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Chapter Text

The Dowager Queen

The breeze of early morning brushed against Rhaella’s skin like a whisper, rising from the churning sea far below the balcony of Dragonstone.

She had risen later than usual. In her youth, Rhaella had made a habit of waking with the sun, bound by the obligations of a queen and the weight of courtly routine. But age, and the luxury of no longer wearing a crown, had softened the strict rhythms of her days. Here, with no throne to sit and no court to rule, she allowed herself the rare freedom of stillness.

Somewhere within the keep, her son was likely still abed with his wife. Viserys had taken to sleeping in longer of late, ever since the birth of his daughter. He spoke of those early hours fondly, curled beside his wife, basking in a peace he had once thought lost to him. Rhaella had not the heart to scold him. Let him keep his dream while it lasted.

She turned from the sea and stepped back into her solar, where the morning light filtered through colored glass and painted faint ruby and gold streaks across the stone floor. On a small round table near the hearth, a silver tray awaited her with a steaming pot of tea. Soon she would break her fast and perhaps make her way to the nursery to see her youngest grandchild.

Alyssa, they had named her. A quiet babe, content, wide-eyed, and watchful. She reminded Rhaella of Daenerys as an infant: solemn and still, as if listening to something only she could hear.

Her gaze drifted to the table where a tidy stack of letters waited. Some bore Rhaegar’s seal, others Dany’s familiar hand. Still more were from Elia and Lyanna. Her daughters-in-law. Her girls.

She missed them more than she could say.

Elia had remained in Dorne these past moons, and had not visited Dragonstone in nearly half a year. And Lyanna… Lyanna had gone to Winterfell almost two years ago, taking young Daeron with her. They wrote often, yes, with quills dipped in affection and longing, but parchment was a poor substitute for warm embraces and shared laughter.

The family had scattered like leaves on the wind. Rhaegar in King’s Landing, Elia beneath the red sun of Dorne, Lyanna cloaked in the snow of the North and Rhaella here, on Dragonstone.

She had come to help with Alyssa’s birth, and stayed to ease the burden on Viserys and Laena. There was comfort in the rhythm of it, feeding, rocking, cradling new life in her arms. The cries of an infant, the scent of milk and lavender oil, the weight of a child on her shoulder, these were softer burdens than those she had carried before.

A soft knock at the door stirred Rhaella from her thoughts. "Enter," she called, her voice calm, though her mind still lingered in distant memories.

The door opened with quiet grace, and Ser Barristan stepped into the room, silver hair gleaming faintly in the morning light. He bowed with the crisp formality that never seemed to dull with age.

“Your Grace,” he said. “Prince Viserys has risen and requests the pleasure of your company. He and Princess Laena are preparing to break their fast together.”

A small smile warmed Rhaella’s features. “Of course. I’ll join them shortly.”

Barristan inclined his head again, then retreated, the door closing with a gentle thud behind him. It was rare for Viserys to wake so early of late, but she would never deny her son the chance to share a quiet morning. Such moments were fleeting, and more precious for it.

She crossed the chamber to the tall mirror set in a carved of dark wood. Her reflection looked well enough, her white gown sat neatly on her shoulders, her silver hair brushed smooth save for a stubborn wisp or two. She considered, briefly, changing into the soft blue dress Rhaegar had gifted her on her last nameday, but the thought had barely taken root before it was shattered.

A sound tore through the morning.

It was not thunder. It was not wind. It was a roar, deep, primal, and full of fury and awe. It rattled the glass of the windows and stilled the breath in her chest.

She did not remember crossing the room.

One moment she was by the mirror, the next she stood again upon the balcony, hands gripping the stone balustrade, eyes wide and searching. The sea still churned below. The fields still rolled outward in soft green waves. The world looked unchanged, and yet her bones knew something was wrong.

The door burst open behind her. Barristan entered, hand already upon the hilt of his sword, eyes sharp with urgency. He strode to her side in silence, gaze sweeping the skies.

And then another roar, clearer now, closer.

Rhaella lifted her eyes.

At first, it seemed nothing more than a stray cloud drifting swiftly through the blue. But it was too bright. Too purposeful. The shape moved against the wind, not with it, and even the light around it shimmered wrong, as if distorted by heat.

She stared, transfixed, as the shape began to descend, slow and deliberate.

It was no cloud.

The truth struck her like cold water. She had seen it before, in ancient tapestries hung in the Red Keep, in murals worn by time in the halls of Dragonstone. The vast wings. The sinuous body. The impossible grace. A beast of nightmare and wonder.

Rhaella’s breath caught in her throat as the creature drew nearer, its silhouette immense and terrible in its beauty. The light of the sun danced across scales of silver and white, and as it fell, it seemed the whole sky held its breath.

And then, wings unfurled.

Two vast sails of flesh tore through the air. The wind they summoned crashed into the castle, slamming into the balcony and whipping Rhaella’s silver hair around her face. Trees nearest the landing site bent backward in protest, some wrenched free from the earth entirely, roots clawing skyward like fingers in prayer.

The dragon circled once, casting a vast shadow over the land, before it descended in full. With a thunderous gust, it landed in the field just beyond the outer wall, stone shuddering beneath its weight.

Beside her, Ser Barristan had drawn his sword. “By the gods,” he whispered.

Rhaella did not speak. She couldn't.

“I’ll gather a group of riders. We’ll take a closer look,” Barristan said, his voice steady, though Rhaella could see the tension in his jaw.

She gave only a small nod in response, her gaze locked on the silver beast beyond the walls. She did not notice when Barristan left her side, only heard the soft thud of the door closing behind him. The world had narrowed to that impossible creature in the field below.

The dragon lay still now, great head resting against the scorched grass, steam rising from its nostrils in lazy curls. It looked almost serene but even in its stillness there was power, tightly coiled and terrible.

Two figures slid from its back.

Rhaella squinted, shielding her eyes from the morning sun. From this distance, she could not make out their faces, but the mere sight of them chilled her. It was one thing to see a dragon. But to know it had a rider? A rider who had tamed or bonded with such a thing?

The pair moved around the dragon’s flank, retrieving what looked like packs or satchels. One of them, cloaked in black and crimson, stepped forward and laid a hand against the creature’s scaled jaw. The dragon’s eye half-lidded, and Rhaella felt a strange sensation settle in her chest. That wasn’t a handler. That was a bond.

She did not know how long she stood frozen there, heart thudding, breath shallow. Time had unraveled.

Eventually, she saw movement on the road leading down from the keep. Five riders, Barristan at their head, cantered cautiously across the field toward the dragon. They dismounted at a safe distance and approached on foot.

Then the dragon turned its head.

It did not roar, not this time. Instead, it growled, a low, resonant sound that rolled across the hills like thunder. Even at this distance, it made Rhaella flinch. The men halted instantly, hands near weapons, though none drew steel. They spoke but the words did not reach her.

And then, to her astonishment, the strangers moved to join them.

The group turned together and began the ascent toward Dragonstone.

It was real.

The rider, whoever they were, they were coming.

Rhaella staggered back from the balcony as though waking from a dream. Her hands trembled slightly, and for a moment, she thought she might slip and fall. Instead, she turned and hurried from the room, skirts gathered in her hands. She moved faster than she had in years, each step driven by a thudding heart and a rising tide of questions.

She descended the tower steps and crossed the hallways of Dragonstone, ignoring startled servants and the murmured chatter already beginning to spread. The keep felt alive in a way it hadn’t in decades, as if the very stones remembered what it meant to host dragons.

By the time she reached the main hall, her breath was shallow in her chest. She was unsurprised to find Viserys already there, standing by one of the tall windows with Laena beside him. Both wore matching expressions of worry and awe.

“Did you see it, muña?” Viserys asked the moment she stepped into the room. His voice was softer than usual, filled with something reverent.

“I did,” she said, slowing her pace to join him. Her eyes met his, and for a heartbeat neither of them spoke.

Laena was clutching Viserys’s hand. “Is it… is it true?” she asked. “Is that truly a dragon?”

Rhaella looked out the window once more. The sky was bright and clear again, but the image of silver wings still burned behind her eyes.

“Yes,” she whispered. “It is.” She hesitated for a moment, then added, “And someone rode it.”

“A rider?” Laena echoed, her voice barely above a whisper. Wonder and dread danced together in her expression.

Rhaella didn’t answer with words. She turned to her daughter-in-law and gave only a single nod. That was enough. The question had already passed between them, unspoken but heavy.

How was there a dragon in the world?

Who rode it?

And why come here?

They drifted toward the center of the chamber, its high vaulted ceilings casting long shadows from the stained glass. The wind outside still howled faintly, stirred by the dragon’s landing, though the beast itself remained somewhere unseen beyond the walls.

The silence stretched, thick with worry.

Then came the sound.

Footsteps reverberating through the stone corridors. Not the rhythm of servants or panicked guards, but the slow, deliberate march of armored men escorting someone.

Rhaella’s breath caught in her throat.

Laena’s hand found Viserys’s and clutched it tightly. The young prince stood very still, violet eyes fixed on the heavy doors ahead, a flicker of something ancient and uncertain etched across his face.

The doors groaned open.

Barristan entered first, his silver hair catching the light like a crown of snow. His face, so often composed, so often a mask of knightly calm, was pale, his eyes wide with disbelief. Behind him came four of Dragonstone’s riders, and between them walked two cloaked figures.

One wore a cloak of black and crimson. The other was taller, broader, his golden hair unmistakable.

“Your Grace,” Barristan said, bowing low but even his voice wavered. “I… I present to you… Prince Aemon of House Targaryen.”

The world stopped moving.

Rhaella forgot to breathe. Time seemed to freeze around her, the chamber held captive by those words. For a heartbeat, for a single fragile moment, she wanted to lash out. How dare he speak her grandson’s name, the boy who had vanished four years ago, with no word, no body, no answer.

But then the man in the black-and-crimson cloak stepped forward, and her breath fled.

His face was older, thinner. Marked by hardship, by scars that told of many battles fought. But his eyes… gods, those eyes. Deep violet, darker than Rhaegar’s. And the lines of his face, Lyanna’s stubborn jaw, Rhaegar’s high cheekbones, something ancient and Targaryen burning just beneath the surface.

Even the scars could not hide the truth.

“And Ser Jaime,” Barristan added, motioning to the man beside him. But the words went unheard, swept away like leaves in wind.

Rhaella moved before she realized it. Her feet carried her forward in a rush, skirts flowing like pale flame behind her. The ache in her knees forgotten, the dignity of a Dowager Queen cast aside.

She reached him with a cry and flung her arms around his neck, pulling him down into her embrace. Her tears came freely, warm and unrelenting, soaking the collar of his cloak as she buried her face against his chest. Her fingers curled into the fabric as if to anchor him in place, as if afraid he might vanish again if she let go.

The man who had been a boy whispered, “It’s good to see you, grandmother.”

And though his voice was rougher now, deeper but she knew it the moment the first words left his lips.

After a long, aching moment in his arms, Rhaella drew back just enough to look upon his face. One pair of indigo eyes met another, and something unspoken passed between them.

A small smile crept across her grandson’s lips and for a heartbeat he was not the man who had returned on the back of a dragon but the boy who used to sneak lemon cakes from her tray when his parents weren’t looking, always with that same smile that made it impossible to scold him.

But the rest of him was changed. Gods, how he had changed.

He looked older than his years, far older than a man of seven-and-ten should. The kind of age etched by hardship, not by time. His face was hard now, all sharp lines and shadows. A scar ran down from his left brow through the corner of his eye and onto his cheek, jagged like a blade had kissed him. Another rose from his collarbone to curl along the edge of his jaw. Whatever battles he had fought, they had not been kind.

He was tall, taller even than Viserys, with broader shoulders and the quiet poise of a man who carried weight heavier than armor. And yet, the warmth in his eyes had not dimmed. That was her Aemon.

“Nephew,” came Viserys’s voice from somewhere behind her, full of stunned wonder.

Aemon’s gaze shifted past Rhaella, but his smile did not fade. “It’s good to see you, uncle.”

He stepped forward, gently easing out of Rhaella’s arms, and embraced Viserys. The older man clutched him tightly, laughing as he stepped back to take him in fully.

“By the gods, nephew,” Viserys said, a soft chuckle escaping his throat. “Look at you. You look like something out of the old songs.”

Only then did Rhaella notice the armor Aemon wore, dark as shadow, gleaming in the light of the hall. It shimmered not with polish, but with something more ancient, more storied. The rippled texture, the subtle hues of violet and smoky silver, there was no mistaking it.

She stepped closer, her brows lifting. “Is that… is that Valyrian steel?”

Aemon nodded once. “It is.”

“Where did you find such a thing?” she asked, her voice hushed with awe.

“A story for later, grandmother,” he said, and there was a promise in his tone. “I’ll tell you everything. I swear it.”

His eyes turned then toward Laena, who had stood quietly by Viserys’s side until now. He smiled as he approached, slower this time, careful. “Aunt, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Laena offered a polite, almost timid smile, and lowered her head with a formal, “Your Grace…” but Aemon didn’t let her finish. He stepped forward and embraced her gently, surprising her.

“None of that,” he said, warmth in his voice. “We’re family.”

Rhaella could see the smile grow, soft and genuine, on Laena’s lips.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” Aemon said, voice quieter now. “For your wedding. For the day my cousin was born.”

Viserys shook his head. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

Rhaella stepped beside him once more, placing a hand upon his shoulder. She could feel the tension beneath the armor but also the faint tremor of emotion still clinging to him.

“We have time to make up for it now,” she said, her voice full of quiet resolve.

Aemon looked at her, and for a moment, the weariness in his eyes softened. “I’d like that,” he said.

“Your Grace,” came a voice from behind. Rhaella turned, and found herself face to face with Jaime Lannister.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, good Ser,” she said, offering a graceful nod. He bowed with quiet respect, and when he straightened, Rhaella studied him fully.

The years had changed him.

He bore no scars upon his face, unlike the prince he had returned with, but there was a roughness now where once there had been golden perfection. His hair was cropped shorter than she remembered and a patchy, neatly trimmed beard framed his jaw. It wasn’t quite polished. It almost made her chuckle. Jaime Lannister, once the most vain knight in the Seven Kingdoms, had gone rugged.

“Ser Jaime,” Viserys said, stepping forward, his voice carrying the smooth weight of courtly charm. “It seems that even in exile, you never left my nephew’s side.”

The older knight gave a small nod, one corner of his mouth lifting in a subtle smile. “My Prince,” he replied, “I wouldn’t presume to abandon Prince Aemon’s side, though I suspect he’s grown quite bored of my company after so many years.”

“Never,” Aemon said quietly, the single word full of quiet loyalty.

Jaime wore a travel-worn cloak over dark leathers, practical and unadorned, but at his hip hung a sword, its scabbard plain save for the pommel, which gleamed like a captured sun. It tugged at her memory. She had seen drawings in ancient books, records of weapons lost to time.

“Good Ser,” she asked softly, stepping closer. “May I see your blade?”

There was a flicker of amusement in Jaime’s eyes, but he bowed his head and slowly drew the sword. It sang faintly as it left the sheath.

The moment it caught the light, a gasp slipped from Viserys.

Jaime presented the sword across his palms, offering it with reverence. Rhaella stepped closer and reached out, brushing her fingertips lightly along the dark, rippling metal. It was cold beneath her touch, but not lifeless.

“Brightroar,” she whispered, awestruck. “Your house’s ancestral sword...”

“I thought the blade had been lost forever,” Laena said from behind her, awe softening her voice.

“It was,” Jaime said, his tone light, but his gaze sharp with memory. “But the Prince has a… talent for recovering what history left behind.”

There was jest in his voice, but beneath it, something more.

Aemon said nothing, only stood beside him, silent, his eyes unreadable.

Rhaella looked again at the sword, then at the dragonlord beside the knight. Her grandson had returned not only with a beast of legend, but a blade thought swallowed by doom itself.

Aemon must have noticed the look of stunned disbelief still lingering on Rhaella’s face. He gave her a gentle smile and stepped closer, embracing her once more.

“All in good time, grandmother,” he murmured, his voice low and reassuring. “I promise.”

He stepped back with a half-laugh. “Now, I don’t wish to ruin the moment, but Jaime and I are in rather desperate need of a bath… and a proper meal. We’ve been on the road for days.”

“It’s no trouble at all, nephew,” Viserys said, moving forward with a grin and placing a hand on Aemon’s shoulder. “We were just about to break our fast before your rather dramatic entrance.” He laughed softly, then added with fondness, “And I believe a bath can wait until afterward. We have so much to discuss. And someone very important you have yet to meet.”

Aemon’s expression softened. “I’d like that.”

They moved together through the stone corridors of Dragonstone, the castle still buzzing faintly with the shock of a dragon’s return. Servants whispered behind their hands, and guards stepped aside with awed stares.

In the dining hall, firelight flickered across long trestle tables and high blackstone walls carved with fading bas-reliefs of dragons in flight. Silver platters bore freshly baked bread, smoked fish, and soft cheeses, and pitchers of Dornish red and spiced tea steamed beside them.

As soon as they were seated, the questions began.

“Where have you been all this time?” Viserys asked, tearing a piece of bread and handing it to Laena, who watched Aemon with wide, careful eyes. “And where in the Seven Hells did you find a dragon?”

Aemon drank from his cup, then reached for a slice of fruit before answering with deliberate calm. “Nyraxes and I have been together for a little over a year now. I found her… or rather, she found me… on my second journey into Valyria.”

There was a brief, stunned silence.

Laena dropped her fork with a soft clatter, and Viserys’s goblet halted midair. “Come again?” he asked, his voice an octave higher than usual.

Aemon smiled behind his cup. “On our second journey to Valyria.”

Rhaella’s spoon paused halfway to her mouth. “Your second journey?” she echoed, and turned to Jaime as if expecting him to laugh and dismiss it as a jest.

But Jaime only gave a slow shrug, unbothered.
“I’m afraid I was not part of that particular adventure, your Grace,” he said, glancing sidelong at Aemon. “That time, the prince chose a different companion.”

It took Rhaella a moment longer to process the full weight of his words.

“You’ve been to Valyria twice?” she said at last, her voice sharp with disbelief. “Aemon, have you lost your senses? That place is cursed. Everyone who ventures there dies.”

Aemon gave her a crooked smile, more boy than legend in that moment. “And yet… here I am.”

She stared at him, utterly at a loss. He chuckled softly at the sight of her gaping mouth.

“We were careful,” he added. “We studied every expedition we could find, every failure, every ghost story, every sketch of the ruins. We brought alchemists and scribes. We mapped the ground before we stepped on it. And when we returned… we weren’t empty-handed.”

“You are either mad or far braver than you ought to be,” Viserys said, raising his cup in a toast. “To my nephew.”

Aemon laughed and raised his own goblet in return, while Laena only shook her head and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “men”.

“So tell us,” Viserys continued. “What did you see there?”

Aemon’s smile faded just slightly, his gaze turning distant, as if he were still seeing the ashen ruins, the black towers and half-sunken domes.

“A great many things,” he said quietly. “Ruins… and remnants. Things that should not still be alive. Statues that move when you’re not looking. Rivers of stone and blood. Shadows that whisper in tongues no one speaks anymore.”

A silence settled over the table.

“But we didn’t go to Valyria for stories,” he said, shaking himself free of the memory. “We brought things back. Artifacts. Tomes. Bones. Even eggs. Our ships are sailing even now. They should arrive within the week.”

Rhaella felt her spine stiffen at that.

“Eggs?” she asked, almost afraid to believe it. “Dragon eggs?”

Aemon met her eyes, and nodded once.

Something twisted in Rhaella’s chest at the mention of dragon eggs.

The words alone conjured images long buried, flashes of fire, of screaming and smoldering stone. Summerhall. She could still smell the smoke. Still hear the soft wailing of the newborn Rhaegar as she cradled him beneath a sky blackened by ash. She had survived the flames. Many had not.

She blinked the memories away, but they clung to her skin like soot.

“And I presume,” Laena said, eyes alight with wonder, “that you might know how to hatch them?”

“I do, aunt,” Aemon replied, his tone matter-of-fact as he took another sip of tea. “If all goes well, Westeros may soon see dragons in the skies again, many dragons.”

Rhaella caught the look on Laena’s face: awe, hope, a flicker of fear. The return of dragons was no small thing.

“We should write to Rhaegar,” Viserys said suddenly, the excitement in his voice rising. “He’s spoken for years about the prophecy, the return of the dragons, the rebirth of magic. He’ll be overjoyed to see you again, Aemon. And this… this changes everything.”

The words had barely left his mouth before the shift came.

Aemon’s expression tightened, so subtly most might have missed it. But Rhaella did not. Nor did she miss the way Jaime’s hand came to rest, just briefly, on the prince’s shoulder.

“I would ask you not to send word to my father,” Aemon said, calmly but there was something beneath the calm. Something cold. “Not yet.”

Viserys blinked. “Why not? Surely…”

“I’d like to enjoy what little freedom I have here before being dragged back into the web of court,” Aemon said, and this time the edge in his voice was unmistakable. His words were clipped, deliberate. “The last four years have given me many things, uncle. Perspective among them.”

Rhaella’s fingers tightened around the rim of her goblet. So it was still there, that wound between father and son, half-healed and bleeding when touched. She had never known the full truth of why Rhaegar had sent Aemon away, only that it had followed whispers of a bitter falling-out. But whatever had passed between them, Aemon had not forgotten. And he had not forgiven.

“The rumors will reach King’s Landing soon,” Laena said gently, trying to steady the air in the room. “A dragon’s arrival on Dragonstone will not go unnoticed.”

“I know,” Aemon said, softer now, but no less certain. “But I would like to spend the little time I have before that storm breaks with family. With peace.”

He looked around the table, not as a prince, not as a conqueror, but as a man asking for something he had not known in years.

“You’ll have that time, Aemon,” she said at last, her voice quiet but firm. “However long you need.” And though he didn’t speak, Aemon gave her a grateful nod.

A moment later, the doors to the dining hall swung open with a gentle creak, and a maid entered.

All eyes turned toward her, and Rhaella’s lips curved into a smile the instant she saw what, or rather, who the girl carried. Swaddled in a pale blue blanket, cradled close to her chest, was little Alyssa.

The babe was awake, her violet eyes flicking about the room with quiet fascination. She had her father’s unmistakable Targaryen stare. Even now, there was something perceptive in her gaze, as though she was silently judging the worth of the great stone hall around her.

“Nephew,” Viserys said brightly, rising a little in his seat, pride swelling in his voice, “I’d like you to meet your cousin.”

The maid approached the table and stopped between Aemon and Laena, dipping her head respectfully. Alyssa made no fuss, simply blinked up at the stranger beside her.

Aemon leaned closer, studying the babe with a solemn curiosity. “May I?” he asked, glancing to Laena.

She smiled and gave a soft nod. “Of course.”

Carefully, Aemon reached out, and the maid eased Alyssa into his arms. He held her with surprising ease, cradling her head with one broad hand as he lifted her to eye level.

A tiny squeak escaped the child’s lips at the motion, her arms flailing just briefly. But then her eyes locked onto his face.

And she stilled.

The dining hall went silent.

Aemon stared at her. She stared right back, wide-eyed and entirely unfazed.

He tilted his head, his expression unreadable for a moment, then made a sudden exaggerated face: eyes wide, lips puckered like a fish.

Alyssa burst into giggles.

The sound broke the stillness. Rhaella laughed softly, and Viserys barked a pleased laugh, while even Jaime shook his head, amused. Laena covered her mouth with her hand, her shoulders trembling with mirth. “You’re a natural,” she said, smiling as she watched her daughter giggle in Aemon’s arms.

Then Alyssa, still laughing, reached up with a tiny hand and latched onto her cousin’s nose.

The prince blinked in mock surprise as her fingers pinched down, gently but decisively.

Rhaella let out a laugh she hadn’t known she was still capable of. It echoed warmly off the dark stone walls.

“She likes you,” Laena said softly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“She has good taste,” Aemon replied with mock solemnity, still cross-eyed as Alyssa tugged at his nose again.

Alyssa eventually released his nose, her tiny fingers uncurling as her giggles faded into curious breaths. Aemon adjusted her gently, lowering her so she rested against his chest.

“How old is she?” he asked, glancing between Viserys and Laena. “I’m afraid I never learned the date of her birth.”

“She’ll be eight moons old in a week,” Viserys replied, a quiet pride in his voice.

Aemon nodded, then looked down at Alyssa again. She was a curious little thing, wiggling now, her arms flailing with fresh determination. Her wide violet eyes locked back onto his face, and she reached out once more, fingers splayed in a renewed attempt to seize his nose.

This time, Aemon was wise to her.

He leaned back just enough to keep it out of reach. Alyssa strained her arm with all the righteous fury of a tiny conqueror, but when her efforts failed, she froze.

And then came the pout.

It was swift and dramatic, lower lip jutted forward, brow furrowed in frustration. Her gaze turned away as if to say, “Fine, then. I didn’t want it anyway.”

Aemon couldn’t help himself and burst out laughing. “She’s already mastered royal indignation,” he said, looking up at Laena with a playful glint in his eye. “That’s promising.”

Laena smiled, watching the two of them. “She gets that from her father.”

Viserys raised his brows. “I’ll have you know I’ve never once pouted,” he said, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. “Scowled, yes. Brooded, perhaps. But pout? Never.”

“You just did,” Rhaella muttered behind her cup.

The laughter that followed was easy and warm, and Rhaella felt it settle in her chest like balm on old wounds. It had been so long since Dragonstone had echoed with something so warm.

The White Lion

Being back on Dragonstone was, unexpectedly, a welcome experience.

After so many years adrift in the east, among dusty ruins and cities that stank of sweat and spice and ambition, the small island fortress felt strangely serene. The air was cleaner here, always touched by the sea.

Jaime stood atop the broad stone steps of the castle’s main entrance, hands resting on the blackened railing. His eyes were on the sky above. Behind him, Laena was saying something to Viserys, though Jaime paid her little mind.

Then the wind shifted and he felt it before he heard it.

A sudden gust struck the castle hard enough to rattle the high windows. Jaime gripped the railing instinctively as a shadow tore across the courtyard.

Nyraxes.

The dragon cut through the sky overhead, her wings slicing through the air with unnatural speed. Jaime could feel the wind of her passage in his bones. The stones beneath his boots almost seemed to hum in her wake.

Laena let out a quiet gasp of awe beside him. Jaime didn’t blame her. He was fairly certain he’d worn the same expression the first few times he’d seen Nyraxes take flight.

He watched now as the dragon wheeled in a tight circle over the keep, her massive wings folding and shifting with effortless grace. Then, with a roar that echoed across the cliffs, she turned southward and soared out across the open sea.

It had been five days since their arrival.

Five days of peace. Unexpected, but not unwelcome.

Most of their time had been spent recounting stories. Rhaella had demanded tales from Valyria, while Viserys hung on every word about lost relics, broken empires, and battles fought beneath alien stars. But not every story sat well.

He still remembered the sharpness in Rhaella’s voice when Aemon confessed that yes, it had been them who had destroyed the Golden Company. Burned their banners to ash. Ended the last of Bittersteel’s legacy in a single night of blood and ruin.

Apparently, that was one of the few truths that had reached Westeros. Rumors of a dragon sighted in the east had circulated, of course, but no one had believed them. Too fanciful and too mythical. As if dragons could be real again.

And yet the annihilation of the Golden Company, that had shaken the court.

Rhaella had told them it was discussed for weeks in the capital. Lords whispering in fear, maesters poring over maps, smallfolk praying for peace while nobles sharpened their knives.

It amused Jaime, in a dry sort of way. They had heard of the death of a sellsword army but not of Aemon and not of the dragon.

Mayhaps that had been Connington’s doing.

The Griffin Lord had always held little affection for Queen Lyanna and her children, and even less for anything that did not fit neatly into his vision of the realm. If word had reached him of a dragon in the East, he likely would’ve dismissed it.

Jaime had never liked the man. There was something in the way he looked at Rhaegar, worshipful, bitter and jealous, all at once. Something unspoken and unhealthy. A loyal hound pretending to be a lion.

He lifted his gaze again to the sky just in time to catch a flash of wings slicing through the sunlight.

Nyraxes was returning. Jaime squinted into the wind, watching her descend, when something brushed against his leg.

He looked down.

Ghost.

The direwolf stood at his side, pale as snow, eyes the color of fresh blood and twice as unsettling. He stared up at Jaime with that familiar, unreadable expression. There was something ancient in those eyes.

Jaime had grown used to the creature’s presence over the years. Most hadn’t. Ghost had a way of watching people that made even hardened killers shift uncomfortably. For a brief moment, Jaime wondered whether Aemon was looking through the direwolf’s eyes. It was unlikely, of course. But the thought came anyway.

He turned his eyes back to the sky.

Nyraxes was slowing now, wings angling downward as she spiraled toward the keep. She landed with a low, thunderous impact just beyond the courtyard, the stone beneath Jaime’s feet trembling slightly with the force of it. The gust from her wings sent cloaks fluttering and banners flapping like startled birds.

From her back, Aemon climbed down first, his hair windswept, his eyes bright. Then he reached up, slow and careful, and helped Rhaella dismount.

Even from a distance, Jaime could see the wonder on her face.

Of all the royal family gathered on Dragonstone, the Dowager Queen had been the last to take flight. She’d resisted for days, claiming she was far too old, that her bones weren’t meant to leave the ground. Aemon had been gentle, persistent, patient as only he could be. And now the awe in her eyes said it all.

She hadn’t regretted it.

The two began walking back across the courtyard, arm in arm, the wind tugging at their cloaks. Behind them, Nyraxes lifted her head and gave a low rumble that rolled like distant thunder.

Then, with a mighty sweep of her wings, she leapt skyward again, her massive form rising against the sun until she vanished into the clouds above, nothing left behind but swirling mist.

Jaime watched her go. He had spent a year with her now. Seen her torch fields, devour oxen whole, melt stone like candlewax. Slept beneath her wings. Watched her curl around Aemon like a cat. And yet she still unsettled him.

Nyraxes wasn’t like the dragons from the old tales.

She was too quiet. She didn’t roar often, and when she did, it was with intent. Her gaze lingered too long, and Jaime had caught her once staring into the fire as if trying to remember something.

Maybe the books were wrong, he thought. Or maybe she’s just different.

“I told you it would be wonderful, muña,” Viserys said as Rhaella and Aemon approached, the sea wind tugging playfully at their cloaks. “Being up there, in the clouds, it’s unlike anything else.”

“It was… an experience,” Rhaella replied, a smile tugging at her lips. “Though I’ll say this, next time I’d prefer fewer dives and sudden turns.” She cast a pointed look at her grandson. “I swear to the gods, you make that dragon of yours fly as if you’re trying to frighten your poor grandmother into the Stranger’s arms.”

Aemon raised his brows in mock innocence, but before he could respond, Jaime interjected with a smirk. “Your Grace, if you think that was reckless, you should see how he flies when I’m the passenger,” he said. “I’ve half a mind he’s been trying to kill me since we left Valyria.”

Laena chuckled, and Viserys laughed outright, though Rhaella merely sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose in long-suffering amusement.

But the lightness faltered.

Jaime noticed it first, the way Aemon’s expression went still. Blank and unreadable. It was a look he knew well. The same one Aemon wore whenever something unsettled him. Jaime’s jest faded, replaced with quiet concern.

“Is something the matter?” he asked.

Aemon didn’t answer at once. His gaze drifted seaward, where the horizon met the mist-veiled sky. Finally, he spoke. “Aye,” he said. “We spotted a ship approaching from the northeast, flying Targaryen colors.”

The air shifted.

The warmth that had lingered from Rhaella’s flight vanished like smoke in the wind. Everyone stilled, the light in their eyes dimming.

They had known peace for only a few short days. Three days since the raven from King’s Landing had arrived. Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, had learned of Aemon’s presence on Dragonstone. The letter had been addressed to Viserys, inquiring if the rumors were true and, if so, requesting that both Aemon and Jaime present themselves in the capital.

Viserys had burned it without reply.

But silence, it seemed, had not been enough.

“They’ve sent someone in person,” Laena murmured.

Rhaella stepped forward. “You can hide, if you want,” she said softly, her voice laced with maternal steel. “We’ll say you were never here.”

Aemon gave her a sad smile. “It’s kind of you, grandmother… but I doubt it would work. Nyraxes isn’t exactly subtle.”

“No,” Viserys said. “But that doesn’t mean you have to face them. I can speak with whoever they’ve sent. Tell them you’re indisposed. Or better, make it clear they’d be unwise to provoke a man who commands a dragon.”

Aemon’s gaze turned to his uncle, grateful, but resolute.

“I appreciate the gesture, truly. But the longer we delay, the more persistent they’ll become. The court’s curiosity will turn to suspicion and suspicion becomes fear, quickly. I’d rather not give them time to spin a thousand stories in my absence.”

He straightened slightly, brushing windblown strands of hair from his face. “I’d rather finish this game before it begins in earnest.”

They made their way down to the docks. No one spoke much along the path.

Above them, high atop a jagged outcropping of black stone, Nyraxes landed with a gust of wind that sent seabirds scattering into the sky. Her wings beat once, twice, then folded neatly against her sides as she perched like some ancient sentinel. Jaime swore she did it deliberately, as if sensing Aemon’s unease and choosing her vantage point for maximum effect.

Dramatic, as always.

He cast a sidelong glance at his prince. Sometimes Jaime wondered how deep the bond truly ran between dragon and rider. Nyraxes didn’t simply follow Aemon, she anticipated him, reflected him. At times, she even seemed to mirror him. One would think she was a projection of his will, if not something stranger altogether.

It made quite the sight.

The ship became visible soon after, a lean, well-armed vessel flying the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. As it pulled into dock, Jaime heard the rising murmur of voices from within, hushed and awed. He didn’t need to strain to guess the subject of their wonder. It never got old: watching people lay eyes on Nyraxes for the first time.

She had that effect.

A gangplank was lowered with a thud, and moments later, two figures emerged from the shadowed interior of the ship. Jaime recognized both at once.

“Your Graces,” said Jon Arryn, bowing stiffly. His eyes, however, never left the looming form of Nyraxes on the cliff above. He looked as though he were still debating whether she was real.

“My Lord Hand,” Viserys replied, the frost in his tone unmistakable. “I would have expected my brother to send someone else to chase down ghost stories. Isn’t the capital in need of its steward?”

Arryn met the rebuke with practiced diplomacy. “His Grace wished the matter confirmed with certainty. He trusts my judgment and my eyes. So he sent me.”

Then his gaze shifted to Aemon. “So the rumors were true,” he said. There was a small smile. “It’s good to see you again, my prince.”

Aemon gave a slight nod. “And you as well, my Lord. The years have treated you with kindness.”

“Thank you, your Grace,” Arryn said, his expression unreadable. But Jaime had known the man long enough to see the calculations behind his eyes. The dragon. The sword at Aemon’s side. The direwolf sitting like a shadow at his feet. There would be much to report.

Behind the Lord Hand, the second man stepped forward and Jaime turned to face him fully.

“Ser Jaime,”

“Ser Whent,” Jaime returned, his voice softer now.

Oswell removed his helm. His face had aged since Jaime last saw him, the years etched into the corners of his eyes and the silver beginning to creep through his dark hair.

“It’s good to see you again,” Whent said, with more warmth than Jaime expected. “There were those of us who thought you both dead.”

Jaime let out a slow breath. “Not for lack of trying.” The older knight gave a quiet chuckle.

