distance. “Must be Maester Walter,” Ser Symond guessed.

His guess proved to be wrong, for the man hunched over a tome by the candlelight proved to be Lord Grafton’s youngest son.

“Ser Eustace?” she called his attention.

The man, so enveloped in his reading, was startled by her voice. “P-Princess?”

“We were expecting to find the maester here. Ser Symond had books to return, and I was interested in seeing what tomes and scrolls this keep had for me to peruse,” she explained.

“Oh, the books. Yes, Walter told me about it; you can leave them with me, Ser Symond,” he pointed to the empty space in the table next to him.

“Here they are, Ser,” Ser Symond nodded deferentially, placing the books where he was told.

“I’ve told you before I’m no Ser,” he said curtly, as if he had just been insulted. “In any case, I would expect you to be worried about taking my sister to her chambers, not my father’s books to his library.”

Aelora’s eyes widened at the man’s words. From behind her she heard Marina gasp and Saera chuckle.

Ser Symond paled at the comment. “I- I don’t- I never-”

“Fear not, Ser, it was mine own sister who told me of how quick flirtatious looks turned to hidden dalliances and from there into a blossoming secret love shared between two young hearts. I keep her secrets as she keeps mine.” His cynical air turned regretful upon regaining awareness of Aelora and her ladies. “I do apologize for saying it in front of others, though. That was unseemly of me.”

“Uh, me and my ladies shall not speak of it. You may rest assured,” Aelora intervened, attempting to calm Ser Symond, who went from pale to red.

“Why are you hidden in here whilst there is a feast happening, My Lord?” Marina asked, most likely trying to clear the air.

“I’m no lord either,” he said sardonically. “I despise the noise and I’ve no stomach for the level of conceit and obfuscation laced in every interaction.”

“We share a mind on that,” Aelora agreed. “I, too, have come to seek refuge among the bookshelves.”

“A passion for knowledge, Princess?” he asked, seemingly less prickly than before.

“My mother has been heard to say that had I been born a man I would’ve become a maester.”

Eustace Grafton smiled sadly at her words. “I wish my mother and father shared the same willingness to send a child to the Citadel.”

“You would choose the life of a maester?” Saera Scales asked with surprise.

“I would choose a life of dedication to the pursuit of knowledge over the constant ridicule for failing to live up to expectations I never wished to see placed upon me, yes. My brothers excel at kicking men off horses with a stick and as such they receive my father’s admiration, I excel at enough subjects of expertise to form a maester’s chain and am admonished by them all. Maester Otto saw my potential early on, and even asked my father on my behalf for me to be sent to the Citadel, but my proud sire told him that no son of his would ever be allowed to foreswear the Grafton name; that they would all bring honor to our House, or in my case at the very least beget sons who would.” The man spoke in a waspish tone, his gaze fixed on his clenched hands the whole time.

The rest of them listened to him in silence and remained so after he had grown quiet.

“… My husband was a learned man too,” Aelora began after a moment. “He had the sharpest mind I’ve ever seen. From an early age he took a liking to sums and numbers, and as he grew, he showed himself to be most prodigal in the administration of money and accounts. He was also well-versed in astronomy and warcraft, in languages and diplomacy, and if he found any gap in his mastery of these subjects, he would not rest until he had filled it. He was a man who never ceased to amaze me with his intellect … and yet this polymath of mine somehow turned into an utter lackwit whenever he picked up a sword.”

“Prince Aelor?” Eustace’s face showed his surprise plainly. “But he was always spoken so well of by my father, even when not for the purposes of being a lickspittle. He always came back from the capital impressed by what he saw of him.”

Aelora smiled at his words. “Aelor had not a drop of Florent blood in him but nonetheless he revealed himself tricky as a fox. He showcased his many talents to the lords, yes, but he also knew that feats of strength would impress many of them more than any sound tax policy. As such he would convince his friends, who would also be his sparring partners, to put on a convincing performance of a duel which always followed the same set of steps Aelor had memorized, ending with a victorious blow swung by him in dramatic fashion. The courtyard always erupted in cheers by the visiting lords, while the servants and courtiers smirked and shared knowing looks.”

Eustace seemed most impressed by the strategy employed by her brother. “I cannot believe he would trick the Lords by setting up a mummer’s play.”

“And he was quite the mummer,” Aelora sighed, reminiscing of childhood japes and laughs shared between sheets. “Your father may not see your worth, but it is still there all the same. All it takes is a good play to showcase it to him.”