“So, my Lord Hand,” Rhaella said coolly. “You have your confirmation. My grandson is here, in the flesh and so is his dragon. I believe that should be sufficient. Perhaps it is time you returned to the capital.”

Jon Arryn gave a respectful nod but did not retreat. “I’m afraid those weren’t the only instructions His Grace provided,” he said evenly. “He told me to deliver a message, should the rumors prove true, Prince Aemon and Ser Jaime are to accompany us back to King’s Landing. Without delay.”

Before Rhaella could reply, Aemon spoke.

“And if I refuse?” he asked softly.

Almost as if summoned by the words, Nyraxes stirred atop the cliff. Her massive form shifted forward, scales gleaming like oil in the sun. Her claws scraped across the rock with slow, deliberate menace. She did not growl, did not roar, she simply moved, and that was enough.

Arryn’s composure faltered for a heartbeat. He glanced up warily, as any man would when a dragon watched him.

“His Grace expects you to come,” the Lord Hand said, his voice quieter now. “And he hopes, my prince, that you would not deny your father the chance to see you. It has been four long years. Surely you understand the significance of your return. He…”

Jaime saw it then, the subtle turn in tone, the deliberate wording. Guilt cloaked in formality. A plea wearing the mask of command.

He glanced at Aemon, whose face remained unreadable. The prince’s expression had settled into that familiar stillness Jaime knew well: not disinterest, but calculation.

“My Lord Hand, I have a question for you,” Aemon said, his voice cutting through the words that Arryn was speaking. All eyes turned toward him. Jon Arryn halted mid-sentence.

“Tell me, my lord,” Aemon continued, tone cool and deliberate, “are all members of my family who are not presently on Dragonstone still within the bounds of King’s Landing?”

Arryn frowned, weighing the intent behind the question. “Well… no, Your Grace,” he finally said.

Aemon gave a nod of mock satisfaction. “As I thought.” He glanced around the council chamber before continuing. “I am aware, of course, that my mother and my youngest brother are presently in Winterfell, enjoying the snowdrifts and Stark hospitality. That much was not hard to guess. And I understand my mother Elia has been frequently traveling between the capital and Dorne throughout the past year, so I imagine there’s a fair chance she is presently in Sunspear.”

He turned his gaze back on Arryn. “Which leaves my siblings and my aunt. Perhaps you might enlighten me on their whereabouts?”

Arryn shifted uncomfortably before answering. “You are correct, my prince. Queen Elia is in Sunspear, and with her are Princess Rhaenys and Princess Daenerys.”

Aemon’s brow arched slowly. “Is that so?” he said, voice as soft as falling ash. “And pray tell, my Lord, what business does my beloved aunt have in Dorne?”

The old man hesitated. Jaime could almost hear the wheels grinding behind his eyes.

“My prince,” he began delicately, “after your... departure from Dorne, Prince Doran took it as something of an affront to himself and Princess Arianne. To mend the breach between House Targaryen and House Martell, His Grace arranged a new alliance, Princess Daenerys is now betrothed to Prince Quentyn Martell.”

Aemon tilted his head slightly, absorbing the news without reaction. “And when, precisely, is that wedding meant to take place?”

“In three moons’ time, Your Grace,” Arryn said. “Nearly back-to-back with Prince Aegon’s wedding.”

“I had heard as much.” Aemon’s gaze wandered for a moment before returning, colder. “And with such an event approaching so quickly, what is one of my brother’s future queens doing still in Dorne?”

Before Arryn could respond, Ser Oswell Kettleblack, who stood by the door in place of a proper Kingsguard, stepped forward. “Queen Elia requested leave to bring the princess with her,” he said with a respectful bow. “She wished the Princess to enjoy a final stretch of peace before her marriage. Dorne, after all, is not far from the capital, and the King permitted it.”

For the first time, Jaime noticed the subtle tension in Aemon’s shoulders, nothing overt, just the faint tightening of muscle beneath fine black and red velvet.

“I see,” Aemon said slowly. “So my mother Elia was granted leave to bring Rhaenys with her, and yet my birth mother was denied permission to bring Visenya north to Winterfell?”

“Aye, Your Grace,” said Jon. “The King has been firm on that point. Princess Visenya is to remain in the capital until her education is complete. She is to be a queen one day, and her studies cannot be neglected, not now, not so close to the ceremony.”

Aemon’s voice dropped a degree in temperature. “And Rhaenys? Is her education already complete, then?”

“She completed her formal lessons two years ago,” Arryn said briskly. “And besides, Winterfell is far from the capital. If something were to happen during the journey…”

“The road to Dorne is no shorter,” Aemon said, almost absently. “And arguably more dangerous. The Red Mountains are not known for their hospitality.”

No one answered.

“Then tell me this,” Aemon said, voice smooth as glass yet edged with quiet steel. “Is my father keeping Visenya close merely for the sake of her education, or is there something else?”

The question caught Jon Arryn off guard. The Lord Hand blinked, clearly taken aback. “Of course for her education, Your Grace,” he said, carefully measured. “What other reason could His Grace have to keep the princess so near?”

Aemon didn’t respond immediately. He tilted his head, studying the old man as if weighing the truth behind his words. “Does my father often spend time alone with her?” he asked softly. “After council meetings, perhaps?”

Arryn hesitated, then gave a cautious nod. “He does.”

“And in all that time, has he ever spoken to you of the dreams she has?” Aemon’s tone darkened just slightly. “Surely you know he places great importance on dreams. Prophetic ones, in particular.”

At that, Jaime saw Oswell shift uneasily, as if Aemon had touched a raw nerve.

“No,” Arryn said quickly, perhaps too quickly. “The King has never mentioned any such dreams to me, my prince.”

“I see.”

“I apologize, Your Grace,” Oswell said, his voice uncertain now. “But… why these questions?”

Aemon turned his gaze on the knight, expression unreadable. “Am I not allowed to inquire about the well-being of my family, good Ser?” he asked, voice soft as silk but no less dangerous.

“Of course, my prince,” Oswell said, bowing his head. “It’s just… you could pose these questions directly to His Grace. Surely he would offer you better answers than any of us could.”

Lord Arryn, ever the diplomat, tried to smooth things over. “Indeed, Your Grace. The King would be glad to speak with you himself. He waits eagerly for your return.”

Aemon inclined his head, a half-smile touching his lips, though it held no warmth. “Then I shall be sure to ask him, the next time we meet.”

“My prince?”

“You’ve done your duty, Lord Arryn. You’ve seen me with your own eyes. Ser Jaime is here, and the rumors of Nyraxes were no exaggeration,” Aemon said, gesturing toward the hill where the dragon loomed. “Now, I believe it is time for you to return to the capital.”

Arryn straightened. “With respect, Your Grace, the King commanded that we bring you and Ser Jaime back with us. It was not a request, it was an order.”

“And what if I refuse?” Aemon asked, calm and unmoved.

There was no reply. But Jaime caught the flicker of Arryn’s gaze shifting, almost involuntarily, toward the hill.

Toward Nyraxes.

Aemon followed it. “You would use force?” he asked, a whisper of amusement curling around the words. “You’d compel me, on Dragonstone of all places? In the shadow of my ancestors? With her watching?”

Still, no answer came. Only silence, and the sea wind.

“I thought not,” Aemon said, turning away.

As if summoned by instinct, Nyraxes shifted from her perch atop the high ridge. The great she-dragon unfurled her wings with a groaning stretch, then launched into the air. She soared briefly before landing heavily not too far from where they were.

The delegation flinched.

Aemon didn’t look back. “Tell my father,” he said, his voice echoing slightly over the wind, “that I will return to the capital when all of my family is there. Or, if he so desires my company sooner… he is welcome to come visit me himself.”

Arryn stepped forward. “My prince, these are orders from your king. Your father.”

Aemon stopped and turned his head just slightly, the wind catching the edge of his cloak. “And I refuse to follow them,” he said simply. “What will you do about it, Lord Arryn?”

He let the question hang.

As if to punctuate the defiance, Nyraxes rumbled deep in her chest. Smoke curled from her nostrils. Her claws dug into the stone. The message was clear.

Aemon offered a final glance over his shoulder. “I thank you for the conversation, my Lord,” he said. “But I believe it is time you took your leave.”

As Aemon turned and walked away, his cloak trailing behind him like a dark tongue of flame, Arryn seized the moment and turned toward Jaime, desperation creasing his weathered face. “Ser Jaime,” he said, voice low but urgent, “I beg you, speak to the prince. Make him understand that he must come with us. This defiance... it cannot stand.”

Jaime resisted the urge to smile. It was rare to see the Lord Hand so shaken.

“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do, my Lord,” he said. “When the Prince sets his mind on something, you’ll find all the winds of Westeros blowing against him won’t make him budge.”

“But you’ve always been close to him,” Arryn pressed. “More a friend than a guardian. He trusts you. He’ll listen.”

Jaime’s gaze drifted toward Aemon’s retreating figure. “Aye,” he said, almost softly. “He trusts me. And that’s exactly why I don’t tell him what to do.”

He turned without waiting for a reply, the conversation already finished in his mind. Behind him, he heard Arryn turn toward Rhaella, hoping for more fertile ground.

“You must understand, Your Grace,” Arryn implored. “This cannot be allowed…”

But the Queen Dowager silenced him with a single lifted hand, her voice clear and unwavering. “My grandson has already spoken, Lord Arryn. You have your answer.”

And with that, she walked away. Viserys and Laena followed in her wake, neither sparing the Lord Hand a second glance.

By the time Jaime caught up with Aemon, the prince was standing beside Nyraxes, one hand resting against her massive muzzle. The she-dragon stood still as stone, golden eyes fixed on the sea, yet there was a coiled tension in her body.

Aemon’s gaze, though, was fixed on the docks, where the ship that had borne Arryn and Oswell was slowly drifting away from Dragonstone’s pier.

The others soon joined them, the wind catching Laena’s veil and flaring her cloak like a banner. None spoke for a long while. Then, softly, Rhaella asked, “What dreams were you speaking of, Aemon?”

Her voice was gentler than Jaime expected. Not accusatory, just tired. As if some part of her already knew what the answer would be.

“I knew your father had them, when he was young. But Visenya?” She shook her head. “She’s still a child.”

“Aye,” Aemon said, never looking away from the sea. “She is. But she dreams all the same.”

Rhaella drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

“How would you know that?” Viserys asked, frowning. “Did she tell you before you left?”

“No, but I know,” Aemon replied, stroking Nyraxes’s scales with slow, familiar ease. “There are certain blood unions that strengthen the gift, awaken old things that have long slept.”

“Magic?” Viserys scoffed.

Aemon gave him a look, not unkind but heavy with the weight of something unsaid. “Call it what you like. The blood of the dragon runs strong in her and the blood of the wolf as well. That combination has power. More than most would dare to believe.”

Viserys opened his mouth to speak but found no words.

Rhaella, pale now, stepped closer. “You’re saying she has the sight?”

“I’m saying she sees more than she should,” Aemon answered. “More than she can understand.”

“And how can you be so certain?” Laena asked, her voice low.

Aemon finally turned his head to look at them, and for the first time there was no mask of irony or distance on his face. Only a calm, haunted clarity. “Because I have them too,” he said.

Gasps rippled through the group like a sudden gust of wind, but Jaime didn’t so much as flinch. He had always known.

He remembered the long nights in Lys, the fevered mutterings, the way Aemon would wake in cold sweat and stare at the sea as though trying to see through time itself. He had known even before Valyria, though their journey into that cursed land had burned the knowledge into his bones. Whatever Aemon saw in his dreams, it was never just a dream.

Rhaella stepped closer to her grandson. Her expression was soft, but her voice carried iron beneath the silk.

“Aemon,” she said, “just because you dream does not mean that Visenya does. The blood of the dragon and the wolf may be strong, but it does not guarantee the gift. It never has.”

“Doesn’t it?” Aemon murmured, not looking at her. His gaze remained fixed on the horizon.

“There have been unions before, between the blood of the First Men and the blood of Old Valyria. And every time, every time, the gift appeared.”

Rhaella frowned. “You speak of legends.”

“No,” Aemon said, finally turning toward her. “I speak the truth. History.”

He took a step forward, shadows shifting across his face as Nyraxes’s massive bulk shifted behind him.

“Brynden Rivers was born of Blackwood and Targaryen blood. He had the sight.” Aemon’s eyes gleamed now with something between defiance and conviction. “And your own grandmother was a Blackwood, was she not?”

Rhaella’s brow furrowed, but she gave a slow nod.

“And your father, he dreamed, didn’t he?” Her silence was answer enough. “It’s not a chance,” Aemon said. “It’s blood. And blood remembers.”

The wind caught his hair as he turned slightly, eyes drifting toward the sky.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if Daeron has started seeing things too.”

Rhaella’s breath caught at the mention of her youngest grandson. “And what if Visenya dreams?” she asked, recovering. “What then? Many in our line have had such visions, some harmless, others less so.”

“But Father,” Aemon said, his voice sharpening, “is obsessed with prophecy. He may no longer speak of it openly, but that fire never went out. He still clings to that old dream, the one he had before I was born.”

Rhaella’s face hardened, but she said nothing.

“He hasn’t had a true vision in years,” Aemon continued, “not since the night I was born, maybe not since the Trident. But the dream never died in him. He believes that dream can be fulfilled through his children, through our bloodlines. That’s why he wants to wed Aegon, Rhaenys, and Visenya. Not for love. Not for politics.”

“For prophecy,” Jaime said quietly, stepping beside Aemon.

Aemon nodded. “Always prophecy.”

A silence fell over the group like ash after fire.

Aemon’s voice was soft when he next spoke, but it carried with the wind. “And now he knows that Visenya has the sight. That she sees things. He keeps her close not for protection… but to watch her. To see if she sees what he once saw.”

Chapter Text

The Silver Princess

Visenya leaned back in the cushioned chair. One hand cradled a delicate porcelain cup of honeyed tea, the other turned the page with practiced ease.

Outside, the sun had long since climbed to its zenith, spilling golden light through the windows of the library and casting intricate shadows across the stone floor. Dust motes danced lazily in the air, turning with the same rhythm as her thoughts.

She had claimed the alcove beneath the stained-glass window as her own years ago, just far enough from the door that no one would bother her, but close enough that she could still hear the bells toll across the city when the hour changed.

The book in her lap was a compendium of the Great Houses and their lineages. She wasn't quite sure why she had picked it. Perhaps because she wanted to understand the families her father had spoken of behind closed doors. Or perhaps she simply wanted to find the pieces of herself scattered across generations.

She sipped her tea and allowed herself a faint smile. Her siblings liked to joke that she was the quietest Targaryen in three centuries, more bookworm than dragon. “Father named you wrong,” Aegon often teased. “You and Rhaenys should've switched names.” He would say fondly.

But Visenya didn’t mind the jest. Let history remember her as her own woman, not as a pale echo of the conqueror whose name she bore.

Still, the page before her brought no comfort. Her eyes scanned a brief entry on House Lannister and their long history of quiet ambition, but the words refused to settle. Her thoughts drifted.

She should have been in the small council chamber. Father had made her his cupbearer a year past, and though the title was ceremonial, the education it provided was anything but. She listened to every debate, every squabble over coin and crows. She watched her father’s silences just as closely as his words.

But this past week, something had changed.

She and Aegon had both been quietly told not to attend the meetings. No explanation, no reassurance. Just a brief, cool directive from their father.

Visenya had tried to dismiss it at first, but unease had begun to coil around her. Rhaegar rarely hid anything from her. He had always spoken to her more freely than he did to any of her siblings. After all, it was her dreams that he believed held the key to the realm’s future.

And yet now she was shut out.

Visenya tried to banish the unease that had settled in her chest, but the thoughts crept back anyway. She told herself there was a simple explanation, perhaps her father had barred her and Aegon from the council chambers because the Lords were finalizing plans for their wedding. That seemed reasonable enough.

She had no real appetite for feasts or flower arrangements, and her muña Elia, had long despaired over her disinterest in such things. “A lady must learn the art of presentation,” Elia would often say. But it had always been Rhaenys who  enjoyed planning feasts.

Let Rhaenys plan the songs and silks and scents. Let the bards write about the fire of her laughter and the glory of her gown. Visenya didn’t want to be remembered for the wedding.

She wanted to be remembered for what came after.

Still, the excuse didn't sit well. The worry ate at her. Something else was happening. She could feel it. The way the Red Keep had shifted in the last week. Servants whispered more often. Ravens flew more frequently. And always, her father’s silences grew longer and heavier.

Perhaps it had to do with the rumors coming from Dragonstone.

A dragon, they said. Seen circling the skies above the ancient castle. Some dismissed it as a sailor’s tale. Others swore by it, claiming to have heard the creature’s cry from the cliffs. Visenya didn’t know what to believe. But her father had sent Jon Arryn to investigate, and that alone meant the matter was serious.

Yet that made even less sense. Her father had always told her that the dragons would return through their blood. That she, Aegon, and Rhaenys were the flame rekindled, the Conquerors come again.

She had seen dragons in her dreams. Hatchlings, mostly, but always there was one, the same dragon, again and again.

She was large. Silver-white, her scales like moonlight on snow. And her eyes, deep, ocean-dark, and ancient. That dragon came to her in the coldest dreams, when the sky was black and the wind howled like wolves. In those visions, the stars themselves seemed to tremble as she descended from the clouds, raining fire upon a frozen world.

Visenya did not know her name. But she had felt her.

That was what made her uneasy. Because if a dragon had truly been seen at Dragonstone then something had changed.

The thought stung more than she wanted to admit.

She looked out the tall window across the courtyard, toward the Tower of the Hand. Jon Arryn had returned that very morning. His ship had docked with little fanfare, but the guards had doubled along the walls since. Visenya had seen the cloaked riders from her balcony.

Now, the Lord Hand was behind closed doors with the small council. Behind thick stone walls, truths were being spoken. Truths that she, for the first time in a long while, was not trusted to hear.

Visenya let out a soft sigh and leaned further back in her chair, the velvet cushion exhaling faintly beneath her weight.

Whatever it is, father will tell me, she thought.

He always had before. Rhaegar kept many secrets, but rarely from her. She took another sip from her tea, now lukewarm, and let her gaze drift lazily toward the window once more.

The capital basked in sunlight beyond the glass, its rooftops catching the afternoon light like burnished copper. From this height, King’s Landing almost looked beautiful. It was easy to forget the city’s stench when you sat this high above it.

That smell, gods, that smell, was the one thing Visenya hated most about the capital. A sour mixture of dung, fish, and smoke that clung to the alleys and gutters like rot. No one had ever explained why it was so vile, only that it had been that way for generations.

She remembered Egg once storming into the solar after a tour of the lower city, ranting about the state of the sewers. He had begged their father to do something, anything, about the filth. She wasn’t sure what had come of it.

That was part of why she’d stopped venturing beyond the walls of the Red Keep. No matter how richly perfumed the carriage, the stink always found a way inside. Poor Myrcella had nearly gagged on her first visit, wide-eyed with horror. “Has something happened?” she had asked, blinking. “Surely the capital of the realm shouldn’t smell like this.” Visenya had no answer. It was just the way of things, apparently.

She was still pondering whether the city had a functioning sewer system or if the rats had staged a quiet rebellion, when the library door creaked open.

“Princess? Are you here?” called a familiar voice.

She blinked and looked up. “I’m here,” she answered, rising from her seat and setting her book aside. “Is something the matter?”

Ser Jonothor stood just beyond the threshold. She always found it amusing how he looked down at her, quite literally. Visenya was short, the shortest in the family by far. Even Daenerys, who was hardly statuesque herself, had an inch or two on her. She sometimes suspected the gods had poured all the fire and fury of House Targaryen into her dreams and forgotten to leave enough for her bones.

“Your father has asked for you,” Ser Jonothor said, his voice low and even.

Visenya’s brows lifted. “The council meeting has already ended?”

“It has, your Grace.” He stepped aside and held the door for her, the soft creak of his armor echoing against the stone walls.

She smoothed her gown and walked past him, her thoughts already racing. The faint scent of old parchment and candlewax trailed her as she left the library behind.

They moved through the stone corridors in silence. The Red Keep was quieter than usual, though the hour was early.

Servants passed them on silent feet, some carrying ledgers or baskets of linens, others simply sweeping past with murmured bows.

A few minor lords crossed their path, one offered a stiff "Your Grace" before hastening on his way, while another barely spared her a glance. Visenya had long grown used to that. She was not Rhaenys, with her bright smile and effortless charm, nor Aegon, who filled a hallway simply by walking through it. Their father had always kept Visenya close, as though shielding her from the world or perhaps shielding the world from her.

After a time, she broke the silence. “Ser Jonothor,” she asked, her voice low, “do you by chance know what tidings Lord Arryn brought with him from Dragonstone?”

“I do not, Princess,” he replied without looking back. “Only Ser Arthur and Ser Gerold were summoned to the meeting from among the Kingsguard.”

Visenya gave a small nod, though she doubted he saw it. That alone told her much, her father had wanted the number of ears in the chamber kept tightly limited.

They rounded a final corner, and before them stood the familiar carved oak door of her father’s solar, set into a frame of polished black stone.

Ser Arthur stood at his post like a statue of living silver, Dawn strapped across his back. His armor gleamed even in the dim corridor light, and his violet eyes warmed at the sight of her.

“Your Grace,” he greeted with a soft smile, bowing his head. “His Grace is expecting you.”

He reached for the door and opened. Ser Jonothor did not follow her in, and she did not expect him to.

The heavy door shut behind her with a faint click.

Her father was there, seated at the long table beneath the arched window, a piece of parchment held lightly in one hand. His robes today were simpler than usual and yet he still looked every inch a king.

Visenya could read him at a glance. He wore the same face he always did when confronted with something that displeased him but which he did not yet wish others to know had shaken him.

The moment their eyes met, a small smile touched Rhaegar's lips. “Senya,” he said, the fondness in his voice unmistakable. He patted the chair beside him. “Come, sit. We have a few things to discuss.”

Visenya returned his smile. She crossed the chamber without hesitation, her footsteps soft against the stone floor.

“How have you been, sweetling?” he asked as she took the seat beside him. His voice was gentle now, touched by guilt. “I know we haven’t spoken as much as we usually do this past week. I regret that.”

“It’s no matter, father,” she said quickly, smoothing her skirts. “I know you’ve been busy.”

He studied her for a moment, violet eyes searching her face. His smile remained, but it thinned at the edges.

“I know you have questions, Visenya,” he said quietly, setting the parchment down with deliberate care. “And you deserve answers. I will tell you something now, and when you leave, I will tell Aegon the same. But first I must ask you something.”

She straightened, a ripple of unease prickling at the base of her spine. “Of course, Father.”

Rhaegar reached out and briefly touched her hand, then drew back. His tone changed, no longer soft, but careful.

“Senya… be honest with me. Have you had any dreams this past week that you haven’t shared with me? Anything strange or troubling that you might have dismissed?”

The question startled her. His eyes were serious now, sharp in a way they rarely were when looking at her.

“No,” she said slowly, shaking her head. “Nothing new. The last dream I had was nine nights ago, the one I told you about. With the silver dragon and the black sky. I haven’t dreamt since.” She paused, then added, “You told me I must always speak of my dreams. I have. I would never hide them from you.”

Rhaegar nodded, though his expression remained unreadable. He leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin, as if weighing something heavy.

Visenya looked at her father for a long moment before she spoke. “Has something happened?”

Rhaegar’s gaze lingered on her, and for a heartbeat, he didn’t answer. Then a soft sigh escaped his lips. “I imagine you’ve already heard the rumors,” he said. “About Dragonstone.”

A chill laced its way down her spine. Something in his tone made the air feel thinner.

“I have,” she replied, carefully. But then her composure cracked, the excitement swelling too suddenly to be contained. “Is it true, Father? Is there truly a dragon, a living dragon, on Dragonstone?”

For a moment, Rhaegar didn’t speak. He only looked at her, as if weighing her heart in his hands. Then, at last, he gave a slow nod. “Yes,” he said. “There is.”

Visenya’s breath caught in her throat. She could feel her pulse in her fingertips, a rising thrill coursing through her like wildfire. A dragon. A living, breathing dragon, not just a dream or a whisper in some ancient tome. For years, her father had spoken of their return. For years, she had seen them in her sleep, and now…

Before she could speak again, Rhaegar raised a hand. “I know the thought fills you with wonder, Senya,” he said gently. “But there is more to the tale. The dragon… did not come alone.”

Her smile faltered. “What do you mean?”

“That dragon has a rider,” her father said, and his voice lowered, as though speaking the name aloud would stir something sleeping in the stone walls around them. “Aemon.”

The world stopped.

Her breath caught. Her heart slammed once against her ribs, then stilled.

Aemon.

She felt the word echo through her like a bell rung in some deep, forgotten chamber. Aemon, who had vanished four years ago without a word. Aemon, who had braided her hair when she was little, who had taught her to read High Valyrian, who had vanished and left a wound across their family that had never truly healed.

Her lips parted. She wanted to speak, but no words came.

He was alive.

And he had come back with a dragon.

Visenya felt the flood of joy break over her like sunlight through clouds. The memories came rushing back, how the Red Keep had darkened after he left, how their father had scoured every port from Lys to Braavos in search of news, how muña Elia had cried in her solar with the doors locked and Rhaenys had stared out the window as if waiting to see him return.

And now he had. He came back.

“I…” she began, but tears threatened to blur her voice. She blinked them away. “I’m so glad. I’m so glad he’s alive.”

But then, why did her father still look so grave?
“Father,” she asked after a pause, her voice quieter now. “Aren’t you happy?”

It was a foolish question. Of course he was. What parent wouldn’t be overjoyed to know their lost child lived? And yet, the lines on Rhaegar’s face had not eased. His shoulders remained tense beneath his black and crimson tunic. His hands were still.

He gave her a soft, almost fragile smile. “I am, Senya,” he said. “More than I can put into words. When I first heard even a whisper that it might be him, I sent ravens. I sent riders. I sent Lord Arryn himself. I needed to know.”

She leaned forward, hopeful now. “Then… is he here? Did he come back with Lord Arryn?”

Rhaegar’s smile faded, and a shadow passed behind his eyes.

He shook his head. “No,” he said, and there was sorrow in his voice. “He did not.”

The silence returned, heavier now. Thicker.

Visenya’s heart sank. The golden moment collapsed inward like glass under pressure.
“Why?” she asked, barely above a whisper. “Why wouldn’t he come back?”

Her father didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached once more for the parchment on the table and looked at it. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. And tired.

“Because your brother… is not the boy who left us, Visenya.”

She didn’t quite understand what her father meant. How could Aemon be so different? He had only been gone four years. Surely he hadn’t changed so much.

But before she could voice her confusion, Rhaegar spoke again, and there was a quiet gravity in his voice that made her sit up straighter. “I know you have many questions, Senya,” he said. “To some I have answers. To others… I do not. But before anything else, I must ask you something important.”

There was something about the way he said it that made her stomach twist with unease. She nodded slowly.

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Did you ever tell Aemon about the dreams you were having?”

Visenya blinked. The question took her by surprise. “No,” she said at once. “Of course not.”

Her father studied her with a strange intensity, as though trying to read something beyond her words, beyond her face. It was a look she wasn’t used to, one usually reserved for lords who lied in council, not for his daughter. The doubt in his eyes stung.

“I’ve never lied to you,” she said, her voice quiet.

“I know,” Rhaegar said, and his voice was full of weariness. “Forgive me. It’s not you I doubt, it’s the world, and what it has done to your brother.”

She hesitated, then asked softly, “Why are you asking this?”

Her father sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping. He looked down at the parchment again, but did not touch it.

“Because Aemon knows, Senya,” he said. “Somehow, he knows you dream.”

“What?” she whispered.

“When Lord Arryn returned,” Rhaegar said, “he told me that your brother asked him whether I had ever spoken of your dreams. He knew, Senya.”

She sat in stunned silence. That shouldn’t be possible. Aemon had left before her first dream. Before she’d seen the silver dragon in the black sky. She had told no one but he father. And yet… Aemon knew.

Her thoughts spun. Could it be their blood? The old songs said that the union of the First Men and the Valyrians strengthened the gift, woke it like fire touching wildfire.

If she had the gift, could Aemon have it too?

Could little Daeron?

Her father was watching her again, and she saw that familiar flicker in his eyes, the one he always wore when he guessed her thoughts before she spoke them.

“There is more,” he said. “Aemon told Lord Arryn that he would not return to the capital unless our entire family was present. Or…” He trailed off for a moment before continuing. “Or if I came to him. To Dragonstone. Alone.”

Visenya’s brow furrowed. “And… you’re going, aren’t you?” she asked, her voice tinged with hope. “Surely, you’ll go to him.”

She could not imagine anything else. Her father loved Aemon more than anything.

But Rhaegar did not smile. He did not nod. “I… I can’t, Visenya,” he said, and his voice was so quiet, she almost didn’t hear it. “Not yet.”

Her heart fell. “Why not?”

He looked away, and for a moment, he looked not like a king, but a man unraveling.

“Because your brother and I…” He drew in a long breath. “We did not part on good terms. I gave him reasons to leave. And though his words were polite, though he says he would welcome me… I do not believe he wants to see me yet.”

Visenya stared at him. “But… Aemon never disobeyed you. He was always the dutiful one.”

A shadow passed over Rhaegar’s face.

“Was he?” he murmured.

The silence stretched.

Visenya tried to piece it together. The memories came back in fragments. The suddenness of Aemon’s betrothal to Arianne. The hurried preparations, the quiet dinners where no one looked each other in the eye. The way both her muñas had seemed angry afterward. Not at Aemon. At Father.

She hadn’t thought much of it at the time. But now… maybe something had broken then. Something no one had spoken of.

“Senya,” her father said softly after a long moment, his voice pulling her gently from the silence that had settled between them. “You once told me that you often saw dragons in your dreams.”

She nodded. “Yes, Father. Almost always.”

He held her gaze. “You said that most of them were hatchlings but there was always one. One that was larger. Full-grown.”

Visenya shifted slightly in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. “Yes. That one appears more than the others. I see it in nearly every dream.”

Rhaegar leaned forward, his expression unreadable now. “Describe that dragon to me.”

Visenya closed her eyes for a moment, drawing the image into her mind. “It’s a she-dragon,” she began. “Enormous, but graceful. Her scales are silver, almost white in the right light. She shines like moonlight on fresh snow. And her eyes…” She hesitated, trying to capture their strange depth. “Her eyes are blue, so deep they almost look black, like the ocean at night. She’s not as large as Balerion, I think, but bigger than most of the dragons our family ever had. Bigger than Caraxes. Maybe as large as Vermithor.”

Rhaegar didn’t speak right away, but she saw something shift in his expression, something grim, something inevitable.

“Just as I thought,” he murmured at last, more to himself than to her.

Visenya blinked. “What do you mean?”

Her father exhaled and sat back in his chair, one hand resting on the parchment beside him. “Jon Arryn described Aemon’s dragon in his report. He saw it with his own eyes at Dragonstone. Silver and white. Eyes like the void. By his telling, it is no hatchling. It is full-grown.”

She stared at him, stunned. Her mind reeled.

That dragon, her dragon, was real.

Not just a vision, not some symbol conjured in her dreaming mind. She had seen Aemon’s dragon in her sleep. Again and again.

“But… why?” she asked, the words escaping her in a whisper. “Why would I dream of his dragon? You always said it would be Aegon who brought them back. Me, Egg, and Rhae. That it was our fate.”

Rhaegar’s face was unreadable, but she saw the weariness return to his eyes. “I believed that,” he said softly. “I still do. For years, my dreams pointed toward Aegon. I saw a prince surrounded by light, a burning sword in hand, dragons rising behind him like fire made flesh. And when you began dreaming of dragons too, when your visions confirmed what I’d seen, I thought it was fate drawing us forward, finally aligning.”

He paused, his fingers tracing the edge of the parchment as though it might give him strength.

“But Aemon has a dragon,” he said. “And not a fledgling one. Not one born yesterday or a year ago. A full-grown she-dragon, unlike any seen since the Dance.” He looked at her then, troubled and uncertain. “I don’t know how he found her. I don’t know where. But he did.”

Visenya hesitated, then said, “That’s still good, though, isn’t it? Even if it wasn’t us, it’s still him. He’s our family.”

Her father gave her a faint smile, touched by sorrow. “Yes,” he said. “It is good. It means the blood still burns. The legacy still lives. But…” He trailed off, then sighed. “It unsettles me, Senya. I do not doubt your dreams. I do not doubt that Aegon is meant for greatness.”

“You told me yourself,” Visenya said gently, “that even those gifted with sight often err in the interpretation, not the vision itself.”

He nodded slowly. “I did say that. And I believe it. Perhaps I simply misunderstood the part Aemon was meant to play.”

Visenya was quiet for a moment, her thoughts turning, then she tilted her head slightly and asked, “Father… is it possible that Aemon’s dragon might lay eggs?”

Rhaegar blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Eggs?” he repeated, and for the first time since she entered the solar, his surprise was genuine.

She gave a small nod. “I remember reading that the Maesters still debate whether all she-dragons lay eggs and whether male dragons are even needed to fertilize them.”

Her father regarded her, curious now, one eyebrow slightly raised. “Yes, the matter was fiercely debated, especially after the death of the last dragons in King Aegon the Third’s reign. The Maesters claimed that if a dragon failed to lay eggs throughout its life, it must have been male, though they admitted the evidence was thin. As for whether dragons must couple to reproduce… that remains a mystery. No one has studied it deeply. Dragons do not lend themselves well to scholarly inquiry.”

A small smile curved Rhaegar’s lips then, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Why, does my little Senya wish to claim a dragon of her own?”

Visenya giggled. “Who wouldn’t?” she said with a grin. “But that’s not why I asked.”

She leaned forward slightly, her voice growing thoughtful. “Aemon has a dragon now. And not a young one, either. If she’s truly a she-dragon… what if she lays eggs? And what if those eggs hatch?”

Her eyes brightened as she spoke, the excitement returning. “That would mean our dreams were right all along. Maybe Aemon is the key that unlocks the past but we are still the ones who bring about the dragons’ new age. He brought back the last of them… and we help bring the next.”

Rhaegar stared at her, and for a long moment, he said nothing. Then his expression softened, his violet eyes full of quiet wonder and pride.
“It could be,” he murmured. “It truly could be. A thread unspooling differently than we expected, but not breaking.”

He reached out and gently ruffled her hair, as he had when she was little. “My, my… look how clever you’ve become, my dear Senya. Seeing truths I didn’t even think to consider.”

He looked away then, toward the window, where the sky was darkening into hues of gold and rose. “Still,” he said quietly, “we must speak with Aemon. There is much we do not know and even more that must be mended before any future can be built.”

Visenya nodded, but her mind was already racing. If the dragon could lay eggs, and they did hatch…

“I’ve written to both Elia and Lyanna,” her father said, gently pulling her from her thoughts. His voice was quieter now, thoughtful. “I told them Aemon has returned, and that they should come back to the capital. But it will take time.”

Visenya gave a small nod, absorbing the words. It made sense, Dorne was closer, the roads more secure. Muña Elia would arrive first.

“Elia will likely be here within the fortnight,” Rhaegar continued. “But Lya… Winterfell is far, and the snows in the Neck may delay her.”

“Though,” he added with a flicker of amusement in his eyes, “knowing both of your mothers, I wouldn’t be surprised if they ignored my letter entirely and sailed straight to Dragonstone to see Aemon for themselves.”

Visenya laughed. “If it were up to me,” she grinned, “I’d be on the next ship too.”

Rhaegar smiled. For a moment, the lines on his face seemed to vanish, and the man he had once been, glimmered through the king’s mask.
“Well,” he said, standing from his chair, “I must speak with Aegon now. He deserves to hear all of this, just as you have.”

Visenya rose as well, brushing down the folds of her gown. “Of course.”

“Go,” Rhaegar said gently, reaching out to tuck a strand of silver-gold hair behind her ear. “Take some time to yourself. Let your thoughts settle. Tonight, we’ll share a quiet supper, you, me, and Egg.”

She leaned in and kissed his cheek. “I’ll see you at dinner, Father.”

As the door closed softly behind her and she stepped back into the golden corridor, Visenya felt her heart lift. The thought of Aemon alive, of both of her mother's and siblings returning, of their family together again, it lit something in her chest that had long grown dim.

The Quiet Prince

“Did you design this?” Viserys asked, astonished, as he held one of the many parchments scattered across the table.

When Aemon had first told him that the ships sailing to Dragonstone carried treasures salvaged from the corpse of Valyria, Viserys had been thrilled. But no words could have prepared him for the scale of what his nephew had unearthed or for the vision he now laid bare before them.

“I did,” Aemon said calmly from across the table, his voice low and steady as he took a sip from his goblet. “It took time, and more than one set of hands, but I thought it wise to have the design finalized before we began the work in earnest.”

Viserys nodded slowly, though his eyes remained fixed on the parchment. What he held was not just a sketch but a full architectural plan. The old Dragonpit of King’s Landing, long ruined by time and war, had once housed Balerion and Vhagar. And now Aemon sought not merely to rebuild it but to restore it to something greater.

“You hadn’t seen the Pit in years,” Laena said from beside Viserys. “And yet this is nearly identical to how it once stood. How?”

Aemon set his cup down. “Memory served as the groundwork,” he said. “But Valyria gave us most of the image.”

He leaned forward, spreading out several other parchments across the table. “The Freehold had structures similar to the Pit though much grander in their design. On our first journey, we passed near one such ruin, still intact, mostly, though blackened and cracked. I sketched what I could, then worked with a few Volantene architects and former scholars of the Dragonlords’ traditions. Together, we shaped this.”

Viserys swallowed. “And you plan to build it?”

Aemon gave a small nod. “If dragons are to return, then so too must the world learn how to house them again.”

Viserys exhaled and placed the parchment back on the table. The thought of dragons soaring once more above the Blackwater was one thing but the thought of Aemon walking the haunted roads of Valyria twice, collecting blueprints and relics from that graveyard of empires… It still chilled him.

“Surely it will take years to build something like this,” Laena said. She gently laid a hand atop the edge of the parchment. “And it would cost a fortune.”

“Yes, it would,” Viserys murmured, rubbing his chin in thought. Rhaegar had done well maintaining the royal coffers but with two great weddings on the horizon the Crown’s purse was already bracing for strain. A project of this scale might delay the construction for years, perhaps even a decade.

Aemon didn’t seem perturbed.

“It doesn’t need to be done quickly,” he said, lifting his goblet again. “Nyraxes and I can remain on Dragonstone while the work begins. If I’m able to hatch the eggs, they’ll take time to mature. Years before they pose any real danger.”

Viserys turned to his nephew, brow furrowed. “If you’re able? Aemon, I thought you knew how to hatch dragons.” His voice held a note of disbelief. His nephew had spoken of it with such certainty before.

“I know enough,” Aemon said, his tone quieter now, more measured. He did not look up from his cup. “I know why our ancestors failed, and I’ve learned from their errors. There is no single ritual, no secret incantation that guarantees success. It’s not a spell, uncle. It’s... a convergence.”

Laena shifted beside Viserys, her gaze narrowing. “Then what makes you believe you can succeed where others failed?”

Aemon looked up at her then. “Because I know more than they did. I’ve read scrolls bound in dragonhide and sealed with glass candles, found beneath temples long swallowed by smoke. I’ve studied the bones of beasts never named, and walked halls where Valyrian blood once boiled the stone itself.”

No one said anything for a long moment.

Before Viserys could even shape a reply in his mind, the chamber doors groaned.

Another group of sailors stepped through, four of them straining beneath the weight of a new ironbound chest. The room was already crowded with crates and coffers, some still sealed with wax, others thrown open to reveal the strange bounty Aemon had smuggled out of the ruins.

Scrolls bound in cracked leather, small statues of gods long dead, coins from cities no map remembered. One chest brimmed with golden torcs and ancient rings set with gemstones of a color Viserys could not name. Another held deformed Valyrian steel, twisted daggers, warped swords, and half-melted blades still faintly shimmering with an unnatural gleam.

Viserys had once thought Valyrian steel to be unyielding, impervious to time or flame. But Aemon’s spoils told a different story. Even sorcery had its limits, it seemed.

Still, Aemon had insisted on bringing every piece.

“I want to understand it,” he had said. “How they forged it. Why no one since has matched it.”

Viserys’s gaze slid again to the blade at his nephew’s hip.

Unlike the broken relics in the chests, Aemon’s sword was whole. The dark metal caught the firelight with a hungry sheen, its ripples finer and deeper than any Viserys had seen before. Not even Blackfyre or Dark Sister, whose likenesses he had studied in portraits and murals, had shimmered quite like this. Nor did Jaime’s Brightroar, which Viserys had handled himself only days ago.

The sailors lowered the chest with a grunt and, without waiting for acknowledgment, turned on their heels and departed. They moved quickly, Viserys thought, as if eager to put distance between themselves and what they had carried.

And then someone else entered.

Her.

“Still poring over the scrolls, my prince?” she asked, her voice lilting like a harp’s last note before silence.

The hairs on Viserys’s neck prickled.

Her presence seemed to warp the air around her, as if shadows leaned in to listen when she spoke. He had heard her name before, many times now, woven into Aemon’s stories of Volantis like a persistent refrain.

At first, Viserys had thought little of her. Another mystic, perhaps a priestess or a courtesan, someone who had intrigued his nephew in a foreign land. But as the tales continued he began to notice a pattern.

Nyra always appeared when it mattered most.

Now, here she was, no longer a name in a story, but flesh and blood in the room with him.

“Aye,” Aemon replied, glancing up from the scrolls with a faint smile. “Though I wouldn’t mind your help. Some of these older parchments are proving difficult.”

Nyra inclined her head in acknowledgment and moved to his side. She did not ask which scrolls needed her attention; she simply knew, her eyes already scanning the pile before her fingers reached out.

She was beautiful, too beautiful, Viserys thought not for the first time. And he was no fool.

Her silver-gold hair, her perfect figure. But it was her eyes that unsettled him most. Mismatched, yet not unnatural. They gave her the look of a painting only half-finished. Everything about her was symmetrical and serene, and yet somehow off.

When Viserys had first laid eyes on her he had thought he was dreaming. She looked like a living ghost of the old blood, a portrait come to life from a dusty Targaryen mural. Her bearing, her manner of speech, even the way she moved her hands as she read, all of it belonged to another century.

Viserys didn’t know where she came from, only that Aemon had met her in Volantis. That alone was no great surprise; the Free Cities teemed with those who claimed descent from the dragonlords, especially in Lys and Volantis, where old bloodlines still mingled freely.

“See here,” Aemon said, interrupting his thoughts. He held up two scrolls. “I believe this script is older than the other. The ink’s faded unevenly, and the parchment has weathered in a way that suggests it predates this second account.”

Nyra leaned closer to examine the two documents. “Yes,” she murmured, her voice soft as falling ash. “This one’s glyphs still bear the markings of High Valyrian ceremonial script, used mostly in the temples and academies. This second one is simpler. Likely written by refugees.” She looked at Aemon. “You're right.” She said that last part gently.

He watched them for a moment longer. There was an easy rhythm to their exchange, a wordless familiarity. Aemon was more open around her, though not foolishly so. His tone never drifted into flirtation, and hers was never coy. Their closeness was not a matter of lust, at least not obviously.

Viserys wasn’t sure what to make of her. Jaime had voiced quiet unease about Nyra and that had left Viserys with a strange weight in his chest.

There was something unnatural about her. Rather, it was the way she moved through the world as though it were already known to her. She looked perhaps twenty-five, yet she spoke with the patience of an old maester, and read Valyrian glyphs with a fluency few in Westeros could dream of.

Laena gave him a gentle nudge with her elbow, dragging him from his spiraling thoughts. He blinked, then offered her a faint smile. Perhaps he was overthinking it.

Perhaps Nyra was nothing more than she appeared to be, a learned woman with a passion for Valyrian history, blessed with beauty and old blood. Perhaps he was hunting for danger where none lurked.

Jaime’s unease, too, could be explained away. For all that he was Aemon’s closest companion, and a sworn brother of the Kingsguard, he was still a Lannister. And it was no secret that after Rhaegar had publicly declared his intention for Aegon to wed both Rhaenys and Visenya, Aemon had become the next most eligible match in the realm.

Before Aemon’s betrothal to Arianne was announced, every Lord with an ambitious daughter had turned their gaze toward the younger prince. Viserys wouldn’t be surprised if some part of Jaime, consciously or not, hoped to see his own niece bound to his closest friend.

And if he were being honest with himself, Viserys wouldn’t be surprised if Aemon had already taken Nyra to his bed.

The closeness between them was unmistakable, though no overt signs of intimacy had revealed themselves. Yet there was something in the way they moved together, like two people who had already weathered storms in private. Of course, such things could be hidden well. Aemon had always been guarded with his heart.

Still, if it were true, Viserys could hardly bring himself to disapprove. Better Nyra than some empty-headed Westerosi girl with no trace of dragon’s blood. The last thing the realm needed was a noble house outside the royal line birthing dragonseeds. No, far better that the blood of Valyria remain where it belonged.

“I see you’ve finalized your plans for the Pit,” Nyra said, her voice suddenly so close that Viserys nearly flinched.

She had moved beside him without a sound, standing now with her hands folded behind her back, gazing down at the parchment stretched across the table. “Remarkable work,” she said at last, her tone measured but sincere. “Especially for someone who claims no knowledge of architecture.”

Aemon looked up at her. “You give me far too much credit. The concept was mine, yes, but the actual structure was shaped by those who understood stone and load-bearing better than I ever could.”

“Even so,” she murmured, lifting the parchment with slender fingers, “it is a fine vision.” With a smooth motion, she returned to Aemon’s side. Her footsteps made no sound.

Viserys could not explain it, but watching her walk unsettled him.

“I’d rather we focus on the other scrolls,” Aemon said, shifting the subject. His eyes were already scanning the pile of yellowing scripts beside him. “I still haven’t found a complete explanation for how the Valyrians forged Valyrian steel.”

“But surely, with everything you pulled out of the ruins, something must mention it.” Laena said from Viserys’s side. Her gaze, too, had followed Nyra.

“You are correct, Your Grace,” Nyra said, glancing over her shoulder. Her voice was gentle but her eyes landed on Laena only briefly before sliding back to Aemon. Then, for the briefest heartbeat, they flicked toward Viserys.

“We recovered several scrolls that speak of Valyrian steel,” Nyra continued. “But none of them describe the forging process itself.”

“Which in itself is telling,” Aemon said, still studying one of the texts. “If it was something simple, there would’ve been more of it.”

“I still believe dragonfire is instrumental,” Nyra said softly. “Not merely as a heat source but as a catalyst.” Her voice trailed off like the echo of a spell.

Aemon nodded slowly. “It’s not just dragonfire,” he agreed. “There’s something else. There has to be something else.”

The chamber doors creaked open once more, drawing the group’s attention. A young servant stepped in, head bowed low.

“Your Graces,” he said respectfully. “Forgive the interruption, but the maester asked that I deliver this at once.”

He approached Viserys and extended a tightly rolled parchment, sealed in wax. Viserys accepted it with a nod, and with a murmured thanks, dismissed the man. The servant gave another quick bow and withdrew, the doors closing softly behind him.

Viserys turned the scroll in his hands, frowning. He recognized the sea-green seal at once: the seahorse of House Velaryon. So did Laena, whose lips curved into a faint smile the instant she saw it.

He cracked the seal and unrolled the parchment, his eyes skimming the words quickly.

“What is it?” Aemon asked after a pause. “Another letter from the capital?”

Viserys shook his head. “No. This is from Driftmark.”

He handed the scroll to Laena, whose eyes lit with recognition. “It seems my good-brother caught sight of Nyraxes during one of her recent flights.” His gaze flicked toward his nephew. “He’s heard the rumors and now seeks permission to visit Dragonstone.”

“Lord Monford?” Aemon repeated, brow furrowing. “I thought Lucerys Velaryon still held Driftmark. Has something happened to him?”

A hush fell, and then Laena answered softly. “My father passed two years ago,” she said, the warmth in her tone dimmed by grief. “A fever took him.”

Viserys slid an arm around her waist and pulled her closer, pressing a brief kiss to her temple. “It was hard on her,” he murmured. “Lucerys was… complicated.”

That was putting it kindly.

Viserys had loved Laena from the moment he met her but he had never shared that affection with the rest of her family. Monford he respected well enough. The boy had grown into a thoughtful and capable lord. Aurane, the bastard half-brother, had always been harder to read.

But Lucerys?

He had never liked Lucerys Velaryon.

The man had been one of Aerys’s most loyal supporters during the final years, when the madness grew bolder, louder, and more cruel. It was whispered in the court that Lucerys hadn’t merely tolerated Aerys’s more deranged decrees; he had encouraged them.

Even after the Rebellion, when the court reassembled under Rhaegar’s rule, Lucerys lingered like a stain that refused to be scrubbed clean. He had been removed from the council a rew years back, but Viserys had still been forced to endure the man’s presence ever since he began courting Laena. Cordial words, false smiles, and simmering contempt passed beneath every exchange.

Only Monford’s quiet competence and Laena’s deep loyalty to her family had prevented Viserys from ever voicing those thoughts aloud.

“I told you, nephew, sooner or later, word of you and your dragon would spread,” Viserys said, setting the letter down beside the scrolls. “No matter how quietly we tried to be, a creature like Nyraxes cannot help but draw eyes.” He exhaled through his nose.

Laena nodded, her expression unreadable for a moment. “We can write to Monford,” she offered gently. “Tell him you don’t wish for visitors. He’ll understand.”

But Viserys caught the flicker of hesitation in her voice, the faint glimmer in her eyes. She did want to see her brother, he knew it. It had been nearly eight moons since their last meeting, just after Alyssa’s birth, and Laena had spoken of it only once, but with a quiet longing that lingered in her words.

Aemon leaned forward, resting his hands lightly on the table. “The news was always bound to spread,” he said with a quiet sigh. He glanced toward the window, where dusk was beginning to paint the sky in gold and rose.

“I’ll admit,” he continued, “I’m relieved that it’s the Velaryons who will visit first. It will be good to receive kin.” His eyes shifted to Laena, and for a moment, something softer passed between them. A smile crept onto Laena’s lips, warm and genuine this time. “Write to Lord Monford, uncle,” Aemon said, turning to Viserys. “Tell him we’ll be glad to receive him.”

Viserys offered Aemon a faint smile at his words.

“Do we have anything to do this evening?” Laena asked, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Aye,” Aemon replied. “Grandmother’s requested that we all dine with her tonight.” He turned slightly toward Nyra, a hint of amusement in his voice. “She’s eager to speak with you, considering all the stories I’ve told her.”

Viserys arched an eyebrow. Eager was a generous word. His muña had asked after Nyra with the same tone she once used for suspicious courtiers and foreign diplomats. Rhaella Targaryen was not easily swayed by mystery or charm, especially when it came to someone so near to her grandson. Viserys had no doubt his mother intended to see through Nyra tonight, or try to.

“I would be honored to become better acquainted with her Grace,” Nyra said with a graceful incline of her head.

“Well then,” he said, clapping his hands once. “We should start preparing for this little audience. Laena, you should go ahead and get ready.”

She blinked, then smiled. “You’re not coming with me?”

“I’ll follow shortly,” he assured her, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek. “I want to send that letter to your brother before the hour grows too late. And after that…” his voice softened, “I’d like to stop by the nursery. I haven’t seen Alyssa all day.”

Laena’s expression warmed at that. “She missed you earlier,” she said, brushing her fingers over his. “I’ll see you at dinner, then.” With a final glance toward Aemon and Nyra, she left the chamber.

As the door shut softly behind her, Aemon stepped toward the threshold himself but then paused and turned. “Uncle,” he said. There was something unreadable in his gaze. “We’ll speak again soon.” Then, with a turn toward the woman at his side, he extended his hand. “My lady, if you will, I believe we still have a few matters to discuss.”

Nyra took his hand without hesitation. Her fingers, curled around his with practiced ease. “Your Grace,” she said to Viserys, dipping her head in parting. Her voice was cordial, her smile serene. Yet as she turned and left, Viserys could not shake the cold knot that twisted in his chest.

Chapter Text

The Dowager Queen

“Surely you jest, your Grace. It cannot possibly be so simple, just walking into the ruins of the Freehold.”

The voice came from the far end of the table, rich with skepticism and amusement. Monford Velaryon held his goblet loosely between ringed fingers, his sea-gray eyes fixed on Aemon across the long stretch of polished oak.

Rhaella turned her head slightly to observe him. Monford had arrived late the previous evening with his retinue: his son, his bastard half-brother and a sizable company of guardsmen and knights.

They had not spoken much during their arrival but since sunrise, their curiosity had been insatiable. The tale of a Targaryen prince riding a great dragon had clearly stirred imaginations beyond what even a song or raven could carry.

Aemon, for his part, took the scrutiny with quiet ease. He sipped from his goblet before answering.

“I understand why it may sound easy when told over wine, my Lord,” he said, “but I assure you, it was anything but. We studied every failed expedition into the Freehold. It took us over two years before we dared to make our way towards the ruins.”

Across the chamber, Jaime stood near the door with a mostly passive expression. He had fended off most questions with curt shrugs or well-practiced smirks. Nyra, by contrast, had done the opposite, answering riddles with riddles, questions with deeper questions.

Rhaella studied her from across the table. For days now, she had tried to unravel the woman. But Nyra remained frustratingly opaque, like a face glimpsed through fog or a name half-remembered in a dream.

“And yet,” Monford said after a thoughtful pause, “you returned not only alive, but with a dragon at your side. A fully grown one. I had not thought to see such a wonder in my lifetime.”

“The world has not run out of wonders, Lord Velaryon,” Aemon said with a faint, wry smile. “Only the will to seek them.” He raised his goblet then. “To the hidden wonders of the world.”

The others at the table lifted their cups and echoed the toast. “To hidden wonders,” they said as one, and drank.

The great hall of Dragonstone was quiet for a moment afterward, save for the low crackling of the fire and the wind hissing faintly against stone outside. Rhaella kept her gaze on Aemon a moment longer before placing her glass back down.

Rhaella’s gaze shifted down the table to where Viserys sat beside Monford. He looked tired. Perhaps it was simply the weight of recent weeks, or perhaps the absence of his wife. Laena had been at the feast earlier, Alyssa sleeping soundly in her arms, but she had excused herself to lay the babe down. Since then, Viserys had spoken little, swirling his wine and half-listening to the conversation, his mind clearly elsewhere.

“Forgive me for prying, my prince,” Monford said, glancing past Viserys to Aemon, “but I noticed several large crates and chests in the guest wing. Might those be the treasures you recovered from the Freehold?”

Aemon offered a disarming smile and shook his head gently. “Please, my Lord, no need for titles here. We are kin, are we not?” he said. “But yes, those crates are part of what we managed to bring back. We were fortunate. The Doom devoured most who set foot in Valyria. We escaped with texts, artifacts and fragments. Not all gold and gems, I’m afraid, but treasure nonetheless.”

“Still remarkable,” Monford replied, sitting forward. “Surely such relics might grant us a clearer picture of the Freehold, what it was like in its glory, its forgotten history and customs. Have you begun to sift through them yet?”

Before Aemon could answer, Nyra did.

“Some, my Lord,” she said smoothly, her voice soft and musical, drawing every eye at the table. “Though most are in forms of High Valyrian long forgotten, or encoded in glyphs we are still attempting to interpret. The Prince and I have deciphered a number of scrolls, but many more will take time.”

Rhaella watched the woman closely. Nyra had not raised her voice, yet the room had quieted around her. There was something in her tone that lingered in the air. Even the hard-edged knights stationed near the walls leaned forward without realizing they had.

Monford stared at her a moment longer than courtesy demanded, though his smile remained courtly. “And from what you have managed to translate, my Lady,” he asked, “what insights has the Freehold yielded?”

Nyra inclined her head politely before replying, “Primarily history: dynastic records, accounts of wars, cultural customs, religious rites. Some scrolls delve into coinage, trade routes, taxation, and the mechanisms of governance. We believe there once existed a grand archive, a central repository of knowledge before the Doom. We had hoped to find its remains... but it eluded us.”

She paused, eyes briefly unfocused, as if seeing something only she could. “What we did find were lesser vaults, yet even in those charred ruins memory lingers.”

The conversation drifted after that, losing the structured rhythm of wine-fed politicking and slipping into the more languid tide of curiosity and courtly chatter. Rhaella found herself only half-listening, her thoughts drawn once more to the woman seated beside her grandson.

There was something about Nyra that continued to gnaw at her. Something she could not name, though she had spent days now trying to do just that.

Perhaps it was her closeness to Aemon that troubled Rhaella most. He had been gone for four years and in that time had passed through the shadows of Valyria, found a dragon and killed off the entire Golden Company.

He spoke often of those who had accompanied him and Jaime in their travels but only one name had been ever-present, always at his side whether spoken plainly or whispered in the edges of his stories.

And now she was here, flesh and blood, her hand resting just close enough to Aemon’s goblet to suggest ease, not hesitation. Rhaella wondered, against her better judgment, if the two were lovers. It wasn’t her place to ask, and it hardly should have mattered to her. And yet, the thought lingered like a thorn beneath silk.

She was still wondering when Monford’s voice cut through the fog of her thoughts. “So that would mean,” he said, swirling his wine as he looked at Aemon, “that Nyraxes was a wild dragon before you found her?”

Rhaella turned her attention back to the table.

“Yes,” Aemon replied, nodding. “But not in the traditional sense. Most wild dragons had once had riders. They had been bonded and broken, then turned loose or abandoned. Nyraxes… she was different. As far as we can tell, she had never been ridden. Not once.”

“A rare thing,” Monford mused. “In that case, she was like the Cannibal, then? If I recall correctly, the Cannibal never accepted a rider. Devoured hatchlings, even other dragons, didn’t he? A terror until the very end.”

“In some ways, yes,” Nyra said before Aemon could speak. Her voice drew the room’s attention again, low and precise, like a scholar at court. “We believe Nyraxes, like the Cannibal, was never tamed.”

She leaned forward slightly. “The Cannibal was an anomaly even in his time: larger than he had any right to be, ancient even during the Dance, and violently territorial.”

“Aye,” Monford muttered, draining his goblet with a grunt. “Mad bastard, that dragon was.”

A few chuckles rumbled low around the table, but Viserys merely swirled his wine, thoughtful. “Some of the Maesters claim the Cannibal was last seen during Lord Corlys’s funeral,” he mused aloud. “That would place his final sighting just a year after the Dance ended.”

Aemon nodded, though his expression turned skeptical. “Perhaps. But if the stories are true, they’ve likely been gilded over time. The tale of a wild dragon circling the Sea Snake’s pyre as a mark of respect? It sounds more like bard’s flourishes than truth.” He took a sip before adding, “Frankly, I think there’s a greater chance the Cannibal would’ve eaten Corlys’s remains than honored them.”

That drew a few surprised laughs.

“And regardless,” Aemon went on, “it’s true that he vanished around that time, never to be seen again.”

“Yes,” Rhaella said, her voice carrying a note of quiet contemplation. “The Cannibal disappeared scarcely a year after the Dance concluded. And yet, there are still those who whisper that he might live.”

“Impossible,” Monford scoffed. “The Maesters agree the Cannibal was one of the older dragons during the Dance, some say he rivaled Vermithor in size, and that would make him at least seventy years old at the time, if not more.”

“Some even claim he predated our House’s arrival at Dragonstone,” Aemon added, eyes distant. “That he was already living among the mountain caves when Daenys the Dreamer and her kin first set foot on the island.”

Monford shook his head. “If that were true, he would’ve been as old as the Black Dread, and that doesn’t add up. Balerion was the largest dragon to ever fly in the west. If the Cannibal were even close in age, we’d expect a comparable size. Yet no account ever describes him as anything but smaller and meaner.”

“Size isn’t everything,” Nyra said softly.

The table quieted at once, all eyes shifting toward her. She had spoken so calmly, yet there was something unsettling in the way she said it, something too certain.

“You believe the stories?” Rhaella asked, frowning. “That the Cannibal might still live?”

Nyra didn’t flinch beneath the scrutiny. “I believe the possibility shouldn’t be dismissed out of hand. We often think of dragons as fading with time, but we forget that Balerion lived over two centuries, yes, but he suffered. He was already ancient by the time King Viserys I claimed him, and his final flight to Valyria during the reign of Jaehaerys left him gravely wounded.”

“That was with Princess Aerea,” Aemon recalled. “Balerion came back burned, wounded and never truly healed.”

Nyra nodded. “Precisely, Balerion might have lived longer, had he not flown into that cursed land? The Doom did not spare even dragons.”

Rhaella’s brows furrowed. “And you think that, by contrast, the Cannibal may have lived longer simply because he was never ridden, never wounded as seriously?”

Nyra sipped her wine before nodding.

Monford snorted. “You give him far too much credit, my Lady. He was a beast. Vicious and cannibalistic.”

“And yet,” Aemon said quietly, “sometimes it is the beasts that survive the longest.”

The conversation drifted again after that, meandering through every subject that even loosely touched Valyria or dragons.

They talked until the sun dipped behind Dragonstone’s jagged peaks, leaving the castle bathed in deep crimson light. Shadows stretched long across the hall, and one by one, guests began to excuse themselves, some to their chambers, others to walk the battlements or retire to quiet fireside talks.

Rhaella remained seated as the company dispersed, her eyes subtly tracking Aemon and Nyra as they slipped out together. They didn’t speak to anyone on their way out, and their closeness left Rhaella unsettled in a way she couldn’t quite name.

When the pair was well out of earshot, she turned slightly and whispered to Ser Barristan, who stood dutifully at her side.

“Keep an eye on them tonight.”

The old knight inclined his head. “As you command, Your Grace.”

She said nothing more. She didn’t know exactly what she expected but that night, her sleep came in fits.

By morning, she had her answer.

Barristan reported that Aemon had returned to his chambers shortly after leaving the hall. Nyra had done the same, and neither had been seen slipping into the other’s quarters throughout the night. There had been no secret trysts, no shared bed, no lingering whispers in the dark.

It ought to have brought her comfort.

It didn’t.

She told herself that it wasn’t her place to worry about whom her grandson chose to warm his bed. Aemon was grown, a prince of the realm, and more than capable of making his own choices. And yet… with his return came consequence.

The moment word spread of a living dragon flying over Westeros, every house with ambition and a daughter of age would come crawling from their corners of the realm. Aemon would be the most sought-after match in a generation.

And Nyra?

Nyra was an enigma. A woman of no known house. A stranger from the East. Too clever by half, too poised to be ordinary, and yet with no name that held weight in Westeros. Rhaella could already hear the whispers that would follow her. She would not be accepted by the great houses.

On the third day of the Velaryons’ stay, young Monterys finally wore down his father’s resolve. After what must have been hours of pleading, Monford relented, albeit reluctantly, and gave his son permission to take a flight with Aemon atop Nyraxes.

Rhaella watched from the stone terrace above the training yard, her hands clenched tightly around the carved railing. She had seen the dragon take flight before. But there was something about this, about watching the boy heir of Driftmark clamber up behind Aemon on the saddle, his arms wrapped tightly around the prince’s waist, that sent a cold flicker of fear through her.

She had never seen Monford look so pale. The man stood stiff as an oar, mouth set in a hard line, eyes fixed on the sky as if willing it to spare his son.

When Nyraxes launched into the air, wings slicing the mist and her massive shadow sweeping over the courtyard like a dark tide, the castle held its breath.

But when the dragon returned, and her talons touched down on the rock of the yard with surprising grace, little Monterys slid down from the saddle grinning ear to ear. His cheeks were flushed, his hair windswept, his eyes wide with boyish triumph.

Rhaella had never seen a child look so purely, deliriously happy.

That was how the days passed: one strange moment bleeding into the next. Monford, to everyone’s surprise, had found a way to wedge himself into Aemon and Nyra’s daily work, slipping into the library chamber where the two of them pored over Valyrian scrolls and fragmented lore. Aemon had handed the Lord of Driftmark a stack of old maritime charts salvaged from the ruins.

Rhaella caught him more than once cornering either Aemon or Nyra with questions about the Smoking Sea, its currents, its winds, its mists. He offered idle speculation on safe passages, on volcanic activity, on the likeliest remnants of Valyrian ports. For a fleeting moment, she’d wondered whether the man might be mad enough to attempt the journey himself.

But the thought passed. Even Velaryons knew when not to tempt the gods.

Meanwhile, the real tide began to swell, not in the seas, but in parchment and ink.

Letters came.

Viserys brought them to her each morning: raven after raven, scroll after scroll. Missives from every corner of the realm, some formal, some fawning, some barely veiled in ambition. Lord Mace had written first, as was his custom, his prose flowery and unmistakably aimed at securing a match for one of his brood. Tywin’s letter had followed soon after, more restrained but no less pointed. There were others: Lords Tully, Redwyne, Hightower. Even the Crakehalls had written, which made Rhaella laugh aloud.

“Does no one think to ask if Aemon wants to marry at all?” she said once, setting aside a scroll.

Viserys only smirked and tossed another into the hearth. “They don’t care if he wants it, muña. They care who gets him.”

Some of the letters were burned. Others filed away. None received replies.

And yet, despite the growing storm of interest, no ships arrived. No envoys docked at Dragonstone. No daughters were paraded through the yard with shy smiles and practiced curtseys.

Rhaella wondered aloud why, and Viserys merely shrugged. “Perhaps Rhaegar told them to wait.”

It was around a week after the Velaryons had settled into Dragonstone when Rhaella began to notice an interesting pattern.

Some mornings, Aemon looked more worn than others. Not merely tired, but drained, as though something within him had clawed its way through his sleep. There were no reports of him leaving his chambers at night, Ser Barristan had quietly confirmed as much, and no one had been seen entering. And yet, there was always a weight in his eyes on those days, a distant heaviness that even his smile could not hide.

Those were the mornings he would rise early and make his way to one of the castle's outer balconies and seat himself in the pale morning light with a leather-bound journal unlike the one he used for his Valyrian transcriptions.

This one was older, darker, its corners worn from frequent handling. Rhaella had never seen him use it when working with Nyra or Jaime on their studies. He never brought it to the libraries, nor left it unattended.

On those mornings, he wrote alone.

Always before breakfast. Always before speaking to anyone. And always followed by a sparring match with Jaime, never anyone else.

Only after that would he finally sit down to eat.

She hadn’t recognized the pattern at first. But once she did, she began to see it clearly, and with it came unease. Aemon kept the journal close, and though he never spoke of its contents, he would sometimes hand it to Nyra after the spars, speaking to her in low tones while she flipped through its pages.

Rhaella watched, silent and troubled.

Nyra, of course. Always Nyra.

After a few such mornings, Jaime must have noticed the worry etched into her face. One evening, after supper, he approached her and asked if they might speak in private.

Rhaella led him to her personal solar and once they were there he began to explain.

“He writes down his dreams?” she asked.

Jaime nodded. “He does. Every time they come.” He hesitated before continuing. “He started after Valyria.”

Rhaella turned to him, brow arched in question. “After?”

Jaime met her gaze and gave a tired sigh. “He never told me directly. But I believe the dreams changed after the first journey… and worsened after the second. When he returned, he was burning with fever. For nearly a moon’s turn he was barely conscious. I thought we’d lose him.”

Rhaella's frown deepened. “And you believe the fever strengthened the visions?”

“I believe Valyria and his bond with Nyraxes did,” Jaime said grimly. “Before, his dreams were strange, yes, but they never made him scream in his sleep.”

That word hung in the air like smoke.

“I don’t know what he sees,” Jaime added, his voice lower now, “but I know it matters. I’ve learned to trust that he sees something.”

Rhaella said nothing, though her heart was pounding harder than she liked to admit.

“He told me once,” Jaime went on, “that dreams are never clear. That they speak in symbols and riddles, that they lie as often as they warn. That’s why he writes them down. So he can come back later and try to understand them.”

She looked away again, back toward the balcony’s edge. “Has he ever told you what he sees?”

“Not since Valyria,” Jaime said, and she could hear the regret in his voice. “I think… part of him doesn’t trust what the dreams show him. Not until he can make sense of them on his own.”

“But he tells her,” Rhaella said quietly, not even bothering to mask the question in her voice.

There was a pause.

“Yes. I believe he does.”

Rhaella closed her eyes briefly. She had suspected, but confirmation felt heavier than she’d expected. “Why?” she asked softly.

“Because she’s the one who nursed him back to life,” Jaime said. “When he was delirious, shaking with fever and half-blind from pain, she never left his side. For a full moon, Nyra tended to him, held him down when he thrashed, fed him with her own hands. Kept cool cloths on his skin. I don’t know how she knew what to do, but she did.”

He looked down toward the courtyard. “Something changed between them after that. Before Valyria, they worked together, yes, but Aemon kept a distance. There was a… discomfort in him when he spoke with her. He respected her knowledge, but there was a wariness there too.”

“And after?” Rhaella asked, though she already knew.

“After,” Jaime said, “there was no wariness left. Only trust. She’s the only person he shares the dreams with. The only one he lets near that part of himself.”

The Hollow Prince

“Your Grace, surely we don’t need another tourney so soon before the weddings,” said Connington, his tone bordering on exasperation as he leaned back in his chair.

Aegon didn’t answer. He stared into his wine, Dornish Red, deep and dark like blood in a cup.

“It is not up for discussion,” Rhaegar said, his voice calm but final. “My son has returned and with him, the first living dragon seen in over a century. The realm must see him. The realm must celebrate.”

Aegon lifted his eyes, watching his father with something close to unease, and took a slow sip. The warmth of the wine did little to chase away the chill running down his spine. He leaned back in his seat, gaze unfocused, letting his thoughts drift.

Aemon was back.

There had been a time when Aegon had prayed for that very thing, when he would lie awake as a boy imagining his little brother riding home. But that was four years ago. He had long given up hope of ever seeing Aemon again.

And yet he had returned and not alone, but astride a beast of fire and nightmare.

A dragon, a real one. It should have been impossible but it was real.

Jon Arryn had seen it with his own eyes and Aegon... Aegon had no choice but to believe.

He’d always loved his father, admired him even, for his songs and his mind. But prophecy? That had never been Aegon’s truth. The idea of dragons returning, of long nights and promised princes, it had always felt like a dream Rhaegar refused to wake from.

But Aegon had listened still, had nodded at the right times, even read the scrolls his father left for him. But in his heart, he had never truly believed.

But now Aemon had brought a dragon back into the world.

How, no one knew. But it was no hatchling. Lord Arryn had claimed the beast was massive. If that was true, then the creature must have been born at least a century ago, hidden somewhere far beyond the sight of maesters and merchants. And yet no whisper of its existence had reached Westeros, not until it landed on Dragonstone.

Then again, no word had come of Aemon for four years either.