Eustace pondered her words. “Mayhaps you’re right…” He gave her the look a man gives another when his mind has conjured a plan. “Princess, would you allow me to accompany you back to the feast? I would like to stage a play.”

Aelora smiled. “It would be my pleasure.”

As they were about to leave, Ser Symond picked up The Nine Voyages . “Ser- I mean My Lo- uh… Eustace, may I take this book with me? I shall return it once I’m done with it, I swear upon the Seven.”

“Why not? I’ll tell Maester Walter you borrowed it.”

Aelora’s chest swelled with pride for the Knight of Gulltown. She felt proud of herself too, in a way, for her conversation in the library was the first time she had spoken of Aelor out loud without being brought to tears.

As they entered the hall once more, her arm linked with Eustace Grafton’s, she turned to address Ser Symond, only to notice his attention was turned to the other side of the hall, where a blushing Lady Ursula turned her gaze from him before resuming her conversation with her sister. Witnessing the two young lovers, an idea formed in her head. “At the end of this act we’ve just concocted, I shall improvise an epilogue, if you don’t mind,” she whispered to Eustace.

“Lord Grafton,” she called, reaching the main table and taking the empty seat next to him. Eustace took the seat next to her.

“Your Grace,” the old lord greeted.

“I’ve not yet had the chance to personally thank you for your hospitality. The voyage here left me in a state of exhaustion, so I apologize if I’ve not been showing the appreciation owed to House Grafton for the love shown to me and my household. I would have you know that I feel honored by this beautiful feast, and for the kindness shown to me by you, My Lord, and your family.”

“Her Grace honors me with your words, but I merely demanded of all that they be treat in the way that befits your station,” he said with an air of false humility.

“Either way, I commend you on your work, both as lord of the castle, and as head of the family. Your sons have been the most gallant of men with me; you must surely be proud of them.”

Upon hearing his sons being exalted by her his smile became wider. “It surprises me not. Gerold and Harold are the most puissant knights in the Vale. Singers tell tales of their bravery and piety. I can assure Your Grace that they possess all the qualities a man could wish for in a son, or a lord… dare I say, even in a king.”

Aelora found the man’s lack of subtlety distasteful but kept playing her part regardless. “They do, though I must confess that out of all your sons, your youngest, Eustace, is the one I find myself most partial to.”

Lord Grafton was left speechless, and from the corner of her eye she could see Gerold and Harold, who had been eavesdropping from their seats, were equally shocked.

“Eustace?” Lord Grafton asked in bewilderment.

“You must be proud to have raised a man of such intellect. He was kind enough to take me and two of my ladies on a tour through the library and I was floored by the sharpness of his mind, and the depth of knowledge he holds on the most varied of subjects. I have only seen such wisdom coming out of the mouths of the members of my uncle and grandfather’s small councils, all of whom were much older, and none so charming.”

Lord Grafton could do nothing but look from Aelora to his son and back to her.

“The Princess honors me with her words,” Eustace thanked. “I hope to be able to prove myself worthy of such praise one day.”

“Uh… well…” Lord Grafton stumbled in his words for a bit before his previous demeanor returned. “My Eustace has always had a sharp mind; the maesters always told us he was a precocious child. And as he’s recently reached manhood, it is, of course, of the utmost importance that he’s given some new responsibilities so he may assist his older brother with the rule of the city. Who knows what heights he could yet come to reach?”

“Gulltown is sure to prosper from it,” Aelora said, satisfied with the man’s sudden change of tune regarding his son. “But onto another matter,” Aelora said with a wave of her hand. “My Lord, is your daughter Ursula spoken for?”

…

She watched as their possessions were loaded onto the carriages. She stood by the gate of the Keep with her ladies, her mother refusing Lord Grafton’s pleas for them to stay a few days longer for what Aelora judged to be about the eleventh time.

“As I said before, My Lord, the princess and I would love to stay, but we must hurry if we wish to reach the Gates of the Moon in time to witness the birth of my nephew’s firstborn,” her mother explained, a slight hint of annoyance showing in her face. “Nonetheless we thank you for your hospitality, and I can promise you that the princess will forever hold House Grafton in her heart as the staunchest of supporters and dearest of friends.”

Her words seemed to hold the desired effect on Lord Grafton, who basked in knowing he had obtained the favor of House Targaryen.

As she was made to enter the carriage, Ser Symond approached dressed in armor and with a retinue of men of the City Watch on his heel who were meant to accompany the carriages until they were past the city gates. Approaching Aelora he said his farewell before extending his hand for her to take.