Aegon’s jaw tightened at the thought. He cast a glance toward Connington, seated stiffly in his chair at the opposite end of the table, lips pressed in that perpetual line of disapproval.

Aegon knew well enough where the silence might have begun.

Connington had always had some displeasure towards his muña Lya and her children, his siblings. And though he masked it behind loyalty and formality, Aegon saw the sneer beneath the surface. He could almost believe that if rumors of a dragonrider in the East had reached the Red Keep, Connington would have dismissed them outright as fantasy, as folly, as beneath the notice of the Iron Throne.

“Your Grace,” said Lord Tywin, breaking the silence with his measured, frost-laced tone. “Surely you understand that with two royal weddings approaching, and Prince Aegon’s celebration being as grand as it is, the coffers will be strained. Might I suggest that the tourney and Prince Aemon’s return be honored during the wedding feasts themselves? A single, glorious event to mark all these milestones.”

Before Rhaegar could answer, Mace leaned forward, beaming. “Now, now, my Lord Lannister,” he said, his tone boisterous with feigned geniality. “I must say, I agree with his Grace’s plan. The realm has not seen a celebration worthy of song since Prince Viserys’s wedding three years past. With so much to mark this year: two weddings, the return of Prince Aemon, and the end of the Long Summer, why not let the realm rejoice? Let the people dance.”

Aegon nearly chuckled into his wine. Leave it to Mace Tyrell to endorse any excuse for a tourney. Yet, for all his vanity, the Lord of Highgarden wasn’t wrong.

The year was shaping to be a strange one indeed. The three-hundredth year since Aegon the Conqueror first landed at Blackwater Bay.
The final days of the longest summer ever recorded. Two royal weddings. And now a lost prince returning astride an ancient dragon.

Yes, the singers would feast on this year for generations.

“The royal treasury is full, Lord Tywin,” Rhaegar said at last, his voice calm but edged. “The reforms we began at the start of my reign have cost us less than anticipated. The Crown is solvent. There will be no need to raise taxes, at least not further than we already have.”

A polite rebuke, but a rebuke nonetheless.

Aegon leaned back in his chair, watching the Lords carefully as they digested the King's words. Tywin said nothing, but the twitch of his jaw betrayed his displeasure. Mace looked pleased enough to break into song.

Aegon sighed and resisted the urge to run a hand through his hair. He shouldn’t be here. He should have boarded the first ship to Dragonstone the moment his father told him.

Gods, he had imagined it a thousand times. What he would say. How he would act.

He wanted to see him. To pull him into a brother’s embrace and hold him like he had when they were boys. Then, once the tears were done, he wanted to smack him for disappearing in the first place.

But no. He was the heir, the realm’s future. That meant remaining in the Red Keep, trapped in a maze of council chambers and courtiers, poring over wedding plans and financial ledgers. Every meeting lately seemed to spiral between two topics: the royal weddings and the situation on Dragonstone.

Aegon sighed again and glanced around the council table. His father sat composed, unreadable. Connington, stone-faced as ever. Tywin calculating. Marwyn scribbling. Only Lord Arryn looked as weary as he felt.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t eager to wed, far from it. He loved Visenya with all his heart. She knew him like no one else. With her, the world made sense.

But Rhaenys...

He loved his eldest sister too, deeply, but in a different way. And he knew her heart had long belonged to someone else.

And now she was preparing to marry him and Visenya and Aegon hated that. Hated the way her smile never had reached her eyes, the way she had spoken of the wedding as though reciting a duty. All of it, for their father’s dream. For the prophecy that had ruled their lives since the day they were born.

Aegon clenched his jaw. The Prince That Was Promised. The Song of Ice and Fire. How many lives had been carved up and rearranged to fit that song?

“My Lords,” said Lord Arryn at last, his voice cutting through the silence. “I believe the matter of the tourney can be set aside for now. Prince Aemon made it clear he will only return to the capital once the entire royal family is gathered.”

Aegon smirked behind the rim of his goblet. It was almost amusing how neither Arryn nor Rhaegar had bothered to mention the other part, that Aemon could have returned already, had his father simply gone to Dragonstone himself.

But of course not. Rhaegar had claimed he “understood” Aemon didn’t wish to see him, not yet. And perhaps that was true. But if so, then why offer the invitation in the first place? Why dangle it like a thread and then refuse to pull?

He could never quite untangle the contradictions in his father’s choices.

“Agreed,” said Grand Maester Marwyn, looking up from the vellum scroll he’d been annotating with some curious ink. “We may refocus on other matters until Prince Aemon and the rest of the royal household arrive.”

“Your Grace,” Mace said, clearing his throat with a hint of hesitation. His voice trembled slightly. “There is another matter we should address.”

Every Lord in the chamber turned their eyes toward him. Aegon raised an eyebrow, already anticipating the next words before they left the man’s mouth.

“Prince Aemon remains unmarried,” Mace continued. “Surely... surely it is time we discuss his future.”

There it was.

Aegon sighed silently, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. That question must be echoing through every great hall in Westeros by now. A Targaryen prince, unwed and unclaimed, and now, a dragonlord besides. The most eligible match in a generation, perhaps in the last century.

It was almost amusing how transparent the lords were in their desire.

Understandable, of course. Even without a dragon, Aemon would have been a prize. Son of the king, but now? Now he had a dragon, a living symbol of Targaryen rebirth and fire-made flesh. Every noble house from Sunspear to the Wall would be sharpening their offers, scheming their daughters into wedding veils.

Aegon imagined Uncle Doran’s reaction when he first read the raven. The same Doran Martell who had spent years trying to repair the broken betrothal after Aemon vanished.

Aegon glanced toward his father, who was already replying to Mace, voice smooth and assured but the words didn’t reach him. His thoughts spiraled ahead.

The best-case scenario would be a match within the family. But who remained? Nearly everyone of royal blood was spoken for. Rhaenys and Visenya were to wed him and Aegon knew well enough that father would not break that betrothal. Viserys had already taken Laena Velaryon. And Daenerys was promised to Quenty, a pact carefully laid to soothe Dornish pride after Aemon’s flight.

No, the pool was shrinking fast.

And Aegon knew their father wouldn’t dare risk a union outside the bloodline. The last time Rhaegar had tried to arrange a marriage for Aemon that he did not want, Aemon had vanished. Run off across the sea and into the shadows. Now he had a dragon, and he had refused the king’s summons once already.

Rhaegar could command all he liked. But whether Aemon would obey was another matter.

Aegon’s gaze shifted to Tywin. His face was impassive, but Aegon had learned to read beneath the silence.

Jaime.

The man had been with Aemon through it all and the two had always been close, but now there was real leverage. Bonds forged in battle, in blood and fire. Tywin would see it as a gift from the gods. He would see the dragon, and a golden opportunity to affix the lion's name to it.

A marriage between Aemon and Myrcella would bind House Lannister to the dragon’s return in a way no title or treaty ever could.

The Lannisters who married the first dragonlord in over a hundred years. Aegon could already imagine the smile Tywin would never show.

“Any possible betrothal for my son,” Rhaegar said, “is not up for discussion at this time, my lords. I have yet to see him, and only after his return to the capital will I speak to him about marriage, no sooner.”

A hush fell across the chamber. A few of the lords exchanged glances, some casting disappointed looks at the King, others hiding their irritation behind practiced masks. Aegon exhaled quietly through his nose, feeling a small measure of relief settle in his chest. He had expected this answer, and yet hearing it aloud steadied him.

He knew his father well enough to understand the truth behind the words. There was no match Rhaegar could speak of. There were no free women of Valyrian descent left to offer.

Could he break Daenerys’s betrothal? Aegon turned the thought over in his mind. He could, but would he?

Uncle Doran had treated Aemon’s disappearance as a grave insult, even if he never said so outright. A soft-spoken man, but no fool. Doran had worked hard to maintain a polite smile while carefully repositioning his pieces. He had tried to salvage the alliance, pushing forward a match with Daenerys to replace the one Aemon had shattered. But Aegon knew the truth beneath the courtesies.

The Martells had never trusted Aemon. Not truly.

Behind their measured diplomacy and gracious words, behind the smiles they offered to his muña Lya and her children, there had always been suspicion, resentment, even. They feared what Aemon might become. That he would rise one day and try to claim the throne for himself. That Lyanna’s son would undo the legacy of Elia and cast her children into shadow.

It was absurd, of course. Laughable even. They had never truly known Aemon.

The betrothal to Arianne had never been about uniting the bloodlines, it had been about control. Doran wanted Aemon close, where he could be watched, managed, tethered. A political hostage disguised as a suitor.

But the betrothal was broken the moment Aemon walked away. And Rhaegar, in his usual fashion, had moved quickly to soothe the insult, offering Dany to Quentyn as a substitute. A bandage on a wound that still festered.

Would Doran risk undoing that now? Would he try to dangle Arianne once again before the dragonlord, as if the tides of fire and time could simply be reversed? Aegon hoped not. He hoped his uncle was wise enough to know that such a gambit would not be forgiven twice.

“I believe we shall continue this conversation tomorrow, my lords,” Rhaegar said, rising from his seat. “You are dismissed.”

The lords stood as one. A few bowed politely, murmuring their “Your Grace” as they departed. Others left more reluctantly, cloaked in quiet grumbling and sideways glances. The council chamber slowly emptied, the heavy oaken doors groaning shut behind them.

Aegon stood, ready to leave, but Rhaegar’s voice halted him. “Not you, Aegon.”

He paused, meeting his father’s gaze. Then, with a quiet sigh, he sat back down.

Rhaegar returned to his seat and let the silence settle between them before speaking again. “This entire affair with the weddings is driving me to the brink,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “And your brother chose the worst possible moment to return.”

Aegon arched an eyebrow, his tone light but pointed. “Isn’t this the perfect time? Returning just before the weddings. A family reunion. A moment for the realm to rejoice.”

But he knew better. Knew his brother too well.

Aemon would care little for feasts and finery. He would endure the pomp, perhaps, but his heart would be elsewhere.

Rhaegar’s next words came not as a question, but as confirmation. “Do you truly believe your brother is excited for any of this?”

Aegon said nothing. There was no need.

His father exhaled slowly. “We did what we could to keep it quiet... That was why we sent him to Dorne so quickly, once the betrothal was announced.”

“To hide him,” Aegon said bitterly. “To bury what he felt.” He stared at his father, eyes narrowing. “It almost sounds as if you’re not as happy to see Aemon as you claim, Father.”

Rhaegar turned toward him fully. The silver in his hair shimmered in the candlelight, but his eyes looked older than they had only moments ago.

“I am happy,” he said, and there was genuine pain in his voice. “Happier than I’ve been in years. But Aemon’s return complicates everything. And if he’s come for…”

“Then the prophecy falls apart,” Aegon cut in, his voice sharp. “Seven hells, father, that damned prophecy will be the death of me one day. Wasn’t Aemon vanishing enough of a sign to let it go?”

Rhaegar’s face was tight with restraint, but he did not raise his voice. “Believe me, son,” he said, more weary than angry, “I would wish for nothing more than for my children to live happy, peaceful lives. To wed where they choose, to fly only for love. But this... this is greater than any of us.”

Aegon looked away. The words were familiar, he’d heard them since he was old enough to speak. The Song of Ice and Fire. The Prince That Was Promised.

But all he’d ever seen were broken hearts, strained bonds, and too many choices made in the name of something none of them truly understood.

“Greater than us,” Aegon repeated softly, almost mockingly. “You say that like it’s a comfort.”

“I know you think it unfair,” Rhaegar said softly. “I do too. But there are things in this world that must happen. Things that must be done, whether we wish them or not. One day, Aegon… when your time comes, you’ll understand.”

Aegon didn’t respond. He didn’t even look at his father. His gaze drifted down to the polished surface of the table. His silence hung in the room like smoke.

After a pause, Rhaegar spoke again, this time more quietly. “Your mother, your sister… and your aunt, they’ve left Sunspear.”

Aegon lifted his eyes, and Rhaegar went on.

“They’re sailing by ship. Lord Redwyne sent word that the Narrow Sea is troubled. Summer squalls have blown in from the east. It may be some time before they reach the capital.”

Aegon gave a slow nod. “And what of muña Lya and Daeron?”

Rhaegar exhaled, the sound heavy with something between amusement and resignation. “They sail from White Harbor as we speak.”

Aegon blinked, surprised. “I thought they were coming by land. That was the plan.”

“It was,” Rhaegar admitted, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But… you know how Lyanna is. I imagine the moment she read the raven, she started shouting orders and was on the docks before anyone could blink.”

Aegon couldn’t help but smile.

No matter how many years passed, muña Lya remained a storm in human form. Bold, stubborn, wild in a way no title could tame. He loved that about her, they all did.

“Of course,” Aegon murmured, lips curling into a grin. “She would have sailed straight to Dragonstone.”

“She would,” Rhaegar said. “Whether I sent a raven or an army, she would’ve gone there either way.” There was no bitterness in his voice, only quiet understanding. Perhaps even guilt.

Aegon leaned back slightly, watching his father. “Did you ever really believe she’d come here first?”

“No,” Rhaegar said with a wistful smile. “Not even for a moment.”

Aegon studied his father for a moment. Rhaegar’s eyes had gone distant again, as if some quiet storm was brewing behind them.
“I imagine you have things to attend to,” his father said at last, his voice softer now, distracted.

“Yes,” Aegon replied, rising from his seat. “I need to visit the barracks in the city.” It was no small task. As Commander of the City Watch, Aegon was responsible not only for the Gold Cloaks’ discipline and efficiency, but for the safety of half a million souls who called King’s Landing home.

“Go, then,” Rhaegar said. “Tend to your duties. Afterward, the day is yours. Do whatever your mind desires.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “But send Visenya to me before nightfall. There are things I must discuss with your sister.”

Aegon paused. He gave a small nod, then turned toward the door, the hem of his cloak whispering over the stone floor as he moved. But something gnawed at him.

These meetings between Visenya and their father had grown too frequent over the past few years. At first, Aegon hadn’t thought much of it. She was the youngest sister, fiercely bright and unnervingly perceptive. Rhaegar adored her.

But then, Lord Arryn had mentioned something in passing, how Aemon had asked if their father ever spoke of Visenya’s dreams.

Dreams.

The word had struck him like a shard of ice, lingering in his mind ever since.

He knew Rhaegar had dreamed once. His obsession with prophecy, with the Prince That Was Promised, with dragons and stars, all of it had come from those dreams. From those damnable scrolls and shadows that whispered through his sleep.

But Visenya? Could she dream too?

Surely she would have told him. She trusted him. She loved him. They shared everything, or so he thought.

But… what if Rhaegar had forbidden her to speak of it? What if she obeyed? She trusted their father with a kind of reverence Aegon could not always understand.

At the door, he cast a glance over his shoulder. Rhaegar was still seated at the table, lost in thought, as if speaking to ghosts only he could hear.

Aegon turned away, jaw tightening.

He would send Visenya. He would go to the barracks. And then, perhaps, he would find a quiet moment with his betrothed and finally ask the question that had been haunting him since that passing remark.

The She-Wolf

Dragonstone rose like a shadow from the mist, jagged and brooding, and kissed now by the salt-heavy breeze that rolled across the sea. Lyanna stood at the prow of the ship, her dark hair rippling behind her like a banner. After nearly a fortnight at sea, they were finally nearing shore.

Fourteen days of wind and waves. Four years of silence and fear.

And now, Dragonstone. And Aemon.

Her son, her sweet boy, had returned. She had dreamed of this moment a hundred times, crossing the sea to find him, taking him into her arms, scolding him through tears. She would embrace him, hold him until her arms ached, and then shake him senseless for running off without so much as a goodbye.

When the letter had come to Winterfell, she hadn’t believed it at first. She’d read the words once, then twice, then again with shaking hands, as if they might vanish. Aemon lived. He had returned. With a dragon.

Her world, shattered years ago, had suddenly begun to knit itself back together. The ache she had carried, buried beneath courtly duties and forced smiles, now stirred again, no longer pain, but hope.

Rhaegar had asked her to come to King’s Landing at once. He’d written that Aemon would only come to the capital when the whole family was assembled.

If her son was on Dragonstone, then that was where she would go.

Ned had tried to reason with her, as he always did. “It’s the king’s command,” he’d said gently. “You’re the queen, yes, but Rhaegar is your husband…”

But queens do not take kindly to being commanded when their children are concerned and Lyanna Stark had never been one to wait obediently in a gilded tower while her heart sailed the sea.

Perhaps Rhaegar had forgotten that. Or perhaps he had remembered it too well and written that letter knowing precisely what she would do.

"Muña?"

The soft voice pulled her from her thoughts. Lyanna turned and found Daeron standing barefoot on the deck, his grey eyes heavy with sleep and hair tousled.

"Good morning, sweetling," she said, her voice gentling as she crouched down. "Did you sleep well?"

He gave a drowsy nod, but she could see the truth plainly: shadows beneath his eyes, the sluggish way he moved. Neither of them had slept well. The constant creak of wood and the endless rocking of the ship had stolen rest from them both. Lyanna had spent most of the night on deck, staring into fog and thinking.

"Come here," she said, opening her arms.

Daeron shuffled forward and collapsed into her embrace, his small arms wrapping tightly around her neck. Gods, he was growing fast. Only eight namedays and already tall for his age. But here in her arms he was still her baby boy.

She pulled back slightly to study him. His tunic was wrinkled, his sleeves uneven, and his silver curls stuck out in every direction. A wild wolf cub, not a prince. Elia would have sighed and clucked her tongue, already reaching for a comb and a fresh set of silks.

“He doesn’t look princely enough,” Elia would have said with that wry smile of hers.

Lyanna smiled softly at the memory. Gods, how she missed her.

It had been Elia who held her together after Aemon vanished. When she could no longer bear to look at Rhaegar, when grief had turned to fury, and fury to silence, it was Elia who stayed by her side. Who understood, without words, that it had been Rhaegar’s fault.

They had all known it, Rhaegar most of all.

When she’d finally told Daeron they were leaving Winterfell to go meet his brother he had been so happy.

But what had broken her heart was the name he spoke. "We’re going to see Egg?"

Of course. Of course it would be Aegon. The elder brother who wrote when he could. The boy Daeron had known, the one he'd not grown afraid to forget.

Lyanna had feared, more than anything, that he’d forgotten Aemon. That her younger son no longer remembered the one who had once rocked him to sleep with quiet songs and carved him a little wooden horse.

But he hadn’t forgotten. Not entirely.

Mostly, she suspected, it was thanks to that ridiculous stuffed dragon Aemon had given him for his fourth nameday. Worn now, patched and ragged from years of clutching, but still mostly intact.

It had no name, just a dragon. But it had been his link. His anchor. Proof that once, long ago, there had been another brother and that he had loved him.

Lyanna pressed a kiss to Daeron’s forehead and held him just a little tighter.

Then, she heard it.

At first, it was faint, barely more than a tremor in the air, a low sound swallowed by wind and sea. But it grew quickly, rising in pitch and force until the very air seemed to shudder. The sails above snapped as the wind shifted sharply, unnatural and sudden, as if the heavens themselves had inhaled.

Lyanna stiffened, clutching Daeron close.

The sound came again, unmistakable this time, a roar so deep and primal that it seemed to rattle the timbers beneath her feet. The crew stirred, murmurs rising across the deck, but Lyanna’s gaze was already turning back toward Dragonstone.

And then she saw it.

High above, just beyond the fog-veiled peak of the island’s ridges, a shape broke through the clouds. At first it was only a silhouette, gliding effortlessly through the air. But as it descended, the light caught its scales, brilliant silver laced with white, glittering like moonlight on fresh snow. Wings vast and veined curved gracefully as the creature coasted on unseen currents.

A dragon.

Her son’s dragon.

Lyanna forgot to breathe. Letters could never have prepared her for this, parchment could not capture the sheer size of it, the elegance and terror in its form. No words from Jon Arryn or Rhaegar could match the reality now soaring above her.

"Muña!" Daeron gasped, his voice awestruck. "Look!"

She was already looking and she couldn’t look away.

The beast came lower still, its eyes a deep and unnatural blue. It did not shriek again, only passed over the ship in silence, wings stretched wide enough to shadow the entire deck. The ship groaned beneath the sudden gusts it left in its wake.

Lyanna craned her neck, searching, hoping, desperate to see a figure astride its back. She imagined Aemon there but there was no rider.

The dragon flew alone.

It did not even look down at them, as if it had not noticed the ship at all. As if it were above such things.

And maybe it was.

Lyanna held Daeron tighter, her heart thudding in her chest like a war drum.

She watched as the dragon flew on, its great wings slicing through the sky until the clouds swallowed it whole. Daeron remained pressed against her, his small hands clinging to the folds of her cloak, his eyes wide with wonder fixed on the heavens.

Lyanna tried to steady her breathing, but her thoughts ran wild, carried by the wind.

Where did you find such a creature, Aemon?

She had seen its eyes. They had not been the eyes of a mere beast. There was something ancient in them, something that made her feel very small and very mortal. She could not fathom how anyone could sit astride such a thing. And yet, a century past, the skies above Westeros had been filled with dragons. Her husband’s forebears had bent fire to their will.

Still, she had never truly believed the world would see their like again.

She had grown content with the idea that dragons were dead and gone, reduced to bones and songs. It had made the world feel simpler. And now here one was, alive and enormous and his. Her son’s. That fact alone sent a cold shiver down her spine.

The ship cut through the narrow channel toward the harbor. Daeron remained nestled in her arms longer than he usually did at this age. She was grateful for it, though she didn’t quite know why. Perhaps holding him grounded her.

Every few minutes, she cast her eyes upward, half-expecting to see the silver beast again. But the sky remained empty.

Not until they neared the dock did it return.

Without warning, a gust of wind struck the ship with such force that Lyanna had to grasp the railing to keep her footing. The sails strained and groaned. Gasps erupted across the deck as a blur of silver and white streaked overhead, moving so swiftly it was little more than a flash.

Daeron shrieked in delight. “It’s back!”

Lyanna looked skyward just in time to see the dragon wheel above them, wings arcing like great blades before it tilted its body and descended toward Dragonstone.

It landed behind the dock, its claws crashing onto stone with bone-rattling weight, yet moving with eerie precision.

And standing just ahead of the dragon, silhouetted by sea spray and rising mist, was a small gathering of figures waiting at the water’s edge. She couldn’t make out faces yet, but she knew who would be there waiting for her.

As the ship drew closer, the figures waiting on the dock began to take shape through the thinning mist.

She recognized Rhaella first, tall and regal and Viserys, swhi stood beside her, his expression unreadable even from afar. Neither of them looked any different than they had two years ago, when Lyanna last saw them at the capital.

Next to Viserys stood a young woman cradling a babe in her arms. Laena, she mused, and the child could only be Alyssa. Guilt tugged at Lyanna’s chest. She had not been there for the birth. And truth be told, she had only met Laena two or three times before this, always in passing, always formal.

Behind them stood a tall man in polished silver plate and a white cloak that fluttered in the breeze. Jaime, she thought with the faintest curve of a smile. Of course, still at her son’s side after all these years, as loyal as ever. No one had ever expected the White Lion of Casterly Rock to become the shadow to a dragon, but he had. And not even exile had broken that bond.

Two more stood behind them, both silver-haired, their fine clothes marked subtly with the seahorse of House Velaryon. One was nearly as tall as Viserys, the other still a child clinging to his hand.

But Lyanna barely saw them.

Her eyes locked on the man standing just ahead of Jaime, next to Rhaella. He was still, and yet the moment she saw him, everything inside her lurched.

Dark brown hair caught the light and deep indigo eyes, so much like his father's. A scar along the line of his jaw she didn’t recognize. Taller than she remembered. Broader. Weathered by wind, battle, and exile.

She couldn’t breathe.

The ship docked with a soft groan of wood against stone. The crew moved quickly, throwing down ropes, lowering the gangplank but Lyanna was already moving.

"Muña?" Daeron called, letting go of her hand as she surged forward. He couldn’t have kept up, not with his small legs, not with the pace her heart demanded. She would apologize later. Or not at all. Elia would’ve scolded her, said it was unseemly for a queen to run like that. But at that moment, Lyanna couldn’t have cared less for appearances.

She ran.

And Aemon stepped forward, just once, as if sensing her even before she reached him.

Then she crushed into him, arms thrown around his neck, face buried against his shoulder, her body trembling with a sob that cracked the silence.

Four years.

Four years of silence, of worry, of waking in the night reaching for a son. Four years of not knowing whether he was alive or dead.

And now he was here. Flesh and bone. Warm and solid beneath her grasp. No longer a boy, not quite the man she had imagined, but hers all the same.

"My boy," she whispered against his neck. "My sweet boy…"

"Muña," he said softly as he held her close. His voice was deeper now but the cadence was unmistakable.

Lyanna’s sobs racked her chest as she clung to him, her fingers curling tightly into the fabric of his cloak. Aemon said nothing more, only buried his face into the crook of her neck, his breath warm against her skin. She couldn’t tell if he wept. Part of her didn’t want to know. It was enough just to hold him.

She didn’t know how long they stood like that. The sea lapped gently behind them, the wind tugged at their cloaks, and somewhere behind her she could hear the soft murmurs of onlookers, but none of it mattered.

Finally, with trembling hands, she pulled back just enough to see his face.

He smiled at her but it was the scars that held her gaze. Two of them. She raised a hand before she realized it, brushing her thumb along the curve of the one under his left eye.

A flare of rage bloomed inside her. Some wolf part of her wanted to demand names, to hunt down the ones who had dared lay hands on her child. But another part already knew, whoever had done this was almost certainly dead. Her son had a direwolf at his side and a dragon in the sky. He had never been unguarded.

Lyanna’s heart cracked all over again. "My sweet boy," she whispered, brushing hair from his brow. "I’ve missed you more than you’ll ever know."

He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, she stepped back and her hand, still trembling, landed squarely on his chest with a sharp smack.

Everyone on the dock was startled. Jaime’s brow arched, Laena gasped quietly, and even Daeron, standing a few feet behind, blinked in surprise.

"You absolute idiot," she hissed, voice trembling with emotion. "Do you have any idea what you put us through? Do you know what it did to us?! To me? To your brothers and sisters? You disappeared without a word, without a farewell, and I was left wondering if you were even alive."

Aemon didn’t flinch. He only looked at her with that same boyish sorrow she remembered, and then, without a word, wrapped her in his arms again, tighter than before.

"I’m sorry," he whispered into her hair. "I’m so sorry, muña. I’ll explain everything. I swear it. Just… not here. Not now."

Lyanna nodded into his shoulder, her throat tight.

After a few long moments, Aemon gently stepped back from Lyanna’s embrace. He offered her a quiet smile. Then his gaze shifted past her.

Lyanna turned.

Daeron stood a few paces behind her, staring up at his elder brother. There was something unreadable in his expression: half awe, half uncertainty. His small hands were curled at his sides, and his eyes were wide and bright.

Aemon’s smile widened, his whole posture relaxing with familiar joy. “Is that…?” he said, stepping forward with exaggerated wonder. “This young man cannot possibly be little Daeron.”

His voice was light, teasing, rich with affection. “Last I saw you, valonqar, you were barely up to my knee. And now look at you.” He gave a soft laugh, dropping to one knee and ruffling Daeron’s silver hair. “Gods, you’re nearly a man already.”

Daeron broke into a grin and laughed, the tension leaving his frame all at once. He lunged forward and threw his arms around Aemon, who caught him easily.

Aemon stood as he lifted Daeron off the ground in one swift motion, spinning him once in a brief circle before setting him gently back down.

“You’ve grown so much I can hardly pick you up,” Aemon said, ruffling his hair again. “You’re looking well, little brother. A true Targaryen prince, worthy of the name and more.”

Daeron flushed, pleased by the praise, but his gaze soon drifted. Lyanna followed it and felt her breath catch in her throat all over again.

Now that they stood this close, she could fully comprehend the scale of the beast behind them.

No wall in Winterfell, no tower in King’s Landing had ever made Lyanna feel quite so small.

Daeron seemed spellbound.

Aemon followed his gaze and let out a quiet chuckle. “Do you want to meet her, valonqar?”

Daeron looked up, startled, as though unsure he’d heard correctly. Then he nodded eagerly, nearly bouncing on his heels.

“Then go and greet the rest of our family properly,” Aemon said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “And once that’s done, I’ll introduce you to Nyraxes.”

The proper greetings began then.

Rhaella was the first to step forward, her bearing as composed as ever, though Lyanna saw the warmth in her eyes before they embraced. The Dowager Queen still carried the dignity of the old court, but her arms wrapped tightly around Lyanna, and for a brief moment, both women simply held one another, saying nothing.

"Gods, I've missed you," Lyanna whispered.

Rhaella pulled back and smiled gently. “And I you. It’s good to have you here.”

Next was Viserys, who also hugged her. “Welcome back to Dragonstone, sister,” he said before turning to the young woman beside him. “May I present my wife, Laena, and our daughter, Alyssa.”

Laena gave a soft, respectful nod and a measured smile. “Your Grace.”

Lyanna returned the gesture, noting how poised the younger woman was. Her hair, a bright silvery mane typical of Velaryon blood, caught the light in the sea breeze. In her arms, the babe gurgled, small fists clenched, violet eyes wide.

But it was Daeron who drew Lyanna’s attention.

He had edged closer, peering at the child with a mix of fascination and confusion. Alyssa stared back with equal intensity, as if uncertain what to make of this new, slightly bigger human. The look they exchanged made Lyanna bite back a laugh.

Then it was Ser Jaime. Lyanna didn’t hesitate, she stepped forward and embraced him too. He tensed for half a second, surprised perhaps, but then returned the gesture.

“Thank you,” she murmured against his shoulder. “For staying with him. For keeping him safe.”

“It was my duty,” Jaime said, quietly.

A familiar low growl made Lyanna freeze, until a white blur leapt up beside her.

“Ghost?”

The direwolf padded forward with slow, fluid confidence. Larger now than she remembered, perhaps larger than Grey Wind or even Nymeria, his pale coat rippled like snow in motion, eyes still red as burning coals. He regarded her silently for a moment, then gently nudged her hand with his nose.

Lyanna ran her fingers through his fur. “He’s grown,” she said aloud.

“He’s still gentle,” Aemon said behind her. “At least with those he knows.”

Lyanna smiled but then caught something from the corner of her eye, a figure she didn’t recognize.

A woman stood just a few paces from Aemon, half-turned toward him. She was beautiful in a way that felt old, almost dangerous. Her hair was silver-blond, yet not quite Targaryen pale and her eyes were mismatched.

She stood far too close to Aemon for Lyanna’s liking. There was an ease to her stance, a comfort that suggested intimacy. Lyanna said nothing, for now. But she tucked the sight away. She would be asking about this mysterious companion later.

There were others to greet. Monford Velaryon stepped forward and gave her a courteous bow, his bastard half-brother doing the same with a grin that Daeron quickly mirrored. Then came young Monterys, who eyed Daeron with undisguised interest.

Lyanna chuckled under her breath. Of course, she thought. He finds a friend within minutes.

Once the greetings were done, Aemon took Daeron gently by the hand and began to lead him toward the dragon.

Lyanna watched them go, her breath caught somewhere between pride and fear.

Daeron walked slowly at first, feet dragging just slightly, as if unsure whether to approach or flee. His little face wore an expression she couldn’t quite name: part awe, part terror. And yet Aemon moved with the calm of a man guiding someone not toward danger, but toward a sacred rite.

Nyraxes stirred at the sound of their approach. The dragon turned her massive head and fixed her gaze on the younger boy. Her blue eye narrowed with curiosity. Smoke curled lazily from her nostrils.

Lyanna’s heart skipped. She could feel her body tensing despite herself.

Aemon slowed as they came within arm’s reach of the great beast. He knelt beside Daeron, murmuring something low, too quiet for Lyanna to hear, before gently lifting his brother’s hand.

With the care of a priest offering a blessing, he placed Daeron’s palm against Nyraxes’ scaled muzzle.

For a long moment, time seemed to stretch. The dragon did not move. Neither did Daeron.

Then Nyraxes let out a slow, rasping exhale, the warmth of her breath ruffling Daeron’s cloak. Her eyes narrowed.

Aemon stepped back, allowing the two to face each other in silence.

Lyanna had seen many things in her life but never anything quite like this. Her youngest son, barely tall enough to reach the dragon’s jaw, stood alone before a creature of fire and legend. And yet the moment held no violence, no fear.

Gods, she thought, clutching her arms around herself. He looks so small beside her. She didn’t dare move closer.

Finally, Daeron stepped back, hand falling to his side. But the dragon’s gaze lingered. Her neck craned slightly, watching him with something akin to interest in her gaze.

Aemon returned to his side and laid a hand on his shoulder. “She knows you now,” he said softly.

Daeron turned to him, eyes wide. “Really?”

Aemon nodded. “She knows your blood. You are a dragonseed, like me. Like our ancestors. A dragonrider by right of blood and my brother besides.”

He gave Daeron a small smile. “She has claimed me. And I have claimed her. That bond cannot be shared. But now she knows you’re family.”

Daeron looked back at the dragon, brow furrowed in thought, as if trying to make sense of something far larger than himself. Nyraxes let out a quiet huff, smoke trailing upward again as her wings shifted, then settled.

Lyanna let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

She knows you now.

The words echoed in her mind.

"Can…" Daeron hesitated, his voice barely above a whisper. He turned back toward Aemon, his eyes wide, filled with hesitant hope. "Can I go flying with you?"

Aemon gave a soft chuckle, the kind that warmed rather than mocked. He glanced back toward Lyanna, brows raised in quiet amusement, as if seeking her permission without speaking the words aloud. She didn’t react but her gaze met his and lingered.

Aemon turned back to Daeron, lips curled into a faint smile. "Tomorrow," he said gently. "If muña allows it."

Daeron nodded so quickly it was a blur, his excitement lighting up his face like a flame.

The small procession began to move up toward the castle. Lyanna found herself drawn into conversation with Rhaella and Laena. They spoke of the voyage, of the castle’s recent repairs, of Daeron’s growth. But through it all, Aemon never let go of her arm. His touch was light but constant, as though needing to feel that she was truly there, that he had not imagined her arrival.

Somewhere behind them, Daeron had fallen into step beside Monterys, the two boys already deep in chatter. Behind them came Monford and the rest of the Velaryons, along with Viserys, ever watchful in his silence. But the silver-haired woman Lyanna had seen earlier had vanished.

The great doors of Dragonstone opened before them, and the chill of the sea was replaced by the warm scent of fire and spiced wine. The dining hall had been prepared in advance.

Monford approached and gave a respectful bow. “Your Grace, I’ll leave you to it. I wouldn’t intrude on a family reunion.” He said no more, but Lyanna offered him a grateful smile.

They sat and dined beneath the carved stone dragons overhead, sharing meat and laughter, claret and memory. Aemon told stories of his journeys across the East, his voice low but steady, his eyes flickering with amusement or shadow depending on the tale.

Daeron sat beside him, utterly entranced. He hung on every word, every pause, wide-eyed as Aemon spoke of Braavos and its Titan, of Lys and its gardens, of Volantis and the Red Temple’s eerie grandeur. And of Valyria.

When Aemon mentioned that he had journeyed twice into the ruins of the Freehold, Lyanna very nearly dropped her goblet. Her fingers tightened around the stem until her knuckles whitened.

“Twice?” she asked, her voice sharp despite herself. “You went twice into that accursed wasteland?”

Aemon met her gaze and nodded.