“My Lord wishes to reward my House’s loyal service over the centuries with the hand of his daughter Ursula,” he informed her as he helped her into the carriage, a gleeful smile plastered across his face.

Aelora smiled back. “I wish upon you a happy and fruitful union.”

“And I wish upon Your Grace the same merriment you have provided me with. Whilst I’m the Knight of Gulltown, you will always find allies in the city.”

Aelora nodded in thanks before the knight left for his horse. Her mother, sister and Ser Donnel entered the carriage soon after.

As they moved towards the walls Aelora noticed more and more people filling the streets, some even pursuing the carriages, and shouts and screams began to be heard one after the other.

“Princess!”

“Long live the Princess Aelora!”

She pushed her head out through the window to see the cheering crowds amassing, calling out her name as she passed and holding up their children for her to kiss. As she tried to make sense of what she was seeing, her mother spoke out.

How is this possible?

“I told you all you had to do was show them your love.”

“But I did nothing,” Aelora turned to her confused.

“As far as they know, you have,” she shrugged.

Aelora turned her attention back to the crowds. She noticed many of the men and women held bread, fruits or vegetables in their hands or stored in pouches and wrapped cloaks.

Aelora fell back onto her seat, unsure of how to feel. She had set out on this journey to escape the melancholy of Dragonstone and bolster her support, as advised by her mother. She felt proud that she had managed to gain friends among the nobility, having ensured the loyalty of the Graftons and Shetts. She had hoped to raise support among the smallfolk on her own merit as well, but upon arrival, when faced with the crowd of sailors and fishmongers, she had petrified with fear, unable to so much as speak.

Her mother had taken matters into her own hands, as she had been doing for months on Dragonstone, and at court for the years her father had been the heir. And while their position was all the better for it, a part of her feared the level of dependance she had on her mother. She was to rule one day; how could she do that if all the actions she took were done on the initiative of her mother?

Thinking on it, it was the same before, with Aelor. How can I be a leader, if all I’ve known all my life was to follow others?

As the carriage passed the gates of Gulltown and followed the road north to Runestone, Aelora found herself pondering her own fitness to rule for the first time.

Chapter Text

As the train of carriages followed the northern road, Aelora’s mind found itself still in the streets of Gulltown amongst the cheering smallfolk. The image of the men and women waving and shouting blessings at her left her feeling conflicted. On the one hand, she was thankful that her mother had taken upon herself the duty of endearing the people to Aelora, and that she could count on her wisdom for all things, but on the other, she wished she had been the one to do it. Deep down she wished she could’ve captured the hearts of the people as she had so easily done before, she wished she was as adept with numbers as Aelor had been, she wished she was as politically astute as her mother was.

I am Princess of Dragonstone, expected to one day rule these kingdoms in my own right… What good does it serve me the ability to charm a few lordlings if I lack all the other skills necessary for kingship?

“Is something the matter?”

Her mother’s voice took her away from her thoughts. “Hm? No, why do you ask?”

“You were pouting,” she clarified.

“I was simply contemplating,” Aelora said, attempting to shield herself from her mother’s questioning.

“Contemplating what?” her mother prodded further.

Aelora didn’t wish to speak about her insecurities, but she had also never been capable of denying her mother anything. “I was thinking… about the crowd. I wish I had been the one to earn their affection.”

Her mother smiled sweetly, placing her hand on Aelora’s knee and caressing it. “But you did. They were cheering for you.”

“Yes, but I mean that I wish I had been responsible for it. I wish I had charmed them myself, as I used to in King’s Landing,” she clarified.

Her mother answered with a confused look. “I fail to see the difference between this time and the others. True, you didn’t wave at them or smile confidently as you once did, but the result was the same.”

“It was not the same. They were cheering because they were bought with bread, not because I inspired their admiration.”

Alys looked at her in disbelief for a moment. “Sweetling, do you believe that the people of the capital fell in love with you and your brother due to the way you smiled and waved and kissed the brows of their babes whenever I sent you on your progresses through the streets, or due to the carts filled with fresh produce that always trailed behind you two?”

Aelora stood silent, unable to give her mother an answer.

“The smallfolk care for those of us who care for them, Aelora,” her mother emphasized. “You’re not buying their affections with bread as a drunk buys a whore’s with coin; you are providing them with means to fill their bellies and those of their children without demanding anything in return. You are giving a boon most of them can’t say to have ever received from their lord or their king, and they remember that, just as you remember those who help you in your own time of need.”

Aelora kept quiet, mulling over what her mother had said. Her sister, who had been playing with her stuffed dragons on the carriage floor, proved to be considering her mother’s words as well.

“Mama, what’s a whore?” Daenora looked up and asked.

And so did time pass, with Daenora bothering her mother and Ser Donnel with questions and imaginary tales of her dragons’ conquests, and Aelora alternating between appreciating the beautiful scenery the Vale of Arryn had to offer and questioning the nature of people’s love and admiration, as well as a more personal question of where this sudden desire for said admiration had come from.

Half a day had passed before the carriage stopped outside a small keep by the road. Aelora opened the door to the carriage, taking the opportunity to stretch her legs after such a long time sitting.

She took a moment to appreciate the keep in front of her as well. It was small and rectangular, the walls made of a dark grey granite and a square tower from which the banners of House Royce flew beside another she did not recognize. Three golden wings arranged diagonally on a checkered black and white field, and below the tower, a small force of men-at-arms bearing the same colors.

A woman who looked to be about her mother’s age approached, accompanied by a man who seemed to be about Aelora’s. She wore a rich high-collared burgundy gown, bronze jewelry adorning her neck and fingers, and a crescent-shaped bronze headpiece bejeweled with rubies at the back of her head, from which a long sheer veil that matched her gown descended. The man, by comparison, wore a simple suit of armor bearing the colors of the unknown sigil.

“Your Grace,” the two of them greeted respectfully, bowing before her. “It is my honor to welcome you to the domains of House Royce,” the woman said.

“Do my eyes deceive me? Rhaena Royce?” Her mother smiled at the woman, stepping down from the carriage and moving to greet her.

“My Lady Alys; it has been many years,” the woman said as she kissed her mother’s cheek.

“Lady Rhaena is a childhood companion,” her mother turned back to Aelora. “She held the train of my dress the day I married your father and even served as one of my ladies in King’s Landing for a few moons before being recalled to the Vale to marry.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Rhaena,” Aelora greeted.

“The pleasure is all mine, Your Grace,” she said, before turning the attention to the man beside her. “This is my son, Ser Rolland Shett, the Knight of Gull Tower.” The boy bowed his head once again.

“Shett?” Aelora repeated the name. “I befriended the Knight of Gulltown, Ser Symond Shett, during my stay at Gulltown. I wasn’t aware House Shett had another branch.”

“Ser Symond is my cousin, son of my father’s elder brother,” Ser Rolland declared. “Our branch is a recent one.”

“My late husband saved my lord father’s life at the Redgrass Field. In return, he was given my hand in marriage and a piece of land upon which he built this keep, naming it in honor of the city that saw him be raised,” Lady Rhaena recounted.

Ser Rolland subsequently informed them that he and his men were to accompany them on the way to Runestone, where Lord Robar and his family awaited. Lady Rhaena was immediately offered a place on their carriage by her mother, whilst Ser Rolland led the carriage train by horse.

The sun was already setting by the time they approached Runestone. It was Aelora’s first time seeing the castle, and what she saw took her breath away. It was huge and ancient, its walls built to form a pentagon around a gargantuan keep with six towers grasping at the sky, the domed roof of a sept visible next to the keep. A large village sprawled around the castle, and a busy port lined the shore. To Aelora’s astonishment, on each of the turrets that connected the walls there was a symbol she recognized as a rune of the First Men, whose shape had been carved into the towers and then filled with bronze.

Lady Rhaena told her that whenever the sunlight hit the runes they began to glisten, and that according to legend they invoked the magic of the Old Gods, who blessed the castle’s walls, making them impregnable. A silly story, Aelora thought, but one that did not take the beauty out of the castle.

Behind the walls, she was told, she could find several courtyards, a spacious library filled with scrolls dating back to before the Coming of the Andals, and a godswood, at the center of which a colossal weirwood heart tree could be found, one of the living few that persisted in the Vale, where the invading Andals had burned and cut down any they had found. Though the Royces had embraced the Faith of the Seven when they bent the knee to Artys Arryn after his victory at the Battle of the Seven Stars, they kept their heart tree intact in honor of their past.

As they approached the gatehouse, the massive bronze doors opened for the carriage to pass, and Aelora noticed that the doors too had runes carved into them.

Inside the walls, Aelora opened the door of the carriage to find a giant kneeling before her.