He spoke of ruins half-swallowed by the earth, of statues melted by fire centuries past, and temples where the air still shimmered with magic. Of the men and women who had stayed with him through it all, some loyal, some lost.

Later, over wine and roasted duck, the conversation turned homeward.

“And what of you?” Aemon asked, swirling his cup. “What news from the North? How are my uncle's and their families?”

She told him everything. Of Ned and Catelyn, Benjen and Dacey, of Sansa’s grace and Robb’s sense of duty. Of Rickon’s wildness, of Lyarra’s growing fierceness, of how Arya had taken to blade like a second skin.

Aemon chuckled into his cup. “So Arya’s still the same wild wolf she was the last time I saw her.” He said before his gaze met hers. “If I recall correctly you were her idol when she was younger.”

“She has good taste,” she said, feigning pride. “Though I suspect Cat doesn’t think I’m quite the best influence on her daughters.” Lyanna took a sip before adding. “Ned doesn’t seem to mind.”

“Of course, uncle Ned wouldn’t mind,” Aemon said, her smile softening.

They talked some more. Lyanna told Aemon how Ned had been planning for Robb to marry within the North, citing the quiet unrest among a few of the older bannermen who grumbled that the future Lord of Winterfell looked more Tully than Stark. At the same time, Catelyn had been working diligently to secure a more ambitious match in the South. She had been particularly persistent about marrying Sansa to Willas Tyrell, and had even attempted to enlist Lyanna’s help in her endeavor.

“Aunt Cat is pregnant again?” Aemon asked, clearly surprised when Lyanna mentioned it. “Seven hells… that’ll be their sixth child.”

“Dacey also gave birth a year ago,” Lyanna added. “Benjen’s third, a boy.”

Aemon nodded thoughtfully, lifting his cup and taking another sip. “It seems the North will be overflowing with Stark blood in the coming years.”

They spoke some more. Laena shared gentle stories of Alyssa. Viserys grumbled about the deluge of letters pouring in from Lords. Lyanna found his theatrical exasperation amusing.

“Muña,” Aemon said at some point. “Why didn’t you take Senya with you when you went North? Did Father forbid you to?” He asked it softly, but from the weight in his voice she could already tell that he knew the answer.

She simply nodded, a slow gesture, before a sigh escaped her lips.

When she had been preparing to return to the North, she had hoped to take both Visenya and Daeron with her. But Rhaegar had refused. He had said that Visenya needed to remain at court to complete her education, that it would reflect poorly for the Crown if she vanished to the distant North two years before her wedding.

Lyanna had been furious.

Only Elia had managed to calm her. And even she had admitted, in quieter words, that the official reasons were a mask. There were other motives Rhaegar hadn’t said aloud, but they had all understood them.

Aemon must have sensed that she didn’t want to speak further about Visenya because he gently shifted the conversation.

They began to speak more broadly of the North and at some point, the talk turned toward the Wall, and to Maester Aemon.

It didn’t surprise Lyanna. Her son had always loved his namesake, even as a boy. And she could still recall the first time Rhaegar had spoken his name aloud and how the child in her belly had seemed to kick in recognition.

“We visited the Wall a little over a year ago,” Lyanna said, swirling the dregs of her wine idly. “Maester Aemon is… as well as a man his age can be. Frail, but still wise. He’s completely blind now.”

She glanced at Aemon. “He touched Daeron’s face and told us he was a Targaryen. Said he could feel it in the shape of his brow. Called him a sweet summer child.”

Aemon smiled faintly, his gaze distant. “I think I should go see him soon. We don’t know how much time he has left… and I’d like to speak with him again. At least once more.”

“What’s happening at the Wall in general?” he asked after a beat. “Still in the same miserable state it was the last time I was there?”

“Worse,” Lyanna said without hesitation. “The Night’s Watch is dying. Only three castles are manned now, the rest have been abandoned to ruin. And they’ve fewer than seven hundred men left, most of them older than they should be or younger than they ought to be.”

Aemon frowned, fingers drumming against the rim of his cup. “Seven hundred men guarding a thousand leagues of ice,” he muttered. “It’s no longer a shield, just a ghost of one.”

Lyanna nodded. “They hold the line, but barely. If a large Wildling force ever truly came down from the far north…” She trailed off. She didn’t need to finish. The thought hung there.

A quiet yawn broke the silence, and Lyanna turned to see Daeron leaning slightly against the arm of his chair, blinking hard in the light. His little frame sagged, all the day’s excitement finally catching up to him.

“I think it’s time someone went to bed,” she said, rising with a gentle smile.

Daeron rubbed his eyes and stood. “But we’re still talking…”

“You’ll have all day tomorrow to talk,” Lyanna promised, ruffling his hair. “And I believe someone promised you something about flying.”

Aemon stood as well and placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Tomorrow morning,” he said. “We’ll fly on Nyraxes, just the two of us.”

Daeron beamed, suddenly wide-eyed again. “You mean it?”

“I never joke about things like that,” Aemon said, smiling.

Lyanna gave him a look as she took Daeron’s hand and guided him toward the exit. The boy gave one last look back, nearly bouncing in place from excitement, before following his mother into the corridor.

But just before Lyanna passed through the door, she glanced back one final time.

Aemon had turned away from the table, speaking quietly to someone she hadn’t seen return. The silver-haired woman was standing beside him again and she was watching Lyanna as if she had never looked away.

Lyanna said nothing. But the unease returned, curling in her gut like smoke.
Then she stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her.

Chapter Text

The Princess of Dorne

“The capital does look beautiful today.”

And it did. The early sun worked its quiet magic on King’s Landing, spilling golden light over slate roofs and sandstone towers, softening the grime with the illusion of grace. From the high vantage of the Red Keep’s solar, the city almost seemed worthy of the songs written for it.

“It does from up here,” Daenerys replied, lifting her goblet. “Not so much when you get down to places like Flea Bottom.”

Arianne turned from the arched window, pulling her gaze away from the illusion of splendor and back toward her hostess. She had come to like the Targaryen princess well enough, Dany was clever, poised, and quick with a smile.

Their friendship had bloomed faster than Arianne might have expected, though she suspected that had more to do with Rhaenys than either of them cared to say aloud.

“How are you finding the city?” Dany asked after a thoughtful pause, swirling the wine in her goblet.

“A little too cold for my taste,” Arianne said, settling back on the cushioned bench. “But otherwise… pleasant enough.” It had been years since her last visit and yet the Red Keep still felt oddly familiar.

“After Dorne,” the Princess said with a warm smile, “I imagine every other kingdom feels cold.”

Arianne laughed at her words. “True enough, I suppose.” Though if she were to be honest, she missed Sunspear more than she cared to admit.

Nearly everyone had come with her to King’s Landing: her ladies, her cousins, even her uncle. Yet despite their company, the capital felt colder in more ways than one.

Arianne remembered the day the raven arrived. Prince Aemon had returned, it said, with a dragon. She could still recall the expression on Elia’s face, the way it lit with something close to joy. A kind of joy Arianne had not seen in years.

Most of her family bore complicated feelings toward Queen Lyanna and her children, but not Elia. No, Elia loved Lyanna, openly, fiercely, and without shame. Almost as much as she loved the king, if not more.

But that love was not shared by all. Her father and uncle had always harbored quiet reservations about the Stark queen. She suspected that was why they pushed so hard for her betrothal to Aemon.

She barely remembered Aemon if she were to be honest. Fleeting glimpses, fragments of a boy. When he had come to Sunspear four years ago, he had stayed scarcely a fortnight before vanishing. Her father had raged. He had taken Aemon’s departure as a calculated insult.

She had been hurt too, but not for the reasons others imagined. It wasn’t Aemon’s absence that stung, it was what his presence might have secured. A marriage to a prince of the realm would have forced her father’s hand. Doran might be thoughtful, even loving, but he had always wanted Quentyn as his heir.

When Rhaegar had offered Aemon’s hand to her, it had been more than a match, it had been a declaration. The heir of Dorne, wed to the son of the dragon. It would have been an insult of the highest order for the prince to marry a spare, and Doran had known that. But Aemon had left, and with him, that certainty.

Her father had wasted little time after Aemon’s departure. Within moons, he had secured a new betrothal, this time for Quentyn.

Now, her brother was set to wed Daenerys in around two moons, the ceremony planned to follow Aegon’s wedding in the capital. Two royal weddings in the same fortnight, the bards already whispered.

The union would cement Quentyn’s standing beyond question, all but confirming him as their father's chosen heir. Unless Arianne could secure a match equal in power and prestige but what match could rival that of a dragon princess?

There had been talk, of course. There was always talk when it came to her future.

With Quentin betrothed to Dany, the eligible highborn pool had thinned considerably, and yet Arianne had not been idle. She had entertained the notion of marriage into the Reach, some lordling of Oldtown or Highgarden, perhaps.

One rumor claimed her hand might go to a Hightower, though she doubted it. A pious, Seven-loving fool of that ancient line would not survive long in the sun-scorched courts of Dorne, where passion was no sin and desire no shame.

More recent whispers had named Renly Baratheon. A surprising turn, that one. He was handsome, charismatic, and well-loved by the court, though she had no illusions about where his affections truly lay.

It mattered little in political marriages, she supposed, but Arianne could not imagine herself bending to the will of the Reach and Stormlands for a union built on convenience alone. Nor could she picture Lord Stannis being constant with such a match. His troublesome relationship with Dorne had simmered ever since the rebellion.

Some had dared to suggest she wed Stannis’s heir instead. But the boy was only two-and-ten namedays old, a sweet-faced shadow of a man, and Arianne would not waste her days languishing in the rain-soaked halls of Storm’s End while her birthright withered in the Dornish sun.

But Aemon’s return had changed a great many things.

Arianne was under no illusions, he was now the most desirable match in the realm. A prince of royal blood and above all, a dragonlord. No house, great or small, could ignore what that meant.

And yet, she knew the court as well as any. The obvious matches had already been claimed. Aegon was soon to wed both Rhaenys and Visenya and Dany was already betrothed to Quentyn. Which left Aemon with no eligible blood relative of suitable rank, no sister or cousin that Rhaegar could hand him.

Unless, of course, the king changed his mind.

There was always the possibility that Rhaegar might break Quentyn’s match and give Dany to Aemon instead. The idea had clearly crossed more than a few minds, if the hushed conversations in the corridors were anything to judge by. Arianne doubted it, for now. Her father was not the sort of man easily insulted, but neither was he quick to forget a slight.

She had been betrothed to him and while he had left without warning, without explanation, she had never truly seen it as a rejection of her. He had been young, caged, unmoored. Men, even dragonlords, were still men: Prideful, easily wounded and fallible.

If she could win him, win his loyalty, his regard, perhaps even his heart, it would change everything. With Aemon at her side, with that dragon beneath them, there would be no more question of her claim to Dorne. Not even Quentyn’s marriage to Dany could overshadow that. Her father might favor her brother still, but he was not a fool. Dragons did not go unnoticed.

“Something on your mind?” The voice pulled Arianne from her thoughts.

“Why do you ask?” she replied, lifting her goblet to her lips as she regarded the princess over the rim.

“You had that look in your eyes,” Dany said, a teasing glint dancing behind her violet gaze. “The one you wear when you’re dreaming or plotting.”

Arianne chuckled. “Am I so easy for you to read now, dear Dany?”

“Easier than you were when we first met.” Daenerys smiled, then tilted her head slightly toward the left, her attention drawn to something just beyond their table. “Look at them.”

Arianne followed her gaze and found a small group of noble ladies seated nearby. They were whispering behind gloved hands, eyes bright with mischief, delicate laughter flitting between them like butterflies.

“Take a guess who they’re talking about,” Dany murmured.

She didn’t need to guess. Aemon’s name was on every tongue in King’s Landing these days. And now, with Queen Lyanna on Dragonstone and the rest of the family in the capital , it was only a matter of time before the prince came himself.

Arianne leaned forward slightly, listening. She caught the soft lilt of a voice, “the dragon prince”, followed by a chorus of giggles and a conspiratorial glance among the young women.

The nickname had taken root quickly. The dragon prince, It suited him well enough, he had, after all, returned from exile on the back of a dragon, but Arianne preferred a different title, one that felt more ancient, more earned.

Dragonlord.

That was what he truly was. The only one of his kind in the world. Yes, the Dragonlord. That had a far better ring to it.

“The whole realm speaks of your nephew, and yet he hasn’t even set foot in the capital,” Arianne said, her gaze drifting back to Dany. “Must be the effect dragons have.”

The Princess let out a quiet chuckle. “Perhaps. Though I suspect that even without a dragon, Aemon’s return would stir more than enough whispers. It’s not every day a prince thought lost reappears.”

“True, I suppose,” Arianne agreed, lifting her goblet.

Dany smiled, but her eyes turned toward the window, falling silent. Arianne studied her for a moment, then spoke gently. “What’s on your mind?”

“I was just thinking about Aemon,” Dany said softly, fingers idly tracing the rim of her cup. “And that dragon of his. Everyone talks about it as if it were the only thing that mattered.”

Arianne exhaled, leaning back slightly. “I suppose it would do us no harm to speak of him too, then. Everyone else already is.”

Dany hesitated, her expression shifting, as if weighing her next words. “Are you sure?” she asked at last. “Considering… your history with him.”

Arianne laughed, low and throaty, the sound touched with wry amusement. “My dear Dany, I know it must seem like your dear nephew running off broke hearts and honor in equal measure, but I never held it against him. Men are like that when they’re young. The world tempts them with adventure, with stories larger than duty.”

Dany gave her a pointed look. “But truth be told,” Arianne admitted, swirling her wine with a thoughtful frown, “I barely remember Aemon.”

Her voice softened as the admission settled between them. “Bits and pieces, scattered here and there. I remember he used to train with Ser Jaime in the mornings, always so serious about his form. I recall how he’d vanish into the library for hours with those dusty old tomes, and how some nights the maids whispered he didn’t sleep at all. But beyond that… it’s all haze.”

Daenerys gave a gentle laugh, a thread of fondness warming her tone. “Yes, he did love those things. He was always a strange one, even as a child. They used to say he was my brother’s most dutiful son.”

She paused, her smile thinning slightly. “I imagine few would call him that now.”

Arianne inclined her head, lips curving in agreement. “Running from Dorne without a word and then refusing the King’s summons the moment he returned to Westeros isn’t exactly the mark of a loyal son. But I suppose when you have a dragon, you can afford a few liberties.”

Dany’s eyes flicked toward the window again, but her expression had turned introspective.

“Aemon and I were close,” she said quietly. “I suppose that was due to our ages, we were near enough to be playmates. Still, I remember those days fondly. Egg, Aems, Senya, and I would tear through the gardens like wild things, and Rhae… she would always watch over us. I think someone must have told her it was her duty as the eldest.”

Arianne nodded along, but another thought stirred at the edges of memory. “Rhae,” she murmured. “Yes… Rhaenys was always close to him. Closer than the rest, I think.”

It wasn’t just childhood fondness. Arianne had seen the way Rhaenys stood up for Aemon in court and in quiet corners where family whispered too freely. When others in the Martell household had voiced their doubts, it was always Rhaenys and Elia who silenced them. Elia with her quiet authority, Rhaenys with fire.

Perhaps it had been elder-sister instinct. Or something deeper.

“Yes, they were,” Dany agreed, her tone tinged with something bittersweet. “I remember Rhae once told me that she liked Aemon best because, like her, he hadn’t inherited the Targaryen features. Except for the eyes, of course.”

Arianne hummed, thoughtfully swirling the wine in her goblet. She began to build a picture in her mind, Aemon with Lyanna Stark’s sharp, northern features, but those haunting violet eyes. A male version of the wolf-queen.

She found she liked the image quite a bit.

“It’s rare,” she mused aloud, “for a Targaryen to be born without the silver hair or the ghost-pale skin. That blood runs deep.”

“Not as rare as you’d think,” Dany replied, casting her a knowing glance. “Aemon and Rhaenys inherited only Rhaegar’s eyes, true, but by that measure, Aegon, Visenya, and even little Daeron don’t fully fit the old mold either.”

Arianne raised a brow. “How could you know that? You haven’t seen your youngest nephew in, what, two years?”

Dany nodded but held her gaze. “I remember what he looked like. Aegon has the silver hair and violet eyes, yes, but his skin is a shade darker. Visenya has the eyes too, but she wears Lyanna’s face. And Daeron…” her voice softened, “…he had the Stark face and grey eyes.”

Arianne nodded slowly, imagining them all. If Aerys had lived to see all of his grandchildren, she imagined he would have found plenty to sneer at.

Rhaenys had once told her the story, how when Elia first brought her to court, the Mad King had wrinkled his nose and muttered that “the girl smells Dornish.” As if that were something to be ashamed of.

All too suddenly, the giggles of the noble ladies nearby rose in pitch. Arianne turned her head, curious, and then immediately understood the source of their sudden delight.

In strode her dear cousin, clad in the gleaming armor of the Gold Cloaks. Aegon looked rather tired for such an early hour, though not without his usual poise. There was a slight flush to his cheeks, a faint smudge near his jawline that suggested either haste or something more interesting. The sun hadn’t yet reached its full height, and yet he already looked as if he had faced half the day.

It wasn’t hard to understand the reaction from the gathered ladies.

Aegon was beautiful, undeniably so. The realm had always whispered that Targaryen men possessed an unnatural allure, a beauty born of old Valyria’s fire and blood, and Arianne had long since stopped pretending she didn’t see it. Rhaegar, even in his forties, was still spoken of as the most beautiful man in Westeros.

But Aegon… Aegon was something else entirely.

He was the perfect union of Dorne and Valyria. Unlike Rhaenys, who had taken nearly everything from Elia save for her eyes, Aegon was his father’s son in silhouette and jawline, but kissed by Dorne’s sun. His skin bore the golden warmth of Elia’s blood, his hair was slightly darker, cut shorter than his father's but still long enough.

Looking at him now, Arianne found herself understanding why the Targaryens had so often wed brother to sister. If Aegon had been her brother…

Well. Her life might have taken a very different path indeed.

At his side walked Obara, and if Aegon was the storm’s calm center, she was the flash of lightning dancing through its heart. Her leathers were dust-streaked from the training yards, her breeches slightly loose at the waist, and her curls pulled back with all the care of someone who had better things to do than impress lords. She looked far less tired than Aegon but far more amused.

Obara smirked at the fluttering fans and scandalized stares. She met the wide eyes of the ladies with a raised brow and Arianne bit back a grin.

“Cousin,” Aegon said as he came to a stop near their table, his boots clicking softly against the tiled floor. “Dany,” he added with a respectful nod to his aunt.

“Egg,” the Princess replied, eyeing him with amused scrutiny. “You look far too tired for this hour of the day. Has something happened?”

“Nothing too dire,” he said, glancing sidelong at Obara, who lingered a few steps behind him, arms crossed and expression unreadable. “Well, aside from a spirited sparring match.”

Arianne perked up at once, her wine momentarily forgotten. “And how did it go, dear cousin?”

Aegon gave a dramatic sigh and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “One look at Obara should tell you all you need to know.” He smirked. “I knocked her clean on her arse.”

Daenerys stifled a giggle, but Arianne laughed outright, delighted. “Gods, I wish I’d seen that.”

Obara strode forward then. “Yes, it seems our little prince has grown into quite the swordsman,” she said dryly, coming to stand beside Aegon. She was only slightly shorter than him, but her presence made the difference feel negligible.

“How could I not be?” Aegon replied, straightening his doublet. “As Commander of the City Watch, it would be poor form if I couldn’t hold my own in a fight.” Then he glanced at Obara with a playful glint in his eye. “Of course, I imagine knocking a lady to the ground isn’t what most would call perilous combat.”

Obara shot him a venomous glare, and Arianne laughed again, delighted by their bickering.

“Why don’t you go ahead and tell them why we’re here,” Obara said, stepping closer with the predatory smile of someone who fully intended to settle the score later. “So we can get back outside, and I can see how well you fight now that I know your tricks, hmm, dear cousin?” Their eyes locked, and for a moment, the air between them bristled with challenge.

Aegon chuckled and turned his attention back to Arianne and Dany. “Later, I promise. For now, father has summoned us all to his solar.”

“Why?” Arianne asked, brows rising.

“A small group of ships, five by the latest count, has left Dragonstone and is sailing for King’s Landing,” he explained, a flicker of something unreadable passing across his features.

At that, Arianne straightened, all amusement fading in an instant. But Dany beat her to the question. “Is Aemon with them?”

“No reports of his dragon yet,” Aegon said, though his voice held a hint of excitement. “If she were seen in the skies, we’d know. But it’s possible he’s aboard one of the ships, with the beast flying separately. Or… waiting for it's own entrance.”

“So dramatic,” Dany muttered, though there was a fondness in her voice.

Arianne remained quiet, her mind already racing ahead. Five ships from Dragonstone with no dragon in sight. But Aemon might be coming, and when he did, the board would shift once again.

The Dragonlord

He woke with a gasp, sweat beading on his brow and a fire lodged in his chest where breath should have been. For a heartbeat, he thought he was still burning. Instinct guided his hand to the other side of the bed but his hand found nothing there.

He clenched his jaw, grounding himself as he pressed a palm to his face. Breathe, in through the nose, out through the mouth. It was an old drill, half-remembered from childhood lessons in swordplay and more recent ones in survival. But no blade or battlefield had ever undone him quite like this.

The fire didn’t leave him easily. It coiled in his lungs, as if the dreams had clawed their way through from the inside. He sat upright, spine rigid, bare skin kissed by the chill that seeped in through the cracked window.

The sun was only now beginning to rise. Dawn’s first light spilled across the chamber floor like a thin golden veil, tracing the stone tiles.

They had come again, the dreams. Fiercer and louder now. Since arriving at Dragonstone, they came with almost religious persistence, dragging him night after night into the darkness and showing him things that will take him weeks if not months to understand.

A quiet rustle interrupted his thoughts.

"Another dream?" came a voice, smooth and amused.

Nyra sat across the chamber, perched lazily on a carved chair beside the low table, his journal in her lap. She was entirely nude, unbothered by the cold, her long silver hair falling loosely over one shoulder, her eyes fixed on the page with the slow patience of a cat toying with prey.

The sight of her might have stirred something in him, if not for the lingering dread clinging to his mind. “You know that’s not for you,” he said, voice still rasped from sleep.

She didn’t look up. “You keep leaving it open. I take that as an invitation.” She glanced at him then, the corner of her mouth curling upward.

Aemon exhaled and let himself fall back against the pillow. He stared up at the ceiling of his chambers and listened to the low hum of the wind beyond the stone.

He wasn’t entirely sure how it had come to this, Nyra sharing his bed more often than not, her presence as constant now as the dreams that haunted him. If he had to guess, it had begun after Valyria, when she had stayed by his side through the fever and nursed him back from whatever abyss had tried to swallow him.

That first moon after their return was a blur. He remembered fragments, visions tangled with memory, dreams stitched into waking. The line between what was real and what was not had disappeared, and he had grasped for anything that felt solid.

Perhaps that was why he had asked her to lie beside him… or had it been her idea? A simple act of reassurance, so that when he woke up thrashing and gasping, she would be there, warm, tangible and real.

He couldn’t remember when the act of lying beside each other had become something more. The memory of when comfort gave way to desire, and desire to something darker, refused to settle into place. Perhaps he had allowed it, perhaps he had wanted it. That was the part that twisted in his gut.

His heart had always belonged to another. And yet here he was, tangled in another woman’s sheets, letting her read his thoughts as if they were hers to claim.

His uncle had taught him to be honorable when he and Aegon had been fostered in Winterfell, and yet for nearly a year now he had lain with another, even as Rhaenys’s ghost shadowed his every step. He could still see her face in his dreams, still hear her voice, and yet he had reached for Nyra in the dark.

Part of him, a part he loathed, had even found peace in her. That, more than anything, disgusted him.

Finally, Aemon pushed the sheets aside and rose from the bed, the cool air of the chamber licking at his bare skin.

He crossed the room, his footsteps soft against the stone floor. Nyra’s gaze flicked up as he passed, roving over him with frank appraisal before returning to the journal.

On the table beside her, a half-finished bottle of Dornish red waited in its silver cradle. One of the servants must have left it the evening prior. Aemon wondered whether they knew she had stayed the night. If so, the whispers would be crawling by sunrise, reaching the ears of his grandmother, and from there… Rhaenys.

That thought struck a sour chord. If Rhaenys knew how could he ever face her again?

He poured the wine without ceremony, letting it bleed into the cup. The moment he brought it to his lips, he felt Nyra’s eyes on him again.

"Isn’t it a little early for that?" she asked, snapping the journal closed and setting it aside with a soft thump.

Aemon didn’t answer. He drank, deep and without pause, until the cup was empty.

Nyra sighed, reclining lazily in the chair, her posture a study in temptation. One leg draped over the other, her pale skin glowing in the light of the rising sun. There was something too poised about her stillness, something too perfect in the way she moved, as if her body obeyed a choreography only she understood.

Aemon looked at her, and she welcomed the stare.

He had long since stopped pretending not to notice how inhuman she sometimes seemed. Perhaps she’s like the Red Priestesses of Volantis, he thought. Twenty on the surface, but with centuries humming behind the eyes.

And yet, he could not bring himself to care. Not now. Not after what he had seen. Not when she sat there watching him, half-smiling, basking in the weight of his attention like it pleased her.

His gaze lingered, roaming her body with quiet hunger, and she tilted her head as if to say, “I know, keep looking.”

And he did, for shame had not yet sobered him, and guilt, for now, had learned to wait.

Aemon reached again for the bottle, but before the wine could kiss the rim of his cup, a pale hand intercepted him. Nyra’s fingers closed around his own, guiding the glass away with effortless grace.

“That’s enough,” she said softly, not unkindly.

He raised an eyebrow at her, amused despite himself. “Since when did you grow so prudent?”

“I suspect,” she murmured, her gaze flicking from the cup to his eyes, “you must’ve seen something dreadful if you’re already drowning it in wine.”

He sighed, shoulders slackening. “It’s the same thing,” he admitted at last, his voice low and raw. “Valyria, burning. The sky a cracked mirror, both light and dark, full of screams. The towers collapsing in fire and beyond it all a large dragon with a huge host of men at it's back marching into the ruin, and after that a shadow appears besides me, a woman, I think, with...” He trailed off, jaw tightening.

Nyra tilted her head slightly. He didn’t need to finish.

“With pale blue eyes” she said.

He nodded and Nyra studied him with unreadable eyes. Then, without a word, she rose from her chair and crossed the space between them. Her bare form pressed against his, skin warm despite the chill that hung in the air.

He stiffened at first, instinct warring with guilt. But the contact was grounding, almost painful in its comfort. Her breasts settled against his chest, her breath feathering over his collarbone. She was nearly his height, tall for a woman, taller than most men would ever find comfortable. He did not mind it, in fact, he had always found her presence too commanding to ignore.

“If it’s the same dream you’ve had before,” she whispered against his neck, “why drink now?”

He didn’t answer.

“Don’t tell me,” she continued, lips curving near his ear, “that during the nights we spent apart, you started each morning like this… choking down wine like it could ward off dreams.”

Aemon exhaled, a hollow sound. She already knows.

He looked past her, toward the window where the sea shimmered like molten steel in the dawnlight. For a moment, he considered lying. Then discarded the thought.

He stepped away from her without a word and crossed the room, the cold stone biting at his bare feet. The window stood open to the sea, and Aemon leaned against its dark frame, bracing his hands on the railing and drew a slow breath.

He closed his eyes and reached inward, tugging at the invisible thread that bound him to Nyraxes. The bond responded sluggishly at first. Her mind was vast and never easy to enter. Ghost welcomed him openly, but with Nyraxes, he was always a guest, and she made sure he never forgot it.

Still, for a moment, he saw through her eyes: the curve of the sun over the bay, her wings slicing the mist as she glided above the sea. Then, a flash of movement below, something large, dark, and serpentine. She dove and water exploded upward as she struck, talons closing around a whale.

He blinked himself free of her mind. The echo of her hunger faded, replaced by a familiar sensation of warmth.

Nyra’s arms slid around him from behind, her hands meeting at his chest. Her bare body pressed fully against his back, skin soft but grounding, real. She rested her chin against his shoulder, breath hot against the shell of his ear.

“You’re worried,” she murmured, voice low and coaxing. “I can feel it.”

Aemon didn’t answer. The truth of it lay too close to the surface.

“You walked through the ruins of Valyria, faced what should not have lived, killed the last scion of a forgotten line, and became the first Dragonlord in more than a century. And yet now you hesitate.”

He tried to scoff, to dismiss her words with a breath and a half-smile. But her presence behind him made that impossible. She had a way of pressing too close, of using touch not as seduction but as persuasion. Her body was a language, and he had learned to listen.

“You’re still angry with your father,” she said quietly, “for denying you the one thing you always wanted.”

His jaw tensed.

“Angry that he dared speak of prophecy, one he does not understand. That he wrapped your and your siblings' future in riddles and ruin, then expected you to walk into fire blindfolded. You hate that you did walk into fire. That you returned changed, that you now see things in your dreams he never could have known about.”

Her lips brushed the curve of his neck. “And you’re afraid of returning home. Of seeing your sister. Because while you burned, she may have healed. Because she may have moved on, and you…” she paused, “...have not.”

He stiffened, throat dry. She’s not wrong. He had dreamt of returning since the day they left the ruins behind. And yet now, so close to Westeros's shore once more, he felt less like a returning son and more like a stranger.

“I’ve moved on,” he said. The words sounded empty even to his own ears. “Haven’t I? I’ve shared my bed with you for nearly a year now.”

Nyra gave a faint, breathless laugh against his skin.

“You confuse love with need. With lust, with the warmth that keeps the nightmares away.” She loosened her hold on him, just enough for him to feel the shift. “You needed me after Valyria, and still do. But I am not a fool. I do not have your heart and I never will.”

When he finally turned back, Nyra was still there, still watching him with that infuriating calm. “You really shouldn’t stay here much longer,” he said, trying to shift the air between them. “The servants will be moving through the keep soon. Someone might see.”

Nyra laughed, a throaty, melodic sound that filled the stone chamber like a songbird let loose in a crypt.

“Oh, Aemon,” she said, slowly making her way back to him. “Worried someone might catch us? That a kitchen girl or steward will scurry back to your grandmother with tales of the silver-haired woman leaving your chambers before sunrise?”

She closed the distance again, pressing herself lightly to his chest, her lips brushing close to his jaw.

“Did you not see the looks they gave me when I first arrived?” she whispered. “Your uncle, your aunt, your mother, all watching. And your grandmother? She didn’t even bother to hide her curiosity. She sent Ser Barristan, you know. To see whether we entered each other’s chambers after dusk.”

Aemon’s eyes narrowed. He had noticed the stares but Barristan? She smiled at the flicker of realization that crossed his face.

“My dear prince,” she purred, “they already suspect. They all but know we share a bed. The only mystery left to them is why. Is it love? Lust? Some secret pact to bind the last Dragonlord?”

She drew back, just enough for her expression to shift: amused and knowing. “The truth, of course, is far more boring. How would they react, I wonder, if I told them I only began to share your bed because you couldn’t sleep without waking up screaming?”

The words settled heavy between them.

She smiled and leaned in again, her body pressing fully to his chest, skin warm despite the morning chill. Her lips brushed his with the barest whisper of a kiss, not quite a promise, not quite a tease.

To Aemon, the sensation was maddening.

There was something perilous in the way Nyra could command the room, and him, with such ease. Intelligence sharp enough to draw blood, beauty sculpted by the gods themselves, and just enough sorcery woven through her presence to make men doubt their own minds. He had seen seasoned captains stumble over words in her presence, priests fall quiet mid-sermon when she turned her gaze their way.

But for him, it wasn’t her allure alone that bound him, it was something deeper, stranger. Her closeness unsettled him and comforted him in equal measure. Her body stirred his flesh, yes, but also his fears. As though she carried with her a fragment of the fire he had walked through in Valyria… and survived.

When they had returned to Volantis, the Red Temple had tried to lay claim to him. The priestesses there were eager to press their lips to his ear and whisper prophecy, eager to run hands along his skin while speaking of cold things and falling stars. But their warmth had been hollow. A performance. There was no resonance there, no pull.

Nyra, on the other hand, felt real. Terrifyingly so.

He thought, for a moment, that she might kiss him. That they would tumble back into the bed, tangled in sheets and confusion once more.

But just as his eyes began to close, she pulled away entirely.

She crossed the room with feline grace, her silver hair falling like a curtain down her back. She reached for the chair where her clothes had been carelessly draped the night before.

“Get dressed,” she said without looking back. Her tone had shifted, commanding now. “Your kin will reach King’s Landing tomorrow, and we depart the day after. I’d prefer to spend what time we have left doing something useful.”

She glanced over her shoulder then, smirking faintly. “Gods bless the sea for taking Monford off our hands. I imagine you, like me, had grown weary of the man’s obsession with charting a safe passage through the Smoking Sea.”

Aemon gave a faint snort, rubbing a hand across his face.

They broke their fast not long after.

Nothing grand, just warm bread with butter, a wedge of white cheese from Driftmark, and a bowl of blackberries steeped in honeyed wine. Aemon poured himself another cup and Nyra watched him do it, her expression unreadable save for the faint narrowing of her eyes. Her disapproval was quiet but pointed.

He drank anyway.

Her gaze lingered a moment longer before she returned to her food, and he found himself smiling faintly. There was something oddly satisfying about provoking her, something almost boyish in it. She bore so much mystery, so much poise, that the rare flash of sternness made her feel more... human.

Still, he couldn't help but notice the servants.

They moved through the chamber as they usually did, but Aemon could feel the shift in the air. The subtle glances, the occasional pause that lingered just a heartbeat too long. They knew or suspected. And in truth, he wasn’t sure what he thought of that.

Jaime was gone, having left with the rest of the royal household for King’s Landing and without him, there was no sparring to be had.

Aemon had planned to follow on Nyraxes, arriving only after the others had made it to the capital. Nyra had insisted she remain behind with him, citing unfinished work.

He hadn’t missed the looks that earned her from his muña and grandmother. As if they were waiting for confirmation of some suspicion.

He had told his muña that the small council should be warned of his arrival. He would leave the day after their landing, giving them time to prepare the city. The last time Nyraxes had flown unannounced over a populated city, it had caused chaos.

After their meal, he and Nyra made their way through the winding halls to a chamber overlooking the southern tower, a vault he had set aside for the artifacts he’d brought back from Valyria. Most of it had been taken to the capital but a small part had been left behind, at his request. He wasn’t ready to parade those scrolls through the halls of the Red Keep just yet.

They remained there for most of the day, curled among old tomes, ancient fragments, and the flickering light of lanterns. The air in the chamber was thick with the scent of parchment, melted wax, and sea salt wafting in from the narrow windows.

They spoke of dragons and Valyrian steel and many more things. There were things Aemon had not dared speak aloud while his kin had been on the island, things he barely understood himself. But here, alone with Nyra, he let the words come.

Some memories still made his skin crawl: the things glimpsed in the shadows of that dead empire, the moments he couldn’t explain, the sounds that had no source and yet echoed still in his head. Magic didn’t sleep in Valyria, not after the Doom.

Nyra listened, as she always did. Sometimes she offered a word, a theory. More often, she let him speak until the shape of his confusion gave way to clarity.

Eventually, their conversation shifted, drifting from the present to the past, from what they had seen to what others had failed to find.

Surprisingly, it was Nyra who brought up the subject of the failed expeditions. They had not spoken of them much since before their first journey, but now the topic resurfaced again.

They spoke of King Tommen of the Rock, who had sailed with his golden fleet and never returned. Of how he had made deals with the Triarchs of Volantis, believing he could do what no man had done before.

Then the conversation turned, almost naturally, to Aurion.

Aemon blinked. He hadn’t thought of Aurion in some time. To him, man had always seemed little more than a tragic footnote. A Dragonlord who had escaped the Doom by sheer luck, off in Qohor when the flames took his homeland. He had returned with arrogance, proclaimed himself Emperor of Valyria, and marched back into the smoking ruin.

To Aemon, Aurion had been a cautionary tale.
But Nyra was the one who had insisted they discuss him now. There was a look in her eyes as she spoke, the kind of look she wore when she already knew where the conversation would end.

At times, Aemon wondered if she had answers to questions he hadn’t yet thought to ask.

And at other times, it drove him mad.

She never lied but she never gave him everything, either. Instead, she laid out pieces and let him stumble toward the shape of truth. Sometimes it helped, other times, it left him staring at the ceiling in the dark, his mind churning with unfinished riddles.

“I still don’t understand why you're so fixated on the man,” Aemon said as he leaned back against his chair. “He declared himself Emperor, marched thirty thousand men into the ruins, and was never seen again. That’s the whole tale, isn't it?”

“That's the part everyone knows,” Nyra replied, eyes still fixed on him. “But what I want to understand is why he was outside Valyria at all before the Doom. A Dragonlord of his stature should’ve been in the heart of the Freehold during such uncertain years, not wandering Essos like a sellsword.”

Aemon raised an eyebrow. “Why not? I thought the Dragonlords went where they pleased. Didn’t they rule the Freehold because they weren’t bound by borders?”

“They did,” she admitted. “Their position gave them freedom. But even Valyria had customs, and when those customs break, they usually break for a reason.” She rubbed a hand across her face. “Do you remember the scrolls we read of how Valyria was governed?”

Aemon shrugged. “Yes, it was run by a handful of noble families. Two score or so, always at each other’s throats, yet somehow managing not to burn the world down between them.”

Nyra nodded. “Forty dragonrider families at their height, yes. And they ruled with consensus, a loose confederation, each family with their own holdings and slaves, their own mines and temples. When decisions had to be made, they convened in the council-house, where Archons and magistrates debated policy.”

“Sounds worse than the Small Council,” he muttered.

“Maybe,” Nyra said. “But here’s the thing: someone like Aurion, head of one of the oldest and wealthiest bloodlines, shouldn’t have just vanished from those debates. Especially not while there was unease in the Freehold and the elections of the new archons.”

“My own ancestors left Valyria some twelve years before the Doom, and no one paid them much mind.”

“Your ancestors didn’t hold half the esteem or wealth that Aurion and his bloodline did,” Nyra replied without missing a beat. “When the Targaryens fled, the others called them craven and weak.” She said, the last words sounding almost bitterly.

Ironic, Aemon thought, how those called craven were the only dragonlords to survive, and the only ones to rule after.

He exhaled and leaned forward. “Still, I don’t see what has you so fixated. The man left, then claimed himself Emperor. So what?”

Nyra shook his head. “The point is not just why Aurion left, but where he went.”

They spoke for hours more, words stretching long into the dimming afternoon and when Aemon finally stepped out, the air beyond the stone walls felt thinner.

He left with more questions than answers. And some part of him, an instinct sharpened over time of watching Nyra twist conversation into revelation, knew that had been her intent all along.

She had planted something inside him. A seed. And it was growing.

The name lingered like a whisper on the back of his tongue. It followed him into the solar, through supper, where he barely tasted the bread and spiced lamb set before him. It trailed after him into the bath, curling in the steam rising off the heated water, lapping at his thoughts.

A man who vanished from the Freehold during a time of rising tension, only to survive the Doom. That alone might’ve been simple luck. And yet… Nyra had made it feel designed.

She hadn’t said as much. She rarely did. But she had guided the conversation toward him, nudged Aemon gently until the name Aurion began to carry a weight it hadn’t before.

Aemon had wanted to press her, to demand answers. But he hadn’t because he knew the pattern by now. Nyra never gave answers, only angles.

It was only when he returned to his chambers, the heat of the bath still clinging to his skin, that Aurion finally slipped from his mind, chased away by the sight waiting for him.

Nyra lay sprawled across his bed, silver hair fanned over the pillows, her body bare and utterly unbothered by the hour or the cold. That same knowing smile curved her lips.

He stood there for a long moment, towel clutched at his waist, as shame warred with need.

A ghost stirred behind his eyes, another woman, another face. But it was fleeting, because the part of him that let the towel fall, the part that crossed the floor and climbed into the bed beside Nyra, was the part he hated most.

She pulled him close, straddled him and for a moment Aemon lay beneath her, eyes locked to hers. Green and blue meeting violet. The past faded and the questions dimmed. Nyra leaned forward, and in her heat, the questions and worries receded.

And when all was said and done, when she lay curled against him beneath the sheets, her breath warm against his bare shoulder and he hovered on the edge of sleep, body heavy with exhaustion, mind still adrift, she leaned in.

Her lips brushed the shell of his ear, soft as a secret. “You are a dragon, never forget that, my prince.”

The words came like a spell, low and coiling. Her breath tickled his skin.

“When we arrive in King’s Landing, you will take what you have always longed for. That is the way of our kind. Dragons do not beg, they do not ask, they claim. And who,” she whispered, her voice dripping with quiet certainty, “would be foolish enough to deny you now?”

He didn’t answer and she pressed closer, her arm draped over his chest, her heartbeat steady against his ribs.

“Worry not,” she murmured. "She has always held your heart… and you still hold hers, too.”

The darkness wrapped around them after that. And Aemon Targaryen dreamed not of snow or shadows that night, but of fire, and the sister he had left behind.

Chapter Text

The Harpist King

Was he a terrible father?

The thought drifted unbidden and Rhaegar let out a long, weary sigh. He had learned the answer to that question years ago.

The harp rested in his lap, a relic from another life. He hadn’t meant to pick it up, but here it was and here he was, pretending he still knew how to begin.

His fingers curled around it and the feeling of it was foreign now, though once it had fit against him like a lover.

He plucked a string.

The note rang out sharp and unkind, a broken thing. He shifted in the chair, then tried another. Flat and mournful. Each note lingered too long. He did not try a third. The harp had forgotten him and so he sighed and set it aside.

He remembered it too well. Aemon’s voice had echoed like thunder between the pillars, full of fury, calling him mad, calling him a hypocrite. Rhaenys stood beside him, her voice a whisper of desperation as she begged. They had both looked at him not as a father, but as a stranger and in that moment, he had known the truth: he had failed them as a father.

Now, years later, he sat alone in his solar, watching the sky. His son would return at any moment. And gods help him, he did not know if he could bear to look Aemon in the eyes.

He had done what was necessary, he reminded himself of that often. He had done it to save the realm, to ensure that the dragon would have three heads when the Long Night came creeping from the North.

It had made sense and it had to be done, but it had never made it easier.

That was the cruel truth of prophecy. Only he had glimpsed its full shape, only he had dared to carry its burden. And in doing so, he had chosen to place the realm before the hearts of his children. It was a choice that the king made, and the father regretted.

He had told himself that it was the price of the future. That if he did not bend their fates to the shape the prophecy demanded, all would be lost. Yet even now, he remembered the crack in Rhaenys’s voice, the rawness in Aemon’s eyes, the way the hall had seemed to go still when he told them no.

Did they believe he had done it without pain? That he took joy in sundering their bond, in denying his daughter the love she had known since childhood, in sending his son away? He hadn’t, but it hadn’t mattered then and it didn’t matter now.

Perhaps one day, they would understand.

When the winds of winter rose and the stars bled and the world trembled before the darkness, perhaps then they would see the purpose behind everything he had ever done. Perhaps then they would see why he had made himself a monster in their eyes.

Rhaegar did not expect forgiveness but he hoped they would understand.

He closed his eyes and tried to picture his son, but try as he might, Rhaegar could summon no image save one: a pair of violet eyes, filled with hatred and quiet disappointment.

Would Aemon look at him that way?

He hoped not, gods, he hoped not. But some part of him braced for it.

Rhaenys had hidden her sorrow well, cloaking it beneath the armor of the perfect princess. But he had seen it, behind the courtly smiles, in the way her fingers trembled when no one looked. He might have been a poor father, but he was not a blind one. He knew his children, or at least the four he still dared to claim. He feared the fifth had been lost to him long ago.

And now, the man returning to the capital bore his son’s name, his face, his blood but Rhaegar was not certain he would recognize the soul behind the eyes.

The bitter irony was not lost on him. He had done all he could to prevent this very fracture. He had worked tirelessly to bind his children close, to raise them as kin, not rivals. He had wanted them to care for one another. He had feared what would become of the realm if they did not. But he had not accounted for love, the dangerous kind, the kind that defied duty.

No prophecy had warned him of that. No dream had whispered how Rhaenys would come to love Aemon not as a sister, but as something more. And Aemon, so much like Lyanna in that, had loved her back fiercely.

Perhaps that had been his true mistake, not forbidding such closeness, but encouraging it. Perhaps he should have kept them apart, scattered them like seeds across the realm, wed them early and elsewhere, built walls of duty and distance between their hearts. But he hadn’t.

And now he wondered if that choice had doomed them all. Because what father would willingly plant the seeds of a love that prophecy demanded he destroy?

He was a hypocrite, and he knew it.

Worse still, he was a coward.

He had killed men on the Trident, had led charges beneath his house's banner, and yet he could not bring himself to face his own son. He had not stood on the docks that day, had not held Aemon’s gaze, had not offered a parting word. He had stayed behind the walls of the Keep.

Aemon had been his most dutiful child, his quiet strength, the one who obeyed without protest, who asked questions only when no one else could. If any of them would understand why he had to do the things he did, Rhaegar had thought it would be him. He had believed it, with the blind faith of a man drowning in omens.

But he had broken the boy's heart before he could even speak of dreams or doom. He had severed Aemon from the person he truly loved, with cold logic and royal decree, telling himself it was for the good of the realm. That the dragon must have three heads, that Rhaenys would marry Aegon and Visenya, and he would take Arianne to wife.

Perhaps if he had explained it, Aemon might have listened, he might have obeyed. But by then, Rhaegar had already seen the storm in his son’s eyes, and he had flinched.

And so, he had sent him away, to Dorne. As far from Rhaenys as he could. As far from the throne room where he had stood, trembling with rage, demanding the one thing that Rhaegar couldn't give him.

And the last time Rhaegar saw him was that very day, when he told him no.

When the letter came weeks later, carried by a wind-worn raven, bearing the seal of house Martell, Rhaegar had stared at it for a long time. Aemon had vanished. Run off with Jaime, no word of where or why. No farewell.

And in that moment, Rhaegar realized the truth: he had never truly known his son.

Some part of him, a small, dark, shameful sliver of his soul, had hoped Aemon would not return. That he would stay gone, that the pain would fade. That the prophecy would unfold cleanly, without ghosts or reminders.

And for four years, that lie sustained him.

I have lost a son, he would say to himself in quiet moments, when Elia or Lyanna weren’t near. But the realm will survive, I have the three heads. I still have the future.

But the future had not come easily.

Aegon despised the prophecy. Rhaegar could see it, though his son hid it well behind the calm dignity of a prince. But there was a pause, always a pause, when Rhaegar spoke of it. A flicker in Aegon’s eyes, a tightening of the jaw.

The Prince That Was Promised loathed the very promise that named him.

Oh, he would do his duty. He would marry both his sisters, as the Faith had reluctantly permitted, and wear the crown for the good of the realm, but he would never forgive his father. He would never believe in the dream the way Rhaegar did, not until the Long Night came down from the North.

Rhaenys, he had never expected her to accept it. Not after what it had cost her.

She still wore the mask of the perfect princess, all grace and charm, and spoke brightly of her upcoming wedding, of gowns and guests and tourneys. But Rhaegar saw the truth beneath the performance. He saw it in the way her eyes found him across the hall, sharp as Valyrian steel.

He had taken the boy she loved, and though she smiled, though she curtsied and called him father, Rhaegar knew she would never truly forgive him. Nor should she.

Only Visenya understood. Because she dreamed, too.

The dreams had abandoned Rhaegar after the Trident, after Lyanna’s cries, after Elia’s trembling silence when he returned to the Red Keep, no fire-lit visions came to him anymore.

But then Visenya had come of age, and the dreams had come to her instead.

She spoke of black skies and of wings, of a burning sword and the Prince who held it. And Rhaegar had understood, then, the gods had not abandoned him. They had passed the burden on.

It was not his role to see it through, but to ensure that the three heads of the dragon would come together, even if two of them came dragging their heels, weighed down by resentment and heartbreak.

Lyanna had left for Winterfell two years after Aemon disappeared. He did not blame her.

He saw it in her eyes every time she looked at him, that terrible truth neither of them could say aloud: he had cost her their son.

She had loved him once, in her wild way. But whatever love remained between them had been buried the day Rhaegar signed the betrothal pact that sent Aemon to Dorne, and again the day Aemon vanished across the Narrow Sea.

Elia had never left him, not entirely. She had split her time between Sunspear and the capital, performing her duties. But even her gaze burned him now.

And then came the day Lyanna stood in the solar, tears threatening but unshed, and begged him to let her take Visenya north with her.

And he had said no, because he needed Visenya here. Because the dreams had chosen her, because the fate of the world might hinge on her presence in King’s Landing. Because he had already lost one child to love and did not dare lose another to distance. But in choosing duty over love once more, he knew he had broken something irreparable.

That was how he had lived these past years.

The dragon would have three heads, the Long Night would come and the realm would endure.
It had all seemed to be moving, finally, toward what must be.

Until the raven came.

Until the rumors swept over Blackwater Bay and reached the Red Keep like distant thunder: Aemon had returned to Dragonstone, riding a dragon.

At first, he had felt joy, real joy. That rare, breathless kind. My son is alive, he had thought. He lives.

But joy is a fragile thing. And the darker voice within had soon whispered its poison.

Aemon had returned, but not alone. He had come with a dragon. Not Aegon. Not Rhaenys. Not Visenya. Aemon.

And that was not how it was meant to be.

The prophecy had been clear, or so he had believed. Aegon was the one. Aegon would unite the realm, bring back dragons, wield the flaming sword against the night. Aegon was the Prince That Was Promised. But it was Aemon who had returned from across the sea, riding a dragon.

Senya had been fast to think of an explanation, that maybe Aemon was the key, that he brought back the last living dragon and that they would bring upon their new age.

And it sounded so simple, so plausible. But prophecy was never simple.

Had he misunderstood it all? Had the dreams deceived him, or had he simply seen what he wanted to see?

And what now?

If Aemon came for Rhaenys… if the bond between them remained unbroken, if some part of her heart still ached for him, as Rhaegar knew it did, then what was left of the plan would collapse.

For who would dare defy a dragon?

Even the greatest lords bowed before fire. The Faith, the nobles, the smallfolk, they would rally to a returned prince. And Rhaenys, gods help her, might go to him freely.

And Rhaegar hated himself for it.

Because in the quiet of his solar, he realized something monstrous: only a small part of him rejoiced at knowing his son was alive. The rest of him felt only dread.

But perhaps… there was a solution.

There had to be.

And the gods, in their strange mercy, might have already placed it before him.

It had been Jaime who had offered the first true piece of the puzzle, reluctantly, haltingly, as if each word betrayed a confidence he had sworn never to speak. But Rhaegar was his king, and the Kingsguard were sworn first to the crown, not to the Prince they guarded.

“He dreams,” Jaime had said, voice low. And just like that, the path had opened before him.

Aemon dreamed.

The knowledge struck Rhaegar like a sword to the heart, not in pain, but in sudden clarity. The truth he had longed for, feared, and never dared to hope: his son shared the gift, the burden. The sight.

How Aemon had known of Visenya’s dreams had baffled him at first. But now that the rest of the royal family had returned from Dragonstone, it was clear.

If Aemon truly dreamed, then he might understand.

He might have seen the same things. The same darkness, the same shadowed snowfields, the same broken throne beneath a bleeding star. He might know what Rhaegar knew, what Senya had only begun to grasp.

And if he understood, if he had felt the weight of the prophecy in his bones as Rhaegar had, then perhaps… perhaps he would not hate him. Perhaps he would not try to take Rhaenys. Perhaps he would see the necessity behind the pain, the order beneath the madness.

The gods had not cursed him. They had given him another chance, another child marked by dreams.

If Rhaegar could only speak with him, if he could reach past the silence, the distance, the scars both of them carried, then Aemon might yet become the bridge.

The key.

And once Aemon understood, once the dreams made sense to him, he might be the one to make Aegon listen, to reach Rhaenys in a way Rhaegar no longer could. He could bring the three heads together.

Yes. Yes, it could work.

The pieces were falling into place now, each one clicking with terrifying elegance. Aegon’s strength. Visenya’s sight. Rhaenys’ heart. And Aemon, he would be the fulcrum. The gods had not abandoned their song. The chorus had only shifted.

Almost as if summoned by his thoughts, a roar shattered the silence.

It did not echo like any beast of this world, but rolled across the sky like thunder. Rhaegar was on his feet before he knew it, the goblet forgotten on the table.

He crossed the room in a single breath and threw open the tall, arched window of his solar.

And there it was.

She soared above the Red Keep in a graceful arc, her wings spanned wide enough to blot out the sun for an instant. The dragon circled once, its eyes scanning the castle below, before banking westward toward the Dragonpit.

Even in all his dreams, he had never seen it like this. Rhaegar’s breath caught in his throat.

The door to his solar creaked open behind him, and he turned just as Arthur stepped into the room.

Rhaegar didn’t hesitate. “Summon my family,” he said. “Tell them to meet me in the courtyard.”

Arthur inclined his head. “At once, your Grace,” he said, and with a turn of his white cloak, he vanished down the corridor.

Rhaegar turned back to the window.

Nyraxes banked higher, and from where he stood Rhaegar saw her vast silhouette swallowing the sun. For a moment, all of Maegor’s Holdfast was cast into shade, a blanket of darkness that swept over the red stone like a harbinger.

Everything stilled. Even the wind seemed to vanish. The dragon hovered and then, with a sound that split the sky, she roared and the sky lit up.

Nyraxes opened her maw, and a stream of brilliant flame came forth, white-hot and blinding, edged in flickering blue like the heart of a forge. The light was so intense that Rhaegar raised a hand against it, shielding his eyes even through the thick glass of his window.

The city below stirred. Even behind thick stone, Rhaegar could hear it now: the rising tide of voices from the streets. Gasps, screams, prayers. Bells began to toll from Sept.

He imagined mothers clutching babes to their breasts, old men dropping their cups, sellswords falling to their knees. For the first time in more than a century, King’s Landing had seen a dragon fly over it.

As the light faded and the wind returned, Nyraxes dipped her wings and began her descent, the enormous beast banking low across the rooftops of the capital with impossible grace. The wind from her wings sent market stalls clattering and cloaks billowing as she passed, a living tempest descending on the ancient ruin of the Pit.

And Rhaegar watched her go.

The Silent Princess

The Pit was already teeming by the time they arrived. The roar of the crowd reverberated off stone walls, a restless sea of commoners and lords alike pressing in from all sides. King's Landing had come alive, drawn by the promise of legend made flesh.

At the front of their column, Aegon barked commands atop his pale charger. The Gold Cloaks flanked him in tight formation, clearing a narrow path through the crowd. Their spears and shouted warnings earned space inch by grudging inch.

Within the royal carriage, Rhaenys watched the world blur behind thick glass, familiar streets swallowed by an ocean of strangers. Her fingers curled against her skirts as the Pit loomed ever nearer.

At last, the carriage slowed, and one of the Gold Cloaks rapped twice before opening the door. “It’s safe now, your Graces.”

Rhaenys came down first, followed by her father, her mothers, her siblings, and the rest of the royal family. But the crowd was not watching them, all eyes had turned inward, toward the yawning mouth of the Dragon Pit, where the beast waited.

They entered in a solemn procession, and though she had visited the ruin before, it felt different now.

She should have been watching her footing on the cracked stone floor, or listening to Arianne whisper something sly at her side. But Rhaenys could see only one thing in her mind's eye, feel only one thing.

Aemon.

The thought of his name alone stirred something raw within her, tangled and half-healed. Once, she had known his every mood, every silence. Once, she had loved him so fiercely it had frightened even her, and once, he had loved her in turn. But that was four years ago.

Then, she saw it. The dragon lay at the center of the ruin. All the stories, the whispered accounts, the exaggerated sketches passed through court, none of them had done her justice. She was enormous, larger than any living thing Rhaenys had ever imagined, her long serpentine neck curled lazily around herself, tail draped like a silver chain over the broken stones.

And gods, she was beautiful. Her scales shimmered between ghost-white and pale silver. Where sunlight touched them, they seemed to drink in the light rather than reflect it. Her wings, half-folded, were veined with webbing so fine it looked like stretched glass. And when she stirred, Rhaenys heard the breath of the crowd vanish like a sucked-in tide.

The dragon lifted her head, the motion was slow and with it came a sound, not a growl, not a snarl, but a rumble, as if she was clearing her throat.

The nobles who had managed to force their way into the Pit had begun to arrange themselves in a loose semicircle along the walls of the ruin. There was no ceremony to it, and yet the formation took shape all the same, as if dictated by fear. No one wished to stand too close, and none could tear their eyes from the silver beast.

Rhaenys stood with her family at the forefront, just beside the threshold. To her left stood her Martell kin and to her right, the Lannisters and the Tullys. The Tyrells stood in measured elegance behind them, flanked by Hightowers and Redwynes.

Yet despite the crush of lords and ladies, their murmuring and their finery, the Dragon Pit was quieter than a crypt. The crowd dared not speak aloud. The dragon commanded that much reverence by her presence alone.

But Aemon was not there. He was not atop the dragon, as she had imagined he would be. Nor did he wait in plain sight.

Rhaenys felt her breath tighten in her chest, the edge of dread cutting through her anticipation. Had he run off again? Had he turned his back once more, as he had four years ago?

Then the dragon stirred, her silvered head turned slowly toward the western alcove, an angle hidden from most of the gathered lords by a collapsed arch and broken columns. The movement was subtle and Rhaenys’s gaze followed it instinctively.

And there she saw motion. Figures emerging from behind the dragon, small against her monstrous bulk.

The first was a woman.

She stepped forward with the poise of a queen, her gown flowed like water, pure white save for a thin girdle of silver that circled around her waist.

That had to be Nyra, the woman her muña Lya and grandmother had spoken of in hushed, uncertain tones. A companion to Aemon, they had said, though the word had never sat right in Rhaenys’s mind. There had been something clipped in Lyanna’s voice when she spoke it, something strained and unwilling. Grandmother had said even less, but Rhaenys knew her well enough to read between silences.

And now, looking upon her, Rhaenys understood why. Even from across the Pit, the woman’s beauty was undeniable. Her posture was elegant, her chin lifted not in arrogance but in absolute certainty of place. She moved as though this gathering, this ruin, even the dragon, existed merely to frame her entrance.

Rhaenys’s throat tightened. Had he moved on?

Had the years apart carved a chasm too wide for them to bridge? Had this woman taken his hand in the dark places where Rhaenys could not follow? The thought bit deep, for she had once believed their bond unbreakable.

All her thoughts disappeared the moment the second figure emerged from behind the dragon.

Even at a distance, with shadows clinging to his frame and the light behind him turning his silhouette to shade, Rhaenys knew him. She would have known him across a battlefield, across the world, across years. Time had tried its best to weather him, but blood recognized blood, and hers sang at the sight.

He walked beside Nyra, just a shade taller than her, his steps steady but unhurried, as though the Pit and its thousand watching eyes held no weight to him.

And as he stepped into the open, as the dragon’s bulk no longer obscured him, the crowd began to murmur, a ripple of recognition spreading outward. Lords leaned forward, Ladies covered their lips, children pointed and even the Gold Cloaks turned their heads.

But Rhaenys saw none of them for she saw only him.

This was not the boy she had last seen in the throne room, shoulders taut with fury. Nor was he quite the man she had envisioned in the long years since. He was both and neither. He was Aemon, but older and harder

He came to a stop just a few feet from Rhaegar and the Pit itself seemed to hold its breath as father and son faced each other.

She stood frozen, watching the space between them as though it were a battlefield and they, the last men standing. Aemon’s face was calm, impassive, unreadable, whatever storm brewed in his mind did not touch his eyes, and she found herself frustrated by that.

Rhaegar, by contrast, looked haunted. There was no mistaking the emotions flitting across his face: wariness, regret, confusion and, most surprising of all, hope. Not the wild hope of reunion or triumph, but the brittle, desperate kind that clings to the edge of ruin.

For a time, they stood as if carved from stone, not even a breeze passed between them. The murmurs from the crowd had faded into a silence as lords and ladies watched with bated breath.

To Rhaenys, it felt as though the very world had narrowed to this moment. She almost believed they would remain that way forever, locked in some quiet duel of glances, time itself arrested, until all the stones of the Pit turned to sand and the world around to ash.

Then finally, after what felt like an eternity, Rhaegar stepped forward and the air in the Pit shifted. It was a subtle thing, but Rhaenys felt it as keenly as a change in the wind.

Every eye turned and watched as Rhaegar walked slowly toward Aemon. Each step their father took was measured, like a man walking a narrow bridge strung across an abyss.

Rhaenys watched them both and a thousand questions raced through her mind. Would Aemon speak first? Would he lash out as he had on that day in the throne room? Would Rhaegar offer an apology, or fall into prophecy once more? Would one of them flinch?

She didn’t know and then she remembered where they stood.

The Dragon Pit was a stage today. The great houses lined its perimeter, noble blood that fed on rumor like carrion crows. None of them knew the truth. Not about the love denied, nor the true reason behind her brother’s absence these past four years. And if Rhaegar or Aemon showed even a flicker of discord, it would not go unnoticed. Worse, it would not go unspoken.

“Son,” Rhaegar said at last, stopping a few paces from him. The word was formal, but not cold. He was still taller, if only slightly, but when they looked at each other, there was no sense of age or rank. Their eyes met, and something passed between them, something that Rhaenys could not name.

Aemon’s jaw tightened. His posture was straighter now, not rigid like Rhaegar’s, but held with quiet tension. “Father,” he said, voice steady, but his gaze was hard. “You’re looking well,” he added after a beat. “The years have treated you kindly.” His voice softened slightly on the last words, but only just.

Rhaenys narrowed her eyes. Aemon’s Common Tongue was precise and clear, but certain consonants were shaped ever so slightly differently. A faint, lilting cadence. The soft curve of his r's, the clipped s, it was an Essosi accent. Lysene, or perhaps Volantene. It wasn't thick enough to sound foreign, but it clung to the edges of his speech like a perfume one could not place.

She wasn’t the only one who noticed. Arianne, beside her, tilted her head in interest. Even Aegon’s eyes flicked upward, just briefly, as if he too heard something in his brother’s voice he didn’t quite recognize.

Rhaegar didn’t answer, instead, he stepped forward and embraced him. It was not a gesture she had expected, and clearly neither had Aemon, who stiffened at first. It took him a full heartbeat to respond, arms rising in return as he rested them around his father’s back. But the tension didn’t vanish.

Both men held themselves too straight, too aware. It was not a natural embrace, it was politics, painted with the faintest tint of feeling, a show for the realm.

After a long moment, Rhaegar stepped back from the embrace and turned to face the gathered crowd. His hand remained on Aemon’s shoulder. “My lords and ladies,” he said, voice smooth as ever, carrying effortlessly through the ruin of the Dragon Pit, “welcome home my son, Prince Aemon of House Targaryen.”

A roar of cheers rose at once, echoing through the broken dome and off the ancient stone. Nobles clapped their gloved hands. Some shouted praises. A few, more measured and calculating, offered tight nods or well-timed smiles.

Rhaenys did not join them. She instead watched her father.

His smile was flawless, but she knew him too well. The corners of his eyes remained tense, and his posture was as stiff as a carved effigy. It was a performance, one meant to calm the court, to dispel rumors before they could take root.

The realm must believe there is no rift between them, she thought bitterly. Even if there is a chasm.

Then, without changing his expression, Rhaegar leaned in close to Aemon and spoke something beneath the roar of the crowd.

Rhaenys couldn’t hear what he said but she didn’t need to for she saw the change in her brother.

Aemon’s brows knit instantly. His body stiffened, not in anger, but in something more unnerving: confusion and worry. He turned his head slightly, as if to study Rhaegar’s face.

Their father leaned back and spoke louder, his voice meant to be heard. “Your grandmother told me,” he said. “And Jaime confirmed it.” The words hung in the air. “We will speak of it later.”

And with that, he stepped back, letting his hand fall from Aemon’s shoulder as he turned once again to face the nobles, who were still clapping, though many now wore curious expressions, having sensed that something strange had just passed between father and son.

“You must be Lady Nyra,” Rhaegar said after a moment. His eyes swept over her with open courtesy, but Rhaenys saw the tightening of his jaw, the small shift in his shoulders. He had noticed what all of them had, there was something about this woman that didn’t sit comfortably in the world. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he added, polite but guarded.

Nyra inclined her head with ethereal grace. “The pleasure is all mine, your Grace,” she said
and then she extended her hand.

Rhaegar took it, hesitating only for the barest instant before bringing it to his lips in a formal kiss. But his eyes didn’t leave hers.

While that was going on Egg took a hesitant step forward from where he stood at her side. At first, Rhaenys thought he might speak, but he said nothing. His violet eyes were fixed on his brother, wide with something between caution and longing.

He took another step and then another. Until he stood before Aemon, face upturned, emotion warring across his features and then, without a word, he closed the distance and embraced him.

A moment passed before Aegon began to pull away, just enough to properly look at their brother.

“You know,” he said at last, voice light but hoarse with feeling, “a part of me wants to give you a damn good beating for running off without telling anyone.”

A soft ripple of laughter stirred somewhere among the gathered nobility, but Egg went on, his grin crooked.

“And the other part wants to drag you up to our favorite balcony at the Keep, pour a flagon of Dornish red, and make you tell me everything.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Which choice shall it be, I wonder?”

He laughed at himself, and Aemon chuckled too. It was a sound Rhaenys hadn’t heard in years, and it struck her like a forgotten chord.

When they finished laughing, the two men looked at each other for a breath longer and smiled.

It wasn’t the same smile Aemon had as a boy, not exactly. This one was older, tempered by exile, sterner at the corners, wearier around the eyes and yet it was still his.

“Well,” Aemon said at last, the corner of his mouth quirking, “I rather doubt the whole of King’s Landing came out to see you get knocked flat on your arse.”

There was a flash of his old sarcasm beneath the calm, and this time the crowd laughed more freely.

“Give me an hour and a sword, and we’ll test that theory,” Aegon replied, elbowing him lightly before pulling him into another brief, fierce hug.

“Gods,” he said again, more softly this time. “How I missed you, valonqar.”

“And I you,” Aemon replied. Then his expression shifted, just enough for Rhaenys to catch it: a flicker of intent behind his eyes.

“I know your nameday passed four moons ago,” Aemon said. “And I’ve missed far more than just that. But I thought it poor form to return to King’s Landing empty-handed.”

He took out the sword he had strapped to his back and offered it to Egg. Their brother blinked, clearly confused, but took the blade without protest, his hands careful, cradling it like something fragile despite its weight. He turned it slightly in his grasp, brow furrowing as he studied it.

And then, slowly, his eyes widened.

From where she stood, Rhaenys couldn’t see the sword but she didn’t need to. Not when she saw her brother’s expression change so completely.

Aegon’s breath caught. His eyes filled with something between wonder and disbelief. And then, as if drawn by instinct more than thought, he slowly unsheathed the blade.

The entire Pit seemed to stop breathing as sunlight caught the steel as it cleared its scabbard. No one in the Pit had been alive when that sword was lost and yet everyone knew it the moment Aegon took it out.

Blackfyre.

Rhaenys’s chest tightened as recognition swept across the crowd like wildfire. Whispers erupted in pockets, dying as quickly as they rose, swallowed by the awe that followed.

The sword of Aegon the Conqueror. The sword of kings.

From the way Aegon cradled it, she could tell he understood what it meant. His mouth had parted slightly. He looked dazed, like a man touching a relic from a dream. He turned to Aemon, lips moving silently with a thousand questions he didn’t yet know how to ask.

And still, Rhaenys could not breathe. Because the gesture was clear. To those who had feared that Aemon might rise in rebellion with his dragon, that he might lay claim to the Iron Throne or sow dissent in the line of succession, this was reassurance. He had given the king’s sword to their brother. The realm would see peace in that act.

And yet… Blackfyre was not Aegon’s to wield for it was the sword of kings, not heirs. Rhaegar still ruled, he still lived. And Aemon had given it to the future instead of the present.

Around the Pit, others noticed too. Aemon had made no declaration, but Rhaenys had spent her whole life in court and she knew how they spoke. This was no careless gift, it was a message.

Had he offered Blackfyre to Aegon to secure his claim? To shield him from would-be dissenters? To make clear to the court that he had no interest in the throne?

Or was it something subtler?

“How…” Aegon began, voice catching, eyes still locked on the blade in his hands. “Where did you find it?”

Aemon gave a faint smile. “I’ll tell you later,” he said gently, his hand settling on Egg’s shoulder. “I promise.” Then, with a tilt of his head, he added, “So? How does it feel in your hand, the sword of kings, for the future king?”

“It feels… just right,” Aegon said, his voice lighter now. He gave the blade a slow, practiced spin, the steel catching sunlight like a living thing before he lowered the tip gently to the ground. “I hear you’ve a Valyrian steel blade of your own,” he added, eyeing the sword sheathed at Aemon’s hip. “It’s no Dark Sister, but they say Valyrian steel makes quite the music when it sings against its own.”

Aemon chuckled. “I believe you know by now that Jaime and I found Brightroar.” A hum of quiet murmuring stirred through the nobles gathered around the Pit. “And I can confirm,” Aemon continued, “that when Valyrian steel meets its kin in a duel… it sounds almost melodic.”

Aegon let out a genuine laugh and tapped the flat of Blackfyre against his open palm. “Then you owe me a sparring match,” he said with mock sternness. “Four years with the White Lion ought to have made you better than you were.”

Then Aegon stepped aside, and Aemon’s gaze found her. There was something different in his eyes now. The iron-hard distance he had worn was still there, but it had shifted, softened, not completely, but there was also something else there. It took Rhaenys a moment to maybe realize what it was and it surprised her for she had not expected to see shame in Aemon's eyes.

They looked at one another for a long moment, almost forgetting that there were others present in the Pit. And then he moved. She had only managed a single step before he was already upon her.

There was no hesitation in him, he simply pulled her into a tight embrace, as if the years apart could be undone with force alone. Her breath caught, and it took her mind a heartbeat to catch up. Yes, this was real. He was here, he was holding her. Her arms rose instinctively, circling his neck, fingers settling into the folds of his collar.

He held her so tightly she could feel every line of him: the sharpness in his shoulders, the tension in his spine, the tremor just beneath the surface.

Aemon leaned forward, and she had to crane her neck to make space for him, tilting her chin as his head dipped low, his cheek brushing hers, his breath warm and real against her skin.

“I missed you, mandia,” he whispered. The word, murmured low against her ear, sent a shiver down her spine. She hated how it made her knees weaken. Hated it, and cherished it.