“Runestone is yours, Your Grace,” came a gruff voice that made Aelora’s chest rumble. The man rose to his feet and, even though Aelora was still in the carriage, his head managed to reach her shoulders. The old man offered her his hand, which she took. He was dressed in rich velvets bearing the colors of his House, though the bronze belt and the small runic shields spread across his doublet gave a martial air to him -- one that was bolstered by the man’s formidable height and broad frame. His hair was mostly white, some few strands left to show that it had once been black, and his face was lined, but the trait that stood out to her the most in the old warrior were his eyes.

Purple, the same shade as hers.

“We thank you for your hospitality, My Lord,” she smiled at the greybeard. “I must say I’ve never seen a castle quite like Runestone. Truly a marvel of First Men architecture.”

“You honor me, Your Grace.”

She was led by the hand to the end of the courtyard where the remaining members of House Royce waited to be introduced. A fertile House, she soon came to learn. First there was Lord Robar’s wife, the Lady Alyssa, born a Corbray of Heart’s Home, and their older sons, Maladon and Rodrik, accompanied by their wives Amanda and Wynafrei. Ser Rodrik and Lady Wynafrei had two young daughters, Rosamund and Rhonda, whilst Lady Amanda held a newborn babe at her breast, a girl named Jeyne, born just the previous moon. Then there was Lord Robar and Lady Alyssa’s younger children, a boy of four-and-ten named Owen and a Perra, a girl of eleven.

Finally, there was Lord Robar’s nephew, Ser Raymar, his wife Anya and mother Ysilla, as well as his young son Yorwick. All the men carried the same broad frame; none of them as tall as the Royce patriarch, but still taller than most men she had ever met. None of them shared the color of his eyes, however.

“It is a pleasure to meet your family, Lord Robar. ‘Tis always a fortunate thing to have one so large,” she complimented, much to the men and women’s satisfaction.

“A pity my kin are not all here for Your Grace to acquaint yourself with. There’s my thirdborn, Osgood, who serves in Oldtown at the Starry Sept as a septon, and my older daughter Maris, who resides at her husband’s seat of Longbow Hall. There’s also my brother Nestor and his family, who you’ll meet at the Eyrie where he serves as master-at-arms, and my sister Lorra was regent at Winterfell for her son until recently. The boy came of age two moons past, but she remains by his side.”

With the introductions out of the way, Aelora was led to a cavernous hall, where a feast had been prepared in her honor. She sat at the head of the main table with her mother to her right and Lord Robar to her left. Much like she had done with the Graftons, she thought it best to endear herself to her hosts, starting with the lord at her side.

“The food is delicious,” she began.

“Peppered goat is one of our specialties,” he boasted. “The lamb is even better.”

“My Lord, if I may ask… your eyes. They are a peculiar color for a house of First Men origins.”

“Ah, these old eyes,” Lord Robar japed. “They are a vestige of my maternal heritage.”

“Was Lady Royce a Velaryon? Celtigar?” she asked.

“My mother was Ceryse Hightower of Oldtown, fifth-born daughter of Ser Garmund Hightower and his Targaryen bride, the Princess Rhaena.”

Aelora gasped at the revelation. “Your grandmother was Rhaena of Pentos?”

“She was, yes. I have a drop of dragon’s blood in me, to great pride, and more often than not, to great frustration,” he sighed.

“Why is that?” she inquired, curiosity building up within her.

“I hope I don’t offend Your Grace when I say that those with the blood of the dragon in them can be a bit… fiery at times. My sisters and I, thankfully, are Royces in temper as we are in blood; we may be proud and stubborn, to be sure, but otherwise we’re the quiet and solemn sort. My brothers, however? Boisterous booming voices that could always be heard from the opposite corner of the castle, mercurial tempers and a complete disregard for any sign of authority that sought to restrain them. My brother Yorick, gods keep him, was especially difficult to deal with. His Raymar proves to be much the same, as do mine own sons.”

“I do admit my House has had its fair share of rogues over the centuries,” Aelora chortled, “but it is a family’s duty to handle them best they can.”

“Oh I have, Princess,” Lord Robar let out a boisterous laugh, before pointing to his heir, who was at the table sharing stories and laughs with several members her household as well as his family. “My eldest, Maladon, he had been betrothed to the late Lord Hunter’s granddaughter since the age of nine. A fortnight before the wedding he broke his betrothal, claimed he did not wish to marry, and boarded a ship for the Free Cities, claiming he wished to see the world before growing his roots. Nothing I said or did managed to change his mind, so I exiled him, and sent my secondborn to be married in his stead. Emboldened by his brother’s actions, however, Rodrik instead wed Wynafrei, a Sunderland taken as a hostage by the Arryns after the Blackfyre Rebellion and given as a ward to Runestone. The two had always been close, but I never thought it was more than mere childhood infatuation. Turns out it was.”

“House Hunter was unamused by all this, I imagine,” Aelora commented.

“They were threatening war! I had no more sons to give them. Osgood, that quiet child, had already been promised to the Faith by his own request, and Owen was a babe, much too young for the Hunter girl. In the end it took mediation from the Arryns and my daughter Maris being sent as a ward to Longbow Hall and betrothed to Lord Hunter’s grandson and heir for the friendship between our Houses to be mended,” the man recounted.

“And Maladon? I see he is present and wed. How were you reconciled?”

“He spent years in Essos, first as a sellsword, then a merchant’s sworn shield; even competed for the hand of the Prince of Pentos’ daughter once. He went as far as Norvos and Volantis and has more tales to tell than I care to remember, and he will gladly tell them all to you if you ask. But in the end, sooner or later, the heart always calls for home. He came back last year, made his peace with me and agreed to marry whoever I chose for him. He was lucky in that regard. I managed to snatch a Belmore girl for him, the younger sister of your cousin Jasper’s wife.”

“A prestigious match,” Aelora noted.

“More than he deserves,” Lord Robar spat. “But he is my son; what can a father do?”

“I cannot say House Targaryen has ever had an event of generational betrothal breaking, so mayhaps the fault lies not in that drop of dragon blood but in some other part of the lineage. The worst acts me and my brother and cousins ever committed were the tricks we played on unsuspecting servants and courtiers,” she japed.

Lord Robar laughed at that. “Thank the gods for that, for we might have the most peaceful generation of dragon princelings in the history of the Iron Throne!”

She spent most of the night sharing family tales with Lord Robar before eventually being coaxed by her mother to pay attention to the rest of the attendants. She danced with Lord Robar’s sons, befriended the Ladies Amanda and Anya and even escaped with Daenora and the other children to the gardens for a moment, where they played come-into-my-castle and rats and cats.

Unlike at Gulltown, she did not find the need to force these actions out of herself. Lord Robar’s kindness had left her comfortable in his home, much more than she had been with Lord Grafton, and his family appeared to be as kind and jolly as he was.

As they prepared to depart the following day, Aelora was approached by the Lord of Runestone.

“Safe travels, Princess,” he said before taking his lips to her hand. “It was a pleasure to have you at Runestone.”

“It was a pleasure to stay. Though it was only for a night I have come to adore your family, My Lord. I will never forget the kindness shown to me by House Royce.”

“And we shall not forget yours, Your Grace. You will make a fine queen one day.”

Aelora was taken aback by the lord’s words. “I… I hope so… I still have much to learn…”

“Of course; Your Grace is still young, but a good heart and a willingness to improve oneself is all that’s needed in a young heir. If you possess those two, you are already set on the right path.”

The words were still with her long after Runestone had vanished in the distance. She couldn’t help but chuckle at the idea that even though she came to the castle to gain House Royce’s support, in a way it was Lord Robar who ended up endearing himself to her.

The six days it took to reach Ironoaks were uneventful. The Royces had sent a considerable force to accompany her host; needed protection against possible attacks from the wild mountain clans who dwelled in the Mountains of the Moon, Lord Robar had claimed, who would at times raid the lowlands of the Vale too. Once they crossed into Waynwood land, a host of similar size awaited to guard them until they reached Ironoaks.

Lord Waynwood was cordial and kind, but unlike what had happened at their previous stays at Gulltown and Runestone, the woman at the center of everything was not Aelora, but her mother. It was her the widowed Lord Waynwood flattered and toasted and sought favor from.

“I had expected to be the one Lord Harrold would seek to charm,” Aelora commented as she walked the shores of the lake with her mother, her ladies trailing further behind. The weather had been growing colder with every passing day, but it was that very morning that snow first began to fall.

“The Lord of Ironoaks appears lost in fond memories of childhood, is all,” her mother told her.

“And what memories would those be, mother?” Aelora pushed further.

Alys Arryn chuckled and shook her head. “Harrold was sent as a child to be fostered at the Eyrie. He was raised alongside your uncles and I. As we grew older, he developed an affection for me and even raised talks of a betrothal between us more than once.”

Aelora gasped, looking around to make sure they were not being overheard. “You entertained a dalliance with Lord Waynwood?”