His voice was hoarse. Not theatrical, not meant to wound or charm. Just raw truth, and she tightened her hold on him in answer, saying nothing, because there was nothing safe to say here, not with a hundred eyes watching. But her body answered where her voice could not.

After a moment, Aemon pulled back just enough to look down at her and he smiled. “Are you angry with me?” he asked, quietly. The words were little more than a breath, low enough that only she could hear them.

Of course he already knew the answer, he wasn’t a fool. He had to know what his leaving had done to her. So why ask it now? What was he hoping she would say?

Rhaenys schooled her features, not letting anything slip. She wouldn’t fall apart here, not when so many were watching. “Somewhat,” she said, tone even. “When you first left, I thought you would come for me.” Her voice barely carried, but she knew he heard it. “You didn’t.”

Aemon exhaled through his nose, and his face shifted. There was regret in his eyes now. He leaned in, slowly, until their foreheads touched.

It was a small gesture, almost innocent. But Rhaenys knew what it would look like to the crowd. Already she could feel the weight of a hundred gazes settling on them. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she imagined the whispers that would spin from this by sundown. The rumors, the questions, and the speculation.

And she was almost certain that her father was glaring holes into the back of her skull. But Aemon didn’t seem to care and if he didn’t, then why should she?

“I’m sorry,” he said. She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing him in: ash, salt, and some Essosi oil. Not the scent she’d once known, but one she could get used to.

“Lucky for you,” she said, her voice light but edged with something raw, “you have an older sister who’s far more happy to see you now than angry about the fact that you left.”

Her tone was teasing, almost. But the hurt still lingered beneath it, and he noticed. “If my dear mandia would allow it,” he said, and she could hear the smirk in his voice before she saw it, “I happen to have a few ideas on how to make up for my younger self’s poor judgment.”

She opened her eyes and looked up at him. The smirk was real, it tugged faintly at his lips, but there was warmth in it and something cautious. A hand extended, not literally, but in spirit, an offer to repair what had been broken.

Rhaenys didn’t answer right away but she also didn’t step back either. That, she thought, was answer enough.

Aemon continued to look at her, and whatever flicker of shame she had seen in him earlier was now gone. In its place was something quieter, something softer.

His gaze held hers for a beat longer, and Rhaenys felt the edges of the world beginning to return, the murmuring crowd, the creak of armor. The spell around them was breaking.

She gave him a look, just a tilt of her brow. A warning without words.

It took him a moment to realize it, but when he did, Aemon slowly stepped back. The smile remained on his lips and his hand lingered at her waist until the very last moment, his fingers brushing the fabric of her gown as he released her. Then he turned and moved toward Elia.

Their muña stood waiting near the inner circle of the royal procession, her face alight with joy. Her arms were already open, her smile radiant and Rhaenys watched as Aemon embraced her. The moment was tender, and when Elia whispered something to him, his head bowed slightly, as if the words had struck some quiet chord in him.

And yet, Rhaenys couldn’t focus on them, because she felt it. Her father’s gaze.

She didn’t have to turn to know it, for she knew the way it settled on the back of her neck. Rhae kept her face calm, hands folded lightly before her. The perfect image of a princess.

But inside, her heart beat just a little too fast.

He saw, of course he did.

“Princess Rhaenys,” a voice called from behind her. She turned and found herself face to face with Nyra. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” the woman said, her voice warm, smooth. “Your brother has told me so much about you.”

Rhaenys hadn’t heard her approach. That detail unsettled her more than it should have.
But it didn’t matter now. What mattered was the truth hiding behind the woman’s perfect smile and whether Rhaenys could find it.

She gave a regal nod, slipping easily into her practiced voice, the one she used when greeting emissaries and overambitious Lords.

“The pleasure is mine, Lady Nyra,” she replied smoothly. Then, with a flick of her lashes: “Though I confess, I only learned of your existence in my brother’s life yesterday.”

Nyra chuckled softly. It was a graceful sound, light and pleasant and, somehow, wrong.

“Yes, well,” she said, tilting her head slightly, “the news of Prince Aemon’s survival remained little more than rumor until his return to Dragonstone last moon. And with the realm focused on his dragon and his return, I don’t think many paused to wonder who might have come with him.”

There was something in her tone: soothing, lilting, and yet… Rhaenys didn’t know how to describe it. Her voice was beautiful, far too beautiful.

Nyra stepped a little closer. “Oh, you should have seen your brother a few days ago,” she said with fondness, her voice still quiet enough to escape the attention of others. “He was terribly nervous about returning to King’s Landing. Said he was dreading the moment he'd have to face his entire family again.”

Rhaenys narrowed her eyes slightly. “Dreading?” she repeated. She can understand why he might have been reluctant to see their father, but the rest of them? Aegon, Dany, muña Elia? Her?”

Nyra’s smile widened, though it never reached her mismatched eyes. “Oh, it wasn’t fear of judgment, your Grace. Nothing so dramatic.” She leaned in ever so slightly. “It was more… uncertainty. You see, he feared he’d been away too long, that those he once held dear had… moved on and forgotten what he meant to them.”

She said the last part with a delicately raised brow, her gaze resting on Rhaenys just long enough to make the meaning unmistakable.

Rhaenys’s breath caught in her throat and her gaze shifted until it found him. Aemon stood a short distance away, his arms wrapped gently around Senya. Their sister smiled up at him, her arms clasped tightly around his ribs. It was a sweet sight, an innocent one. But it pierced something deep inside Rhaenys.

Had he been afraid to see her?

Nyra’s words echoed with sharper clarity now, the suggestion buried within them rising to the surface. He feared those he once held dear had moved on… forgotten what he meant to them.

Was that why he had looked at her that way? So tentative at first, so unsure? The thought unsettled her, because it was so foolish. And yet, hadn’t she feared the same?

When word first came that her brother lived, she’d been stunned and overwhelmed with so many emotions. But when the name Nyra came, when she learned of the silver-haired woman who had come with him from across the sea, who was close to him, knew his silences, rode with him, understood him, what had she felt?

She had been afraid, afraid that in those long years apart, he had changed too much. That the flame they once shared had been extinguished quietly, without ceremony. That she had become nothing more than a chapter closed behind him.

“My lady,” Rhaenys said before she could stop herself, her voice low and level. “May I be blunt with you?”

Nyra smiled as if she’d been waiting for the question all along. “Of course, your Grace,” she replied with a slight tilt of her head.

Rhaenys met her gaze without flinching. “What is your relationship with my brother?” There was no accusation in her tone but her eyes betrayed more. And Nyra saw it.

She didn’t recoil. In fact, she welcomed the scrutiny. Her lips curved faintly, as though the moment pleased her.

“My relationship with Prince Aemon,” she echoed softly, as if testing the shape of the question before answering. “Well… I aid him when he needs guidance. I steady him when the path grows uncertain. And I care for him,” she added, her voice dipping just slightly, “when it is required of me.”

The final words settled between them like a dropped coin. There was something in her tone that Rhaenys couldn’t quite place and before she could speak again a voice rang out across the Pit.

“Rhae!”

Rhaenys turned. Across the Pit her siblings and Daenerys had moved toward the dragon. Nyraxes towered above them and Aegon stood closest, one hand cautiously pressed to the dragon’s muzzle, his other still gripping Blackfyre. His face was caught between awe and barely-concealed fear.

“Come here,” Dany called out, her voice bright and clear as she waved Rhaenys over. “Aemon’s having us meet her!”

When Rhaenys glanced back over her shoulder, Nyra was already gone. Somehow the woman had drifted across the Pit and now stood in quiet conversation with a lord Rhaenys did not recognize by name. Whoever he was, he hung on Nyra’s every word like a drunk on his last cup of Arbor gold.

Nyra’s talent for commanding attention without demanding it was beginning to grate.

But Rhaenys would speak with her again. Properly, next time. She would get answers, all of them, just not here.

So she turned toward the dragon. Senya now stood before her, a pale hand resting against the scaled muzzle. Her younger sister looked up with something close to reverence, her mouth parted in awe.

Rhaenys approached slowly, and soon she came to a stop beside Daenerys, who watched the scene unfold with quiet pride. When Senya finally stepped back, cheeks flushed and eyes shining, Dany nudged Rhaenys forward. “Your turn.”

Rhaenys hesitated because the dragon was massive, close enough now that she could see the heat rising from its nostrils in slow, steady breaths. Its scales shimmered in the sunlight and the ground felt different here, as though the weight of the creature shifted gravity itself.

She took one step, then another. Then stopped.

Her feet refused to carry her any farther. She was a Targaryen of royal blood, raised among tales of dragonlords and Valyrian might, but even so, her body had gone still, as if instinct had whispered her to stop.

Rhaenys might have remained there, frozen before the beast, if not for the hand that slipped gently into hers. She turned and found Aemon standing beside her, smiling and she smiled back before she even realized it.

He took a step forward, hand in hers, and she followed. Together, they crossed the final few paces to stand before Nyraxes. The dragon didn’t move, but her eyes tracked them, tracked her.

Then, without a word, Aemon shifted behind her: he slipped an arm around her waist, guiding her back against his chest. His other hand reached up and gently turned her left wrist, lifting her arm as his head dipped beside hers, his breath brushing her ear. “Let me guide you, mandia,” he murmured and Rhaenys shivered, but didn’t resist.

Her palm, guided by his, rose to meet the beast. Nyraxes’s muzzle was warmer than she expected. Smooth, but tough beneath her touch. She let her fingers spread slightly, pressing into the scale.

She didn’t know how long they stood there. It might have been only a few moments, or minutes. All she could feel was the strange weight of Nyraxes’s gaze bearing down on her.

The dragon's eyes were locked on hers, but not in mere observation. It was more like an examination, as if the beast was peering through the mask of flesh and bone into something far deeper. Her soul, perhaps.

And then, slowly, unexpectedly… A sound rumbled from the great creature's throat. Low and soft, vibrating through the air and the stone beneath her boots.

For a moment, Rhaenys froze, for It was so utterly absurd that her mind struggled to believe it. The sound, for all its size, was unmistakable, she knew it from childhood. Her old cat, Balerion, used to curl on her lap and purr just so. But a dragon?

She dared not move. Only turned her head just slightly, enough to glance up at Aemon, who was already smiling. “She likes you,” he murmured. “And it amuses her.”

Rhaenys arched a brow. “Why’s that?” she asked, though her voice came out more breathless than she intended. “Animals tend to have a soft spot for me.”

Aemon chuckled again, and in one smooth motion, he drew her just a little closer: her spine pressed more firmly to his chest, his palm spread across her belly.

The Pit was watching. Let them, she thought, but part of her burned at the thought of how many eyes were reading this embrace like a page from a scandalous tome.

“I’ve claimed her,” Aemon said, quieter now. “And she’s claimed me in return.” He leaned down just enough that his lips brushed the shell of her ear. “In many ways, I belong to her just as much as she does to me.”

His voice was low and yet it stirred something in her, something warm and old and dangerous. Rhaenys stood very still, though her blood felt as though it had quickened beneath her skin. She enjoyed the closeness more than she ought to have. The weight of him at her back, the press of his palm on her belly, the heat of his breath at her ear, it was all too much and not nearly enough.

But she would not show it. Not with the court watching like vultures above a battlefield.

Instead, she let herself exhale slowly, keeping her expression carefully neutral, her tone light. “You always did have a flair for the dramatic,” she murmured, though her voice was softer than she meant it to be.

Aemon didn’t answer right away. He only smiled, that faint, crooked smile she remembered from childhood.

Rhaenys turned her eyes back to Nyraxes. The dragon had not moved, though her breath came in steady, rhythmic waves, like the quiet exhale of a volcano at rest. The great beast’s eyes were half-lidded now, but still trained on her.

And something strange occurred to her.

She likes me.

That in itself was astonishing enough. But more than that, it worried her, because she knew what it meant when a dragon took to someone. In the old tales, it was said that when two dragonriders were bound in love, their mounts would often follow suit. Dragon bonded to dragon, fire drawn to fire. Rhaenys had always thought it romantic, if a little frightening.

The dragon had chosen. And so, perhaps, had she.

Chapter Text

The Princess of Dorne

Arianne watched as Aemon gently guided Rhaenys’s hand to the dragon’s muzzle. The beast lowered its massive head with a grace that defied its size, nostrils flaring as it inhaled the scent of the woman before it.

Nyraxes was colossal and terrifying, but she was beautiful too. Her scales shimmered like silver hammered thin, with threads of white laced through her hide. When the sunlight struck her at just the right angle, her body seemed to ripple. A painting, Arianne thought, or rather, the kind of vision that inspired paintings. Unreal, and yet standing right before them.

And Aemon... he was no less arresting.

Arianne had half-expected the lost prince to resemble a male version of the wolf queen, and she hadn’t been entirely wrong. He bore his mother’s stark beauty: the pale skin, the dark brown hair, but his eyes were Rhaegar’s. That same haunting violet, though darker in hue.

Like many Targaryen men, there was something almost too fine about his features, too symmetrical, too ethereal. She had heard whispers that Targaryen beauty often veered toward the androgynous, beautiful in a way that unsettled as much as it seduced. With Aemon, it rang true, but only just. His face was not soft. There was a hardness in the line of his jaw, a quiet violence in the way he held himself.

He didn’t look like most Targaryens, his Stark blood had shaped him differently. Though his build was lean and long like Rhaegar’s and Aegon’s, there was a stillness to him.

When Aemon and Aegon had embraced earlier, it had been striking to see them side by side. Brothers, yes, but half-brothers in truth, and the difference showed in every line of their faces.

Aegon was sunfire and marble, polished and princely, all the softer edges of Valyria and Dorne, while Aemon was colder in color, harder in presence. The only trait they shared were those famed eyes, though even there, Aemon’s were darker, deeper.

Arianne turned just in time to see Rhaenys lower her hand from the dragon’s muzzle, fingers trembling ever so slightly. Aemon leaned in then, his lips brushing close to his sister’s ear as he murmured something. Whatever it was made Rhaenys laugh softly and a blush appeared on her cheeks.

The Dornish princess studied the moment with sharp eyes. There was something intimate in the way they stood, Rhaenys nestled lightly against her brother’s chest, his hand resting at the narrow slope of her waist, fingers splayed in a way that did not seem entirely casual. The gesture could have been protective… but it lingered a heartbeat too long. Familiar, almost possessive.

Arianne frowned, she would have known if there was something between them. Rhaenys was more sister to her than cousin, and they had shared too many secrets over the years for such a thing to go unnoticed.

And yet…

She remembered a remark Dany had made, about how Aemon had always been Rhaenys’s favorite sibling. Perhaps this reunion was only that: a joy of a brother and sister reunited again. A natural warmth, nothing more.

But it was hard not to wonder, especially considering her. Arianne’s gaze slid across the courtyard to where Nyra stood speaking with the King. The woman was poised and calm, her bearing equal parts noble and enigmatic. Arianne saw the way Aunt Elia and Lyanna watched her, neither with warmth, nor with open hostility, but with something knotted and tense just beneath the surface.

Nyra’s presence complicated everything. Securing Aemon’s attention had seemed a daunting task even before the dragon had darkened the sky above the capital. Arianne had known that both Mace Tyrell and Tywin would seize upon the opportunity to bind Aemon, and his dragon, to their bloodlines. But she had also been confident that she could outshine the little rose from Highgarden, that she could outmaneuver Tywin’s granddaughter.

But this woman? This mystery from the East?
She didn't seem to be a blushing maiden, no simpering lady with courtly smiles and fluttered lashes. Nyra stood as though she belonged beside the dragon, beside the prince. And that was a far greater threat than Margaery’s polished grace or Myrcella’s charm.

“Find something you like looking at?” Tyene’s voice slipped into Arianne’s ear. “Can’t say I blame you. The Prince does cut quite the figure.”

“A little too slim,” came Obara’s voice from behind them. “And a little too short for my tastes.”

“He’s nearly as tall as his father is,” Nymeria countered, arching a brow as she stepped forward. “And not all of us are hunting for giants with the shoulders of a warhorse and the temperament to match.”

Tyene let out a soft laugh. Arianne, still watching the dragon coil its massive body, allowed herself a small smile as she turned to face her cousins.

“He doesn’t need to be carved from a mountain,” Nymeria added, her gaze flicking toward the dragon as it exhaled a plume of smoke. “Not when he has that under his command. A lean frame is no sin when you ride a beast like that.” She leaned in slightly, lips quirking into a sharper smile. “So, dear cousin... how exactly do you plan to get the Prince into your bed?”

“I doubt it’ll be too hard,” Obara said dryly, her gaze fixed on the dragon. “The King’s announced a tourney in Aemon’s honor, hasn’t he? All you need to do is get him to wear your favor, twist a few threads behind the scenes to ensure he wins, and when he names you Queen of Love and Beauty before half the realm, well, after that, slipping into his bed will be the easiest part.”

“You make it sound so simple,” Tyene replied, twirling a blonde curl around her finger. “But it won’t be, just look at how the Tyrells and Lannisters are watching him. The Queen of Thorns herself traveled all the way from Highgarden. You know what that means.”

“They’re not the only ones,” Nymeria added, voice low as her gaze drifted toward the silver-haired woman standing just beyond the King’s shoulder. “His companion… just look at her.”

“Do you think he’s taken her to bed?” Tyene asked, curious.

“If he hasn’t,” Nymeria said, “he’s either blind or a sworn believer of the seven.”

Arianne listened, lips pursed in thought as her cousins spoke. The words circled her like the wind around a fire, stoking the embers of her own ambition. She didn’t disagree with them. The tourney would be her best opportunity to claim space at Aemon’s side.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about the Tyrells,” Arianne said at last, her voice low and composed. “But the Lannisters... they might prove troublesome.”

Tyene arched a delicate brow, lips curling in amusement. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of Tywin’s little golden granddaughter, Ari.”

“I’m not afraid of her,” Arianne replied, eyes narrowing as she turned her gaze back to the floor of the Pit. “But Aemon has had Jaime at his side for years, and Tywin is no fool. He’ll see that bond and use it to draw Aemon into his snare.”

Her cousins fell silent, thoughtful. Even Obara didn’t scoff this time.

Arianne’s gaze swept across the crowd once more. Already, Aemon stood ringed by lords and ladies. She caught sight of Mace Tyrell, bloated with pride and sweat, gesturing animatedly as he launched into what was likely some dreadful jest. Aemon gave a polite smile, but his eyes were distant.

It was a courtly dance as old as Westeros itself, smiles and pleasantries veiling ambition. The nobility buzzed around the Prince like flies to honey, each one hoping to taste a bit of the power that clung to him.

But it wasn’t just the lords that held Arianne’s attention. Her gaze shifted, and she spotted her uncle.

Oberyn stood apart from the rest, closer now to the King. He was silent, unreadable, but his eyes were fixed not on Rhaegar, nor the sycophants swarming around Aemon. No, his gaze was locked on the Prince himself… and the dragon behind him.

There it was again, that quiet fear. The same fear that had kept both her father and uncle awake long after the fires burned low in Sunspear’s halls.

Even now, after Aemon had offered
Blackfyre, the sword of kings, to Aegon and not to Rhaegar, practically stating to the whole realm that his brother would be his King.

Arianne could see it clearly on Oberyn’s face. And perhaps for the first time, she understood it.

That dragon of his held power that no other man could match and it answered to Aemon, and Aemon alone.

And yet, that very fear sparked something in her: a thought, sudden and sharp. What if she could turn that fear into an alliance?

If Oberyn still feared what Aemon could become, then surely he would see the wisdom in binding that fire to Dorne. A union between her and the Prince would secure her rightful position as her father's hair, and it would also bind the dragon to their house. A win for both her as well as her father and uncle, that was if she could convince them.

“Maybe we don’t need to wait for the tourney,” Tyene said lightly, her voice laced with mischief. “Isn’t there a feast tonight in honor of his return? You could start your work on him there.”

“With half the realm in attendance?” Arianne replied, arching a brow. “I’d be lucky to steal a moment, let alone make an impression.”

Nymeria tilted her head, thoughtful. “Then perhaps we stop hovering here and go introduce ourselves properly.”

Arianne gave a slow nod as the four of them began to move through the throng. Aemon stood near the broken pillars where his dragon had curled to rest, half-surrounded by lords from the Westerlands and the Riverlands. She spotted Lord Tywin’s granddaughter lingering dutifully near Jaime’s side, while Edmure Tully, all awkward smiles and fidgeting hands, looked entirely out of place.

But they didn’t reach him. Rhaenys stepped into their path, as if summoned by instinct alone.

“Cousins,” she said coolly, folding her hands before her.

“Rhae,” Arianne greeted. “Is something the matter?”

“Only that our dear uncle has been staring daggers at my brother ever since we entered the Pit,” Rhaenys said, her tone clipped. “And that the four of you have kept your gazes fixed on him like hawks eyeing a lamb.”

Obara chuckled from behind. “Are we not allowed to look at your little brother now, dear cousin?”

Arianne studied Rhaenys closely. There was a tension behind her words, defensiveness wrapped in silk. Was she truly worried they feared Aemon, like Oberyn and Doran might? Did she believe their interest was born from suspicion?

Well… perhaps part of it was, but even so, that wasn’t the reason Arianne had her eyes on him. “Rhae,” she said, voice soft but steady, “your brother was once my betrothed. And though I’ve never blamed him for leaving I would still like to know the man I was once meant to wed.”

Her cousin gave her a long, measured look before a quiet sigh escaped her lips. Then, with a flick of her wrist, Rhaenys turned and beckoned them forward. “Come,” she said. “Before the lions sink in their claws too deep.”

When they reached Aemon, he was engaged in conversation with Lady Cersei and her children. To his credit, he didn’t appear irritated by the exchange, if anything, he wore a look of polite attentiveness, the kind a seasoned courtier might reserve for a dance partner they could not yet read.

Whether it was genuine interest or simply well-honed control, Arianne couldn’t tell. Perhaps it was the remnants of his friendship with Jaime that softened his posture.

“Valonqar,” Rhaenys said lightly, her tone dancing the line between affection and mischief. “There are a few people here who would very much like to get reacquainted with you.”

Aemon turned at the sound of her voice.
“My lady,” he said smoothly, turning back to Cersei. “I hope we’ll have a chance to continue our conversation later.” His voice was courteous but distant, and Arianne detected a faint edge beneath the civility, an artful coldness meant to draw a boundary.

Cersei inclined her head with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Of course, your Grace. It was… illuminating.”

Then, with the elegance of a knight raised at court, Aemon turned to her children. He shook young Joffrey’s hand, and then took Myrcella’s fingers in his hand. With the faintest bow of his head, he pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

The girl flushed crimson, her free hand fluttering awkwardly at her side. Tyene let out the softest of chuckles behind Arianne, barely audible, and even Obara’s mouth curved at the corner.

Smooth, Arianne thought. Measured. Charming, but deliberate.

“My prince,” Arianne said at last and Aemon’s gaze snapped toward her. His eyes flicked over her, and though his expression remained composed, she caught the faintest shift in his posture. That small pause, that lingering glance.

A victory, she thought, and not a small one. He liked what he saw.

“Princess Arianne,” he greeted. Then something flickered behind his eyes. “I trust there are no lingering hard feelings between us, cousin... regarding my departure, all those years ago.”

She smiled. “It was sudden,” she said, letting the words roll over her tongue with careful grace. “But considering that you returned to us with a dragon, I’d say it’s a bit more forgivable than it might have been otherwise.”

She watched his expression closely, and saw the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. He had caught the implication: value can excuse betrayal, if the prize is great enough.

“Still,” he said, inclining his head slightly, “I owe you an apology. I left without a word, and if the whispers I’ve heard are true, Prince Doran was deeply troubled by it.”

“My father,” Arianne replied, her tone laced with diplomatic ease, “was shocked, no more than the rest of the realm. He didn’t react well, true, but that is something he regrets now.”

Of course he does, she thought, though the smile never left her face. Daenerys and Quentyn were a decent match, but a prince with a dragon? That was a different game entirely.

“I do hope you haven’t forgotten my other cousins, valonqar,” Rhaenys said.

Aemon turned toward her with a faint smile. “How could I forget?” His gaze swept past Arianne and settled on the three Sand Snakes standing just behind her. “Last I recall,” he said, eyes narrowing slightly in amusement, “Lady Sand over there knocked me clean onto my arse the last time I was in Dorne.”

Arianne saw the flicker of Obara’s scowl. “You were surprised by how well I handled a spear, if I remember,” Obara said aloud, stepping forward with arms loosely crossed. “And more surprised still that I wasn’t about to let a prince walk away without tasting dirt.”

Tyene let out a silvery laugh, curling a lock of hair around her finger. “You never were much for courtly flattery, sister.”

Aemon gave an exaggerated sigh and rolled his eyes, though the grin tugging at his lips made it clear he took no offense. “In my defense, I hadn’t yet learned to respect spears the way I should’ve. After a few bouts in Essos… I’ve grown wiser.”

“Let’s hope so,” came a new voice.

Arianne turned just as Oberyn approached. He looked as if he’d overheard every word, and perhaps he had. The air seemed to sharpen around him.

“There’s a tourney coming,” Oberyn continued, eyes locked on Aemon with the same cool scrutiny he’d held ever since they'd entered the Pit. “In your honor, no less. It would be a shame if the guest of honor declined to take part.”

Aemon turned to face his uncle fully, and the smile he gave was polite, but brittle and cold around the edges. “Of course I’ll compete. It’s been some time since I last took part in a tourney, and it would be a poor showing if I didn’t participate in one thrown in my name.”

Arianne felt the shift in the air. “Then I do hope we meet in the melee,” Oberyn said, his voice soft as snake’s leather. “I’ve spoken briefly with Ser Jaime, and it seems he holds your swordplay in high regard.”

Aemon gave a quiet chuckle, but Arianne could tell it was for show. “Well,” he said, “after four years with Jaime, it would be rather disappointing if I hadn’t improved.” The two men held each other’s gaze, unblinking.

“Can we stop talking about the tourney for a moment?” Tyene said sweetly, stepping forward with a glint in her eye. She rested a hand on her hip, her gaze fixed on Aemon with practiced curiosity. “I, for one, am far more interested in your adventures in the East. There are so many tales swirling through the court... it’s hard to know what to believe, cousin.”

Aemon turned toward her, his expression unreadable but not unkind. “I can assure you, Tyene, most of those tales are likely exaggerated or entirely false.” His lips curved into a wry smile. “My time in Essos was far less adventurous than the songs make it seem.”

“But surely not boring,” Nymeria chimed in from behind Arianne, her voice smooth and edged with amusement. “There’s always a seed of truth in rumors. Perhaps you’d help us separate fact from fiction, my prince?”

Aemon offered her his best smile: polished, warm, but unmistakably guarded. And yet Arianne noted the way his shoulders eased ever so slightly at the sound of their voices, the subtle softening around his eyes. He remembered them.

Of course he did. Back when he’d lingered in Sunspear, he’d spent more time sparring with Obara, listening to Nymeria’s dry observations, and letting Tyene tease out rare laughter from him than he ever had in her own presence. Arianne had been too preoccupied back then with… whatever it was she was doing four years back.

Still, there was an opportunity here. That familiarity was a thread she could pull. If he trusted them, or at least felt something for them, then Arianne could use it. Her mind spun quietly behind her smile.

Let them draw out his stories. Let him recall the warmth of Dorne, the charm of its daughters. And when he looks at me, he’ll remember not the betrothal broken, but the future that could yet be rebuilt.

“I’m personally interested in hearing where you found Blackfyre,” Obara said, arms crossed and tone direct as ever. “There’s a dozen tales already, but the one that keeps circling the fastest is that you went into Valyria. Seems a touch too far-fetched.”

Aemon turned to her with a slow, knowing smirk, and something in that expression made Arianne’s breath catch. Gods… he had.

“You haven’t,” Tyene breathed, her voice unusually quiet, a rare crack in her usually flippant demeanor. Her wide eyes flicked to Rhaenys, who was already looking up at her brother, her fingers slipping quietly into his and squeezing gently.

Aemon held her gaze for a moment before answering. “Twice.” The word struck like a bell.

But there was a deadness in the way he said it: not dramatic, not defensive, just… flat. Like something buried beneath stone. The silence that followed was different now: heavier, weighted with the sudden understanding that while he had gone there, he did not want to speak of it.

Aemon filled the pause himself, voice a shade lighter. “Though we didn’t find Blackfyre there,” he continued, turning back to Obara. “We found Brightroar, among other things.” Aemon shifted his focus then, glancing toward Rhaenys with a flicker of warmth in his eyes. “Have you had a look at the crates we brought to King’s Landing?”

“Father’s gone over a few,” Rhaenys said, her voice laced with curiosity. “I wasn’t there when they opened them. Did you bring something interesting from the ruins, valonqar?”

Aemon chuckled softly, but it lacked the carefree charm of earlier. “Some things,” he said. “Though much of it… took time to understand. Most of the inscriptions were in forms of High Valyrian lost even to the Citadel. I wouldn’t have deciphered half of it without Nyra’s help.”

The moment the name Nyra passed Aemon’s lips, something shifted. It was subtle but undeniable, a quiet tension that settled over their small circle like a sudden chill beneath the sun. The warmth of laughter faded into stillness, and Arianne’s eyes flicked past Aemon, searching, but the woman was gone.

She wasn’t the only one who noticed. Tyene’s gaze lingered over the crowd, her expression thoughtful. Even Rhaenys looked slightly unsettled, her hand still loosely wrapped around her brother’s fingers.

Before the silence could deepen, Aegon approached with his usual effortless charm, the storm broken by the sound of his voice.

“It seems every noble family here is desperate for a sliver of your attention, brother,” he said with a wry smile, clapping a hand onto Aemon’s shoulder. “I’ve seen you surrounded by Tyrells, Lannisters, Tullys and, of course, our Dornish kin.” He glanced around their circle and offered Arianne a courteous nod. “I daresay Dorne has you outnumbered.”

Aemon gave a quiet chuckle, the tension easing ever so slightly, and Rhaenys’s laughter followed.

Arianne’s gaze, however, was already fixed on the sword in Aegon’s hand. “I believe,” she said, slipping a bright, practiced smile onto her face, “you were just about to tell us how you found that sword, cousin.”

Aemon turned his head slowly to her, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his expression. “A tale I’ll share later,” he replied smoothly, his eyes sliding to Aegon. “In proper company, with wine and time enough to tell it fully. For now,” his lips curved slightly, “I believe my dear brother owes me a spar.”

Aegon laughed, lifting the sword and resting it across his shoulders. “It’s been generations since the Red Keep saw two Valyrian steel blades cross beneath its rafters. With our luck, we’ll end up facing one another in the melee. Though I hope you’ve improved, valonqar, otherwise, I fear it’ll be a short and disappointing duel.”

“Careful, Egg,” Rhaenys teased. “You know he’s spent the last four years with Jaime. He may surprise you.”

“I hope he does,” Aegon said, eyes gleaming. “We’ll make a spectacle of it. The dragons dancing once more.”

Aemon gave a faint smile, but Arianne was watching closely now. There was something strange in his stillness. Not discomfort but restraint, as though something inside him was always being measured, kept in check.

“That is, of course, if our dear brother enters the tourney at all,” Aegon continued, his tone light, but the look he gave Aemon was pointed, almost expectant. “Not just the melee, mind you, but the joust as well. Muña Lya rides like a tempest, and surely some of that fire runs in your blood too.”

Aemon tilted his head, amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. “I’m afraid Nyraxes has completely ruined horses for me,” he said dryly, and laughter rippled through the group. “Once you’ve flown, the ground feels… limiting.”

Arianne smiled at that, smooth, easy and rehearsed. But then Aemon added, in a quieter, almost mischievous tone, “Still, the idea of winning the joust and naming someone as Queen of Love and Beauty… now that does sound oh-so-very tempting.”

Her smile widened just a touch, and she glanced over her shoulder at her cousins, a flicker of triumph in her eyes. She didn’t see the moment Aemon’s fingers tightened gently around Rhaenys’s hand. Nor did she catch the way he looked at her.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Rhaenys said, her voice light, but the glint in her eye aimed to cut through the moment. “Egg here has grown into quite the rider while you were off chasing dragons. He might knock you from the saddle, if you two meet.”

Aegon let out a laugh. “Only if I can get past the beast guarding you,” he said, nodding toward Obara. “She’s more likely to unseat me than anyone.”

Aemon shook his head with a quiet chuckle, but the smile remained. That was when Quentyn approached.

Arianne turned just in time to see him emerge from the edge of the gathering, looking painfully formal in a Dornish doublet that didn’t quite sit right on his frame. She had forgotten he was even here.

“My prince,” he said, dipping his head slightly, voice calm but tinged with the uncertainty of a man walking into a conversation already well in motion. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

All eyes shifted toward him. Arianne’s stomach tensed. She resisted the urge to reach out and tug him back by the sleeve. Not now, not in front of the others. Not when everything was unfolding just as she’d planned.

Aemon’s expression didn’t shift, but the temperature of the air seemed to change.
“Prince Quentyn,” he said, voice cool and perfectly measured. “You’re looking well.” A pause, just long enough to feel deliberate. “Congratulations on your betrothal to my dear aunt.” The words were polite but they were utterly devoid of warmth.

Arianne caught it instantly, and from the brief flicker in Tyene’s glance, so did her cousins. Even Rhaenys looked away. So… Aemon disapproved as well.

Interesting.

Whether it was Daenerys he found objectionable, or the political game behind it, Arianne couldn’t tell. But his tone had shifted, and for a moment, the bond she was working to forge with him glinted clearer in her mind. If he resented the match, or resented what it represented, then perhaps they had more in common than she’d thought.

And more importantly, he wasn’t the only one who disliked where the game pieces had been placed.

“Anything I should know about Princess Daenerys before we’re wed, my prince?” Quentyn asked after a beat, attempting levity with a half-smile. His tone was light, but the question landed awkwardly.

Aemon looked at him steadily, the faintest shadow flickering across his face. “My aunt is very dear to me,” he said, and though his words were measured, there was an unmistakable chill beneath them. “So I expect you to treat her well.”

Quentyn blinked, caught off guard by the weight in Aemon’s voice. He nodded all the same, but his smile faltered.

Aemon continued, tone easing but never fully warming. “That said… Dany was quite the wild spirit when we were younger, so I’m not entirely sure whether to advise you to treat her kindly, or warn you.”

The jest was there in the phrasing, but the coldness hadn’t left. It lingered, quiet and unsettling, like frost beneath blooming roses.

Quentun gave a short, dry laugh. “Princess Daenerys has been wonderful company since arriving in Sunspear,” he said stiffly. “It’s been… pleasant spending time with her.”

Arianne resisted the urge to groan aloud. While she could admit, as a sister, that Quentyn was not entirely unfortunate-looking, handsome in a rough, honest sort of way, even if that unfortunate frog-face nickname from their childhood still echoed true, he had never understood how to speak to women.

That Daenerys had managed to endure his company for so long was nothing short of a miracle. Or perhaps not, perhaps Dany was simply playing the role expected of her: the dutiful bride-to-be, the silver-haired princess preparing to join House Martell. A political match, no more.

Arianne’s eyes flicked toward Aemon. And perhaps that’s exactly why he dislikes it.

There was no mistaking the strain in his voice when he’d spoken of Dany, not of a lover’s jealousy, no, but something older, deeper. Protective, as if Dany were not merely his aunt, but a fragment of the family he refused to see handed off like a token to secure a southern alliance.

And now here stood poor, earnest Quentyn, dutiful, clumsy and all too easily outmatched.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” came a voice as warm as it was familiar.

Arianne turned, her smile forming before she even saw her aunt Elia approach them.