“Of course not!” her mother denied immediately. “He was infatuated with me; it was not reciprocated at all. I would never be able to see him that way, he was as a brother to me.”

“So?” Aelora asked, leading to a moment silence between both women before it dawned on Aelora what her mother meant.

“In any case,” she continued, ignoring the exchange that had just occurred. “I brushed the idea aside, gently. He went to my father and asked for my hand anyways, speaking about the many previous unions between Waynwood and Arryn over the millennia, and how the future Lord of Ironoaks would be a worthy match for his eldest child, and how I would want for nothing as his wife. All true, to be sure, but Harrold had not accounted for how ambitious my father was when it came to his only daughter’s hand. So instead of finding himself betrothed to me, he found his sister betrothed to my brother, and my father toasting him at the betrothal feast for working so hard for a union between our Houses.”

Aelora broke out in a laugh. She pitied the man in part, but that did not make his failure any less entertaining.

They left the castle later that day, after one last farewell between her mother and Lord Waynwood, accompanied by a proposition of two widowed souls allowing love to bloom within their hearts once again. The attempt was as successful as the one two decades before.

The journey to Redfort took a shorter two days, and each day colder than the previous. As they crossed into the lands of the Redforts, no party was present to greet them, raising Aelora’s suspicions.

“Lady Redfort sent no men to greet us…” she stated into the carriage, wrapping a white fur shawl around herself. She had left the light silks from the past weeks for a high-collar dark blue dress trimmed with white fur. On her head she wore a silver circlet with blue sapphires, and a silver hairnet holding her hair. “I pray our stay goes as well as the previous ones,” she sighed.

“Lady Redfort rules her lands in her own right, does she not?” Ser Donnel asked. “You may yet find a connection forms based on your shared experiences as ruling ladies,” he proposed in an attempt to reassure her.

Aelora hoped her sworn shield was right, though she hadn’t really had much experience as a ruling lady to speak of. She noted her mother had kept quiet, not intervening in the conversation.

Before she could raise the matter to her, however, Redfort reached the carriage’s sight.

It was a great castle, with four thick walls that surrounded a keep with three adjoined towers. Much like the name of the seat suggested, the stone that made up the walls was painted red and white.

As they arrived at the castle, no servants or attendants were present to meet them. The yard was empty save for a single young page.

“Your Grace.” The boy kneeled before her. “Welcome to Redfort. Rooms have been prepared for you, should you wish to rest from the journey. My Lady will join you later for dinner in the castle hall.”

“And what reason has Lady Barbrey given for not being present to receive us?” her mother demanded to know, giving the boy a stern look.

“She has given none, My Lady,” answered the page humbly.

After they were led to their chambers -- regular ones given to guests, as opposed to the lord’s chambers – Aelora turned to her mother. “This makes no sense. Why does she not come pay homage? We are her guests, and royalty besides. We have done nothing to offend her.”

“Audacious of her, but not unexpected,” Alys murmured, removing her sable cloak and sitting on the bed.

“What do you mean?”

“Barbrey Redfort hates House Arryn and House Targaryen. And as fate would have it you happen to belong to both,” she said.

Aelora was left dazed by her words. “But why? What reason does she have to hate us?”

Alys Arryn let out a long sigh. “Much like many a calamity, this one harkens back to the Blackfyre Rebellion. House Redfort stood firmly with the Red Dragon, following the Arryns in subduing the Stricklands and Sunderlands in the Vale and aiding the loyalists in the Riverlands, before following your grandfather in the vanguard of the Targaryen forces at the Redgrass Field. This loyalty came with a steep price, however. Lady Barbrey’s eldest brother was killed in battle by Lord Strickland near the shores of the Bite, her second older brother took an arrow through the eye in the siege of Southstone, succumbing outside its walls, and finally, not yet sated, the Stranger came again for her family, taking her father and younger brother when Daemon Blackfyre shattered the Arryn lines at the Redgrass Field.”

“So she hates us because her father and brothers died fighting in the war?” Aelora couldn’t make sense of what she was hearing. “It’s not our fault Daemon Blackfyre rebelled and leal lords rose to defend their rightful king. She lays blame on dragons of the wrong color.”

“War brings death and devastation, that much she understood. It was what came after that embittered her to us,” her mother continued. “She had been betrothed to the heir to Riverrun from childhood, and the two of them had spent the three years before the war together at Darry, him as Lord Deremond’s squire and her as his cupbearer. They fell in love, by the looks of it. While her brothers lived, such a match was considered acceptable, but after the rebellion, such a union would make the future Lord Paramount of the Riverlands the Lord of Redfort. At the Eyrie we saw this as a usurpation of our position as Redfort’s liege lords, so we moved to break the match. My marriage to your father lent us the Iron Throne’s support, and King Daeron persuaded Lord Tully to break the betrothal. Medgar Tully wed another, and Lady Barbrey returned to the Vale to claim her father’s lands.”

Aelora sat on the bed next to her mother. “Gods,” she sighed. “What can we do now?”

“It’s been twenty years; once the cow’s milked there's no squirting the cream back up her udder, sweetling. All we can do now is feed and rest and leave this bitter woman’s home as fast as possible. She’s made no secret that that is her will also.”

Later that night she found herself in the hall seated beside her mother. There was only one table, and the only other people who sat there were two boys -- the older of which looked to be Aelora’s age and the other no more than three years younger -- and a woman, on the opposite end of the table. She was short and thick of waist, with braided honey-colored hair and cold hazel eyes. She wore a simple white dress with long red sleeves, and the shield of her house embroidered on her chest, a red castle on a white field within a red embattled border. The boys dressed in the same colors, though the sigil in their doublets had the red castle placed on a field of red and white diamonds.

Her greetings had been cold and her words few, with no deference to be found in them. Nonetheless, against her mother’s advice, Aelora was keen to try and curry favor with the woman.

“The lamb tastes exquisite,” she declared. Her words were met with silence from the Lady, and an exchange of looks by her sons, who kept their heads bowed and focused on the food on their plate.

Aelora’s second attempt was more direct. “How fares Redfort, My Lady?”

The woman merely grunted. “Winter has arrived and our grain stores are lacking. We pray the winter is short…”

“Perhaps the crown or the Eyrie could offer assistance in that matter. Shipments could be sent-”

“Assistance? From the crown?” Lady Barbrey interrupted. “If it’s the same assistance your kingly uncle offered during the drought at the beginning of his reign, then I’m happy to tell Your Grace that we are already receiving it,” she declared waspishly.

Aelora took the woman’s scorn in silence. Her mother, however, never one to tolerate impertinence, chose to strike back. “I notice there is one member of the family missing. Where is Lord Redfort, My Lady?”

Lady Barbrey threw Alys Arryn a baleful glare. Aelora could see the hand around her cup tighten to the point she feared the woman would break the colored glass. “My lord husband went back to Hardwood long ago, to serve as his brother’s adviser,” she spat at her mother, before turning to Aelora, her face morphing into a sneer. “Many a man would rather be another man’s dog than ever serve a woman.”

Aelora spoke no more words that dinner.

As the first rays of sunlight illuminated the courtyard, Aelora watched as her belongings were loaded onto the wagons, her host commanded by her mother to leave Redfort as soon as possible.

As her mother ordered the servants around and her sister ran through the yard, her arms flapping up and down as she pretended to be a dragon, Aelora looked up to see Lady Barbrey, still and stone-faced, watching them from atop the gatehouse.

Against her better judgement, Aelora walked to the gatehouse, climbing the steps of the turret until she found herself by the woman’s side.

“Lady Redfort.”

“Your Grace,” the woman greeted curtly, her gaze locked on the yard and unmoved by Aelora’s presence.

Aelora stood beside her in silence for a moment, weighing her words.

“I have been told a great injustice was done, many years past. On behalf of House Arryn and House Targaryen, I beg forgiveness for the suffering brought upon you.”

Lady Redfort turned to face her.

“That…” she began. Aelora swore she saw a flash of emotion before the woman’s face turned to stone once more. “What’s been done cannot be undone.”

Aelora pleaded further. “I mean it sincerely, My Lady. Having lost my own beloved recently I understand how-”

“I care not for your sympathy or your pity, Princess,” the woman interrupted. “Instead of attempting to right the wrongs of the past with sweet words and earnest looks, mayhaps Your Grace’s efforts should instead be on ensuring they don’t repeat. That families don’t get dragged into pointless wars and obliterated, leaving the lone survivors to deal with the aftermath. That alone shall prove enough for me.”

Aelora gave the woman a defeated look.

No amount of words will move her. I can only hope to gain her respect someday through my deeds.

Giving Lady Barbrey one last nod, she left the woman’s side, returning to the yard, where her host was ready to depart.

As they left Redfort for their final destination, Aelora found herself plagued once again with thoughts of her own competence.