“Not at all, muña,” Aegon said fondly, stepping aside to give her room. “Our Dornish kin are simply reacquainting themselves with our dear little brother.”

Elia gave a soft, knowing smile as she moved to Aemon’s side, her hand brushing his arm with unconscious affection. “And who could blame them for that?” she said, eyes dancing. “The songs have already begun, you know. They call you the Dragon Prince now, did you hear that?” Her chuckle was light, but there was a fierce pride beneath it, and Arianne saw it clearly.

No matter what fears her father and uncle Oberyn harbored about Queen Lyanna and her brood, there was no denying the truth: Elia loved them. She had claimed Daeron and Visenya as her own, but she had taken Lyanna’s firstborn son to her heart as if no other woman had borne him. The way she looked at Aemon now left no room for doubt.

He was her son in all the ways that mattered.

“Your father is asking us to prepare to return to the Red Keep,” Elia said, her gaze still resting on Aemon, soft and searching. “We should begin preparing for the feast. It promises to be… extravagant. We haven’t hosted anything of this scale in quite some time.”

“It will be nice,” Aemon replied, and there was a trace of old weariness behind his smile, quickly veiled. “Though I do hope it manages to compare to the few feasts Jaime and I attended in Essos. The Volantenes, in particular, had a taste for absurd pageantry.”

Arianne tilted her head slightly. Volantis, she thought. Another name, another breadcrumb. Aemon was careful with what he revealed, but there were patterns to his words: places, people, hints tucked between casual observations.

Elia laughed softly. “Oh, I think your father has done his best to outdo even the Volantenes. He’s had the kitchens running for days, and I hear the musicians came all the way from Lys.”

“I’m not sure that’s a comfort,” Aemon murmured dryly. “The last time I heard Lysene musicians… well let's just say that it didn't end quite well.” That earned a ripple of laughter.

But Arianne wasn’t listening to the jokes anymore. She was watching Aemon, studying the way his expression never lingered too long in one place, how the softness in his eyes flickered in and out like torchlight through fog. He was present, but never fully here, as though some part of him still wandered somewhere in the East.

The Silver Princess

The feast was going well, remarkably so, in Visenya’s eyes. It had been some time since the Red Keep had hosted such a grand gathering. Not since Uncle Viserys’s wedding to Aunt Laena three years past had the halls been so alive, and even then, she doubted the crowd had been this large or this restless with wonder.

Laughter echoed off the vaulted ceilings, goblets clinked, and music poured from the minstrels’ corner like wine. Lords and ladies from across the realm lined the great tables, draped in silk, whispering behind jeweled hands. Yet Visenya’s mind was only half tethered to the hall, her body present but her thoughts aloft, somewhere above the city, where Nyraxes soared.

No matter how often she had dreamt of the dragon, nothing had prepared her for the awe of seeing Nyraxes in the flesh. She was beautiful in a way that defied reason: vast and terrible, yes, but also radiant.

Visenya had placed her hand upon the dragon’s muzzle earlier that day. Aemon had encouraged it, telling her that Nyraxes would know her if she did. He had added, almost absently, that little Daeron had already done so, and if Daeron could be brave, so could she.

The dragon had lowered her head slowly, and Visenya, heart pounding, had reached out. Nyraxes’s scales had felt like polished stone left out in the sun: warm and impossibly smooth. The creature had regarded her with an unreadable expression, neither hostile nor welcoming, simply… observing. There had been no sound, no rumble. Visenya had half-expected a purr, like the one she thought she'd heard when Rhaenys touched her earlier. Perhaps that had only happened because Aemon had been the one guiding her hand then.

Her brother sat now at the high table beside their father and yet Visenya could see the way Rhaegar leaned toward him, as if wanting to drink in every word, to ask the thousand questions.

“Senya.” Her mother’s voice cut gently through her wandering thoughts. Visenya turned her head to find Lyanna watching her with a familiar smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“I know your brother has grown into a rather handsome man,” Muña Lya said, eyes glinting with mischief, “but try to pay attention to your food instead of staring at him.”

Visenya flushed. “Yes, Muña,” she muttered, cheeks burning as she stabbed her spiced lamb with more force than necessary.

The dish was Dornish and she normally would have relished it. But tonight, her appetite drifted behind her thoughts, trailing after dragons and dreams.

Still, she smiled. Her family was whole again. For the first time in years, they were all seated at one table, beneath one roof. Aemon had come home just two moons before her wedding. She could hardly imagine better timing, even if father muttered about how complicated his return made the future, Visenya could only feel the glow of rightness in her chest.

This was how it was meant to be.

She took a bite as Lyanna continued watching her with a soft, knowing expression. Gods, how she had missed her. Two years apart, and her muña still looked just as she remembered: wild and untamed, her dark hair loose despite the crown on her head, the same fearless glint in her eyes that Visenya had adored as a child.

When she’d returned to the Keep just the day before, she had thrown herself into her mother’s arms, weeping despite herself. She’d clutched little Daeron too, holding him close as if afraid he might slip away again.

“You should sit straighter,” came a voice from her other side. Muña Elia arched a brow at her. “Lords and Ladies are watching. It wouldn’t do for them to see a Princess lounging like a sellsword at a tavern.”

Visenya straightened at once, biting back a sigh. “Yes, Muña,” she said again, softer this time. Elia offered her a small, approving smile in response.

Lyanna let out a quiet groan and slumped farther into her own seat. “Elia, please. Let our girl enjoy her meal. Must we begin the courtly etiquette lessons already? It’s only my second night back.”

Elia turned toward her with an expression of long-suffering affection. “Don’t tempt me, my she-wolf,” she replied, eyes dancing. “You’re worse than Senya. And unlike her, you’re a queen. Honestly, one would think you’d remember how to sit on a throne without sprawling like you’re atop a horse.”

She leaned in just slightly, voice lowered. “Be thankful Rhaella isn’t seeing this. She’d have the both of you repeating posture drills for a fortnight.”

Visenya chuckled, then turned her attention back to her plate. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Aemon speaking with Rhaenys, heads tilted close, their conversation lost in the noise of the hall.

Rhaenys was smiling. She hadn’t seen her sister smile like that in a while, not a courtly smile, not the polished grin worn like armor, but something gentler, freer.

Her gaze wandered a little more and caught her father watching too, his expression unreadable. Rhaegar sat straight-backed, wine in hand, his violet eyes fixed on his children with the quiet intensity he often wore in council meetings.

“So, my sweet,” Elia said suddenly, voice light but cutting through the moment like a bell, “who are you planning to dance with tonight?”

Visenya stiffened. Her fork hovered over her plate. Dancing.

She wasn’t like Rhae, who moved through ballrooms like a swan upon still water, or Dany, who could charm entire courts with a single spin. Visenya had always been a little too stiff, too aware of her feet. “Well… with Egg and Aems, obviously,” she said after a pause, keeping her tone casual.

“That much we assumed,” Lyanna chimed in from her other side, a teasing note in her voice. “But not with Daeron?”

Visenya gave her mother a sidelong look. “The last time I danced with Daeron, he stepped all over my toes.”

“That was two years ago,” Lyanna said with a grin. “He’s taller now, and better. He even asked me to dance at Sansa’s twelfth nameday feast. You should’ve seen him, stood straighter than a knight at court and spun me so gracefully I nearly forgot he’s still a boy.”

“Speaking of the Starks,” Elia said, glancing down at the table, “I had thought they would accompany you when you came south.”

Lyanna gave a small nod. “They’ll come for the weddings, but not before. Aemon’s return… it caught them off guard” She sipped her wine before continuing. “I was lucky Ned could arrange a ship at such short notice. One of Lord Manderly’s fast sloops.”

Muña Elia gave a small nod at Lyanna’s words before returning to her wine. Visenya cast her a brief glance, then lowered her eyes to her own plate. They ate mostly in silence after that.

Then the music began.

It was subtle at first: a low hum of strings, soft drumbeats like footsteps on sun-warmed stone. But Visenya recognized the tune immediately: a slow, lilting Dornish melody, one of Muña Elia’s favorites.

As if summoned by the rhythm, Lords and Ladies began to rise from their seats, drifting toward the center of the hall. Silks whispered and jewels glinted as they moved. From the corner of her eye, Visenya saw Aegon push back his chair and stand. A moment later, Aemon followed, pausing only to lean down and whisper something into Rhaenys’s ear. Whatever it was made her smile.

“Muña,” Aegon said as he approached them, voice warm and playful as he bowed before Lyanna. “It would be an honor to have this dance with you.”

Lyanna raised an eyebrow, though her smirk betrayed her amusement. “Well, since you ask so nicely, how could I possibly say no?” she replied, slipping her hand into his with queenly flair. He led her out into the hall, where the music swelled just slightly as they stepped into the rhythm together.

Visenya watched them go, her heart lifting at the sight. There was something so right about it: Aegon guiding their mother in front of a watching court. She almost missed the figure approaching from the other side.

“Muña Elia,” Aemon said, his voice lower, more composed, but no less warm. “Since Egg has stolen away my birth mother, it seems only fair I do the same with you.”

Elia’s eyes twinkled with mischief as she stood, smoothing her skirts. “I do hope you’ve improved during your time in the East,” she said archly. “It would be such a shame if the Dragon Prince fell flat on his face in front of half the realm.”

Aemon rolled his eyes, though there was clear fondness in his expression as he offered his arm. “If I fall, I’ll make sure to drag you down with me.”

“Charming,” she replied, linking her arm with his. “Just like Lyanna.” With a quiet laugh, he led her toward the dance floor, where Aegon and Lyanna had already begun to move with easy familiarity. The crowd shifted to make space for them, whispers following their steps like ripples on water.

She watched them dance in the center of the hall, their movements graceful and sure beneath the flickering glow of golden candelabras. For a moment, it felt as though the entire chamber had paused to bear witness. Conversation dimmed, goblets stilled, and all eyes turned toward the four of them as they moved like figures in a painted tableau. Even the musicians seemed to play more softly, as if reverent.

Visenya smiled faintly, resting her chin on her hand. Then a voice broke through her thoughts. “Aren’t you going to dance, Senya?”

She turned and blinked in surprise. Little Daeron had appeared at her side, dressed in black and red with his silver hair neatly combed back, though a few locks had already begun to fall loose.

She chuckled and smoothed a hand over his shoulder. “No one’s come to offer me a hand so far, valonqar,” she said, using the old Valyrian term with fondness. “Seems people are more interested in the dragonlord and the crown prince than in me.”

Daeron tilted his head, thoughtful. Then, with the gravity only an eight-year-old could muster, he extended his hand. “What if I ask you?”

Visenya nearly choked on her wine.

He didn’t flinch, only lifted his chin in that slightly stubborn way that reminded her of both their mothers. “I’m better now than I was before. Aunt Catelyn taught me properly. She said the steps come from your feet, but the grace comes from your back.”

Visenya laughed then, quietly but genuinely. “Well, you do seem rather insistent,” she said, brushing a loose curl from his brow. “Just promise me you won’t crush my toes this time.”

“I won’t,” he said quickly. She reached out, and he took her hand. As she rose, she realized just how much he’d grown, he stood only a head shorter than her now, though he was still lean and coltish with youth. Visenya had always been the smallest of her siblings, much to her quiet chagrin. Even Daeron would likely tower over her before he was ten namedays old.

Still, she let him lead her toward the dance floor. A few lords and ladies glanced their way as they passed, smiling behind their cups. A few nobles from the Reach even nodded approvingly.

When they reached the edge of the circle, Daeron hesitated only a moment before placing one hand at her waist, the other in her grasp, his posture careful and proud. The musicians picked up a light.

They began to dance. His steps were deliberate, but not awkward. And true to his word, he did not step on her toes once.

As they twirled across the floor, Visenya caught movement out of the corner of her eye. The music shifted once more, slower now, threaded with melancholy notes. She saw Aemon relinquish muña Elia’s hand with a brief bow, only for father to rise and take her place.

But her eyes did not linger long. A moment later, Rhaenys took Aemon by the wrist and all but dragged him back into the center of the floor, her laughter ringing out like a bell through the hall. He allowed it with an amused sigh, but even from here, Visenya could tell, he didn’t resist.

She smiled faintly at the sight, until another figure caught her attention. Somehow, Egg has let go of muña Lya and has ended up partnered with her, Nyra.

Visenya’s brows knit together as she watched them. Nyra moved with fluid, effortless precision, her body swaying just slightly ahead of the beat as if she heard a different song playing beneath the one the musicians played. Her gown shimmered subtly beneath the light, blue threaded with silver, cut in the Eastern style, modest, but elegant, and foreign enough to draw eyes.

Visenya felt a chill race down her spine. It wasn’t the dress, nor her beauty, though the woman was undeniably striking, it was something else.

She watched as Nyra leaned in and said something to Aegon, her voice low. Whatever it was made him smile… and yet there was a wariness in his eyes, barely concealed beneath the practiced charm.

And Rhaenys, Visenya glanced toward her sister, she saw it too. Rhaenys’s gaze had locked on Nyra with quiet intensity, her steps never faltering as she danced with Aemon, but her eyes were sharp as blades.

Then… “Ow!” Daeron’s sudden yelp snapped her out of it. She blinked and looked down to find her little brother frowning up at her with dramatic offense. “Senya! You stepped on me!”

Visenya pressed a hand to her mouth, laughter bubbling beneath her apology. “I’m sorry, valonqar,” she said, kneeling slightly to check his foot. “I was distracted.”

Daeron huffed. “With Aemon’s new friend?”

She blinked again, surprised he’d noticed. “Yes.”

He nodded solemnly. “Everyone’s looking at her strangle. I think she’s nice, though. She has a really nice voice.”

Visenya stared at him for a moment, trying to reconcile her little brother’s earnestness with her own unease. “I’m glad you think so,” she said finally, smoothing a hand over his shoulder. “Just… be careful around her, alright?”

Daeron blinked. “Why?” Visenya hesitated. She didn’t have an answer that wouldn’t sound like paranoia, how could she explain her thoughts to an eighth nameday old boy.

They danced for a while longer and Visenya found herself glancing often toward where her brothers moved with the music, switching partners as noble custom demanded. Aegon was ever the charming prince, but it was Aemon who drew the eye more sharply for women kept circling him like stars around the moon.

After his dance with Rhaenys he ended up with Arianne. Visenya watched with narrowed eyes as her Dornish cousin leaned in close, too close, her dress clinging to tightly, her dark eyes flashing with amusement as she whispered something into Aemon’s ear.

Whatever she said made him smirk faintly but it was enough to make Visenya’s blood simmer. Arianne always played too close to the edge, always smiling as if she knew more than she said.

Next came Myrcella and Visenya couldn't help but feel a stab of sympathy for her best friend. She looked radiant in her golden gown, but barely managed to keep eye contact as Aemon led her through the steps. Her cheeks bloomed pink, and at one point, she missed a turn entirely, nearly colliding into him. Aemon steadied her with one hand on her back and murmured something Visenya couldn’t hear, but Myrcella turned a deeper shade of red that made it easy to guess.

And then came Margaery Tyrell, elegant, poised, dressed in flowing green and gold, she looked every bit the Rose of Highgarden the singers praised. She smiled at Aemon as if she’d known him her whole life and moved with the confidence of a girl used to commanding attention. They danced well together and though their expressions remained cordial, something in Margaery’s gaze unsettled Senya.

And then, almost like a closing act, Nyra emerged from the shadows near the dais and stepped wordlessly into Aemon’s path. She did not wait for an invitation. Instead, she took his hand and guided it to her waist with an elegant, practiced touch. Her smile this time was different. It wasn’t the faint curve she gave Egg earlier, it was deeper, older, as if she was remembering something.

Daeron tugged on her sleeve for another spin, and she gladly obliged. Her valonqar danced better than she remembered, even managing a respectable half-turn that earned a cheer from a nearby lady. But eventually, even his energy waned, and he was summoned back to their grandmother’s side.

That was when Joffrey Tully appeared. He approached with a boldness Visenya didn’t expect. "May I?" he asked with a crooked smile, offering his hand in a way that seemed more gallant than his age allowed.

She accepted, mostly out of courtesy, and let him guide her onto the floor. Joffrey was interesting, if nothing else. He was a Tully, but he looked entirely Lannister. In truth, both he and Myrcella had inherited nearly everything from Lady Cersei and almost nothing from their father, Lord Edmure.

She remembered Rhaenys once saying Myrcella was "Cersei’s beauty without her bite." Visenya hadn’t quite understood it at the time. Lady Cersei had always been polite to her, a little distant perhaps, but never unkind.

And yet, in the corners of the court, the whispers told a different tale. Court ladies murmured of how Cersei had doted on her children with an almost desperate intensity, keeping them close, shielding them from even imagined slights. Some said it was maternal love, others called it possessiveness. Myrcella herself had once confided, very softly, that “Mother loves us more than anything… but sometimes, it feels like she’s afraid to let us be on our own.”

She danced with Joffrey for some time, the rhythm light and courtly, until a shadow fell across the floor. Visenya looked up and found Aemon standing at the edge of the dance circle, hands clasped behind his back, the firelight casting soft gold along the collar of his black and crimson doublet.

“My Lord,” he said with quiet courtesy, inclining his head toward Joffrey, though his eyes never left his sister. “If I may steal away my sister for the next dance.”

Joffrey hesitated, only for a breath, but Visenya caught it. “Of course, my prince,” he said at last, his bow just a little too shallow.

Aemon offered him a faint smirk and then turned his gaze fully on her, extending his hand. Visenya didn’t hesitate as she placed her fingers in his, and he led her wordlessly into the heart of the hall.

The musicians shifted into a slower, more solemn tune and they fell into step easily, as if they had danced together many times before.

“You’ve grown quite beautiful, little sister,” Aemon murmured, his voice low and meant only for her ears. His violet gaze held hers with such startling intensity that she looked away, her cheeks coloring.

“You flatter me,” she said softly.

“I only speak the truth,” he replied. “And I must say, Lord Tully is far beneath your league.”

She chuckled, both flattered and amused. “He’s the brother of my dearest friend,” she said, half-defensive. “And he’s also the nephew of your best friend.”

“Jaime’s kin, yes,” Aemon acknowledged, casting a glance toward the cluster of Lannisters and Tullys seated along the wall. “But I always preferred Myrcella to Joffrey.”

“She was blushing while you danced with her,” Visenya said with a smirk. “I think she was rather taken with you.” Aemon didn’t answer, though his eyes flicked away briefly, unreadable as ever.

They moved together through the steps, their hands light in each other’s, their feet gliding in time with the music. But as they danced, the questions began to stir again within her. The ones she had buried beneath smiles and laughter and wine. The ones that had been growing since the moment he stepped into the Dragon Pit beneath the shadow of Nyraxes.

Where had he truly gone? What had he seen in Valyria? Who was Nyra? What had made him leave in the first place?

Aemon’s eyes met hers again, and she knew at once that he had seen it. “I see the storm behind your eyes, little sister,” he said gently. “You’re not alone in your questions. I know I owe you answers.”

She didn’t speak, only watched him, the music slowing like a heartbeat.

“I can’t give them to you yet,” Aemon continued, his voice quiet. “But soon. When we begin sorting through what I brought from Valyria… when the time is right, I’ll explain what I can.”

He said it with care, but there was hesitation in his tone. And she understood it, even if she didn’t like it. “What you can,” she echoed. “But not all of it.”

He nodded slowly. “Not all truths should be spoken aloud yet. Some are… not ready to be heard. Not even by those we love.” Aemon said as his gaze moved to their father.

They danced until the music waned and the final chords dissolved into the vaulted ceilings. The great hall began to empty as the hour grew late and the wine ran dry. One by one, the nobles drifted away, laughing quietly into their cloaks, their voices low with wine and whispered speculation.

She walked alone down the eastern wing, the corridor lit only by flickering torches and the occasional glow of moonlight through glass. Her slippers whispered across the stone. When she turned a corner near the royal apartments, she caught sight of them ahead.

Aemon walked slowly between Egg and Rhaenys, their voices soft, their shoulders touching now and again. Behind them trailed Nyra, her gown flowing like shadow. Visenya slowed her pace, half-concealed in an alcove of carved dragons.

At the junction, Egg and Rhaenys bid goodnight and slipped through their respective doors. Aemon paused outside his chambers, and Nyra did too. They exchanged quiet words she could not hear. Nyra stepped closer and her hand rose to touch Aemon’s chest, resting there just a moment too long, and leaned in to whisper something against his ear.

Visenya’s brows knit together. A strange feeling stirred in her. They parted soon after. Aemon watched Nyra go with that same expression he wore all day today. Then he turned and disappeared into his chambers.

Visenya exhaled and slipped away before she was noticed. When she reached her own room, she shut the door softly behind her, slipped out of her gown, and slid beneath the cool sheets of her bed. Sleep came slowly, but when it came… it brought something else with it.

She dreamed… but a different one than she usually got.

She stood beneath a sky not black nor blue, but the strange, bruised violet of twilight. Two dragons danced overhead, wheeling and snarling through the heavens. One was silver and white, the other was black, its wings as wide as storm clouds. They circled one another, then clashed, again and again, the sound of their roars shaking the bones of the world.

Then she saw Egg. He stood alone in a dark chamber, a place without walls, only shadow. Blood pooled at his feet, spreading like ink, his tunic soaked through. His eyes were hollow now, wide and glassy.

Behind him, something stirred. Something vast and unseen. A flicker, and the dream changed.

A figure stood in fire, a woman, or perhaps a man, it was hard to tell. Their hair was white as snow, falling down to their shoulders. Their eyes glowed red, brighter than any ruby. The flames did not touch them.

Next came something else. Men bearing the seven-pointed star charged across a riverbank, their tabards torn and smeared with soot. They clashed with men and women in red robes, who bore blades alight with fire. The air was thick with smoke, the river ran red, and the sky wept cinders.

Another shift.

She was looking into the eyes of a woman with skin pale as snow and lips blue as bruises. Her hair was the color of moonlight on fresh snow, and her eyes pierced through her like shards of ice. She did not speak, she only watched.

Chapter Text

The Hollow Prince

To say his brother had brought much out of Valyria would have been a gross understatement. By the looks of it, Aemon might as well have scavenged half the Freehold’s corpse, dragging back anything that caught his interest.

Their father had set aside an entire chamber in the Red Keep for the spoils. Crates were stacked high against the walls, their lids pried open to reveal the treasures within. Half of them were crammed with scrolls and crumbling books, some written in High Valyrian, others scratched with translations in a surer, more modern hand. Aegon guessed those were the work of Aemon and Nyra, though he doubted they had managed to decipher even half of what they had brought back.

Other chests held more tangible wonders: small statues of winged beasts, relics of gold and obsidian, and the jagged remains of blades and knives of Valyrian steel. Aemon had spoken of these to him once, saying he was close to unraveling the lost secret of forging Valyrian steel. Clearly someone had been listening, for within days the rumor had spread through court and city alike.

The gossipmongers claimed that since Aemon had gifted Aegon with Blackfyre, recovered Brightroar alongside Jaime, and carried a nameless Valyrian steel blade of his own, there was a good chance more of such blades may lie within the crates. From there it was a short leap to the wild notion that the crown might soon be producing Valyrian steel anew, and selling it.

The image was absurd, but an amusing one. Aegon could almost see it: lords from every corner of the realm offering half their keeps and coffers for the chance to own such a blade, their greed outshining even the steel’s dark sheen.

Aemon himself seemed to spend most of his time shut away in those newly claimed chambers. More often than not, Aegon would find him there in the company of Grandmaester Marwyn, Nyra at his shoulder, and their father leaning over some ancient text. Rhaegar had even written to the Citadel, requesting that several of their most learned archmaesters versed in Valyrian lore and history be dispatched to King’s Landing. The work, it seemed, required more hands.

When he did emerge, it was to spend his time with the family. It had taken Aegon the better part of two days to coax his brother into crossing blades with him, but once Aemon agreed, he did not disappoint.

Once, Aegon had been the clear superior, taller, stronger, and trained since boyhood by the best swordsmen in the realm. But four years in the East with Jaime at his side, had transformed Aemon into something more than a competent fighter. Now they stood almost eye to eye, and Aemon’s strength matched his own.

From the first clash of steel, Aegon found himself hard-pressed. His brother’s style had changed, still bearing the speed and precision of a court-trained knight, but tempered now with strange feints and an unorthodox rhythm, as though Essos had worked foreign cunning into his sword arm.

It was rare for anyone to drive Aegon wholly onto the defensive, yet Aemon did so with unnerving ease, wearing him down before slipping past his guard and ending the match with a light tap to the breastplate.

Rather than resent it, Aegon had felt a swell of pride. Many would assume that a man who commanded a dragon had no need for a sword at all. Aemon’s skill was proof enough that he thought otherwise, and perhaps a reminder that steel and fire served different purposes, and both could be deadly in the right hands.

Of course, while Aegon cherished the time he had with his brother, he understood well enough that there was someone else Aemon was eager to be with, and he made a point not to intrude when Rhaenys and Aemon found each other’s company.

It was plain to see, if one cared to look. The way they gravitated toward the same space, how their shoulders seemed to lean together without thought, the quiet touches passed between them like secrets. The murmur of words meant for no other ears. There was still a flame between them, the same one that had burned when they were younger. Time had dimmed it, and Aemon’s flight from Westeros had cut a deep wound between them, but not so deep that time and presence could not heal.

Rhaenys had been the first he took to the skies upon Nyraxes. Aegon remembered watching them rise from the Dragon Pit, the silver-and-white dragon beating her colossal wings until they climbed into the cloud-dappled heavens.

They circled the capital, sweeping past the spires of the Sept and the looming walls of the Red Keep before banking back toward the Pit. When they landed, Rhaenys wore a smile broader and brighter than Aegon had seen on her face in years.

Aemon had not kept the skies to her alone. One by one, he took them all, and Aegon would carry that memory until his dying day. The moment Nyraxes’ wings caught the wind, they left the world below; the air grew thinner in his lungs.

The Realm seemed to shrink beneath them, a painted map spread at his feet, castles and cities reduced to toys. For a heartbeat, he had almost believed they had flown into another world entirely, one where earth and sky changed places, and he was king of both. He had made Aemon promise to take him flying again, and his brother had smiled and agreed.

Nyraxes herself seemed less taken with the capital. More often than not, she would launch from the Pit and vanish beyond the city walls, only returning when Aemon called.

Aegon had always known his brother to be a warg, though he had thought his bond was limited to Ghost. Learning that Aemon shared that same wordless, bone-deep connection with a dragon was something else entirely.

But more than anything else, it was the eggs that had occupied Aegon’s thoughts these past few days. From the moment he had first laid eyes on them, he had been utterly taken. Each one was unlike the others. It was almost impossible to believe that something as large as Nyraxes had once fit inside something so small.

Aemon had told him the story that Nyraxes had laid the clutch a year ago, only a few moons after they had found her in Valyria. Since then, he had devoted no small portion of his time to unlocking the secret of how to wake them.

Dragons, Aemon explained, rarely laid more than two or three clutches in a lifetime. He did not know which this was for Nyraxes, only that there was a chance she might lay more. Yet he also told Aegon not to get his hopes up. Nyraxes was nearly a century old, and most she-dragons laid their clutches when they were younger.

What startled Aegon was how little of this was known outside his brother’s lips. Even the maesters, for all their tomes and chains, seemed ignorant of much of a dragon’s life. But Aemon knew. Of course he did. He had the scrolls from Valyria, and he had the will to read them.

When Aegon asked outright if his brother knew how to hatch them, Aemon’s answer had both thrilled and unsettled him. He knew the most important steps, but not yet the whole process. He was close, though, close enough to be certain that the answer was within reach.

The thought sent a shiver through Aegon. It was a childhood dream of his to have a dragon of his own, and now that dream seemed to be as close to reality as it could be. Yet with that dream came fear, for he knew well enough what had happened the last time one of their ancestors had tried to bring dragons back into the world.

"Interesting… I hadn’t realized how little of the Freehold we truly understood," Marwyn murmured, his finger tracing a faded line of ink across a parchment. "We always knew our knowledge was fragmentary, but after this… it would be more honest to say we understood nothing at all."

"I believe Aenar brought a great deal of lore with him when he fled to Dragonstone," Aemon replied from where he stood beside the Grand Maester. "But most of it was lost to time and neglect. My ancestors had no true bond with the rest of the realm until the Conqueror’s time and by then, the greater part of that legacy had already slipped through our fingers."

"Even so," Marwyn said, glancing up at him, "what you have brought back from that hellish graveyard is more than any living scholar has ever laid hands on. Enough to answer questions that have plagued the Citadel for centuries."

"I suspect we hold many more answers," Aemon said. "Nyra and I have only begun to scratch the surface of the scrolls we recovered. But with only the two of us, the work will take a lot of time to complete."

"The King has already sent for men and women well-versed in Valyrian history," Marwyn reminded him with a nod. "And I remain at your disposal. With more eyes and minds, the task will be finished far sooner."

The Grand Maester moved away from where Aemon stood and moved toward the table where Aegon leaned, and came to a stop beside a tall stack of scrolls. “For now,” Marwyn said, adjusting the chain around his neck, “I would suggest we focus our efforts on dragons.”

“Agreed,” Aemon replied. “Nyra and I discussed much in the moons after we found Nyraxes. By our estimation, she is around a hundred years old, judged by her size and the wear of her bones, but there is reason to believe Valyria itself may have shaped her growth.”

Aegon frowned, curiosity overtaking him. “Sorry, what?”

“Valyria was a crucible of magic, brother,” Aemon responded, meeting his gaze. “The Dragonlords wove blood magic into their lineages, bred children for traits they deemed perfect, and bound their works together in ways we still cannot understand. Magic was not only practiced there, it was ingrained into the Freehold. That legacy has left its mark on it.”

“Even after the Doom?” Marwyn asked, his voice low with interest.

“The Doom changed everything,” Aemon nodded. “It twisted what remained. The Freehold is still saturated with power, but it is… wrong now. The things we saw there…” He hesitated before continuing. “It is hard to explain them any other way.”

Aegon stifled a sigh. They had reached this wall before. Whenever someone asked Aemon or Jaime what they had truly seen in the ruin, the answers slipped away like mist. There had been mention of stone men, of firewyrms, of things that should not walk, fly, or breathe, and other things spoken only in fragments, as if naming them was some great sin.

“And you believe that presence might have shaped her growth?” Marwyn pressed.

Aemon inclined his head. “Aye, Nyraxes was born there, and every day of her life was a battle for survival. When we found her, she was scarred from muzzle to tail, her hide torn and pitted from a hundred fights. Some wounds have healed with time, others will always remain upon her.”

“That itself is extremely interesting,” Marwyn noted. “If Nyraxes was able to hatch and survive in the Freehold, it might suggest that others could have done so as well.”

“It’s possible,” Aemon allowed with a slight nod. “But we found no trace of any others. How Nyraxes came into the world there is something I still cannot understand. Everything I have learned about hatching dragons contradicts the conditions she would have faced. With everything I know, her birth there should have been impossible.”

“Then perhaps Nyraxes herself is unique,” Aegon mused, leaning forward. “Have you seen anything in her that might set her apart from others?”

“With all the other dragons gone, it’s difficult to make comparisons,” Aemon replied. “And of the accounts we have none suggest that she’s in any way different. Everything about her seems to match what the chronicles say of other great she-dragons. If she is unique, brother, it is in ways we have yet to understand.”

“She does seem calmer than I expected, the few times I have seen her,” Marwyn observed after a moment’s thought. “The old records, those penned before the Dance, note that Vermithor, who appears closest to her in age, possessed quite the temper.”

Aegon thought back to the time he had spent with Nyraxes over the last few days, and had to agree with Marwyn’s assessment. She reminded him of Ghost in some ways, always calm and rarely making a sound

“Years spent in constant struggle for survival have taught her to conserve her strength,” Aemon replied. “When I slip into her mind, I can feel it, she is always ready should the need to fight arise, but she will not waste herself without cause.”

“The fact that you are the first dragonrider in recorded history to also be a warg may be extremely useful in understanding their minds better,” Aegon offered, his brow furrowed.

“It is… but the bond I share with Nyraxes is not the same as the one I have with Ghost,” Aemon explained. “With Ghost, it is simple, almost natural. Like stepping through an open door. There is trust there, and welcome.” He paused, his gaze drifting toward the windows, as though searching for her in the sky. “With Nyraxes… it is different. She allows me to enter, but she does not yield easily. Her mind is vast, fierce, and old, and she has pushed me out before, when I pressed too far. It is less like opening a door and more like stepping into a storm that suffers my presence only so long as I don't go too deep into it.”

“Interesting,” Aegon murmured, rubbing his chin in thought. “Dragons were said to be the most intelligent of all creatures. Is it possible they could be… for lack of a better word… traumatized by something they’ve lived through?”

“If their minds are as complex as the human mind, then yes, it is possible,” Marwyn replied, scratching a note into the margin of his parchment. “But proving it would be another matter entirely. Such a thing could only be tested if Prince Aemon were willing to use his bond with Nyraxes for the purpose.”

Aegon’s gaze slid to his brother. Aemon’s expression was composed, but there was a stiffness in his posture, a certain guardedness in his eyes. He did not like the suggestion.

Their Stark cousins and Aemon himself had seemed untroubled by the practice when it came to direwolves. Ghost was as much a part of Aemon’s soul as his own shadow, and slipping into the white wolf’s skin had never seemed to cost him anything.

But with Nyraxes… it was different. Even without words, Aegon could sense it. His brother’s reluctance spoke volumes. Whatever he felt in the dragon’s mind was not the easy communion of a wolf and its handler.

The door to the chamber eased open, and Nyra stepped through. She was a vision in white, her gown cut from fine silk that drank the candlelight and gave it back in soft, rippling glimmers. For a heartbeat, she seemed almost to glow.

“Forgive me for being late,” she said, the words smooth and unhurried, carrying no hint of actual apology. Her gaze found Aemon instantly, as if no one else in the chamber mattered, and she crossed the floor until she stood before him.

“I thought I told you to be here an hour ago,” Aemon said.

“I know,” she replied, her lips curling into the faintest smile, her eyes bright with amusement, or perhaps mischief. “But Queen Elia and Queen Lyanna invited me to… a private tea. We had the most wonderful time together.”

Aegon felt the corners of his mouth tighten. Of course with both of his muñas reunited under one roof, it was inevitable they would turn their attention toward Nyra, probing her words, her manner, trying to understand who Sha truly was and if she was any danger to Aemon.

Nyra’s gaze slid to the table, where scrolls and parchments lay scattered. “And what is it you are working on here?” she asked.

“Dragons,” Aemon answered, his gaze never leaving her. “What we know of them, and what we have yet to learn.”

“Ah, I see.” She stepped closer still and the air between her and Aemon seemed to narrow, “Did you sleep well last night?”

The question was simple, but the tone was not. It held the weight of private knowledge, the quiet confidence of someone who had been there, or wished to have been. Aegon felt the hairs on his neck prickle. The closeness between them was unsettling, though Aemon’s face was as neutral as ever, neither welcoming nor rebuffing her.

Aegon had danced with Nyra during the feast. She had moved like a woman perfectly aware of the eyes upon her, saying just enough to keep him intrigued but nothing that might reveal more than she intended. Since then, their few exchanges had left him no closer to understanding her.

Aemon trusted her, or so it seemed, but Jaime did not. And Aegon could not yet decide whether to trust his brother on this or listen to the man who had been by his side all these years.

“Well enough,” Aemon said, turning from Nyra back to his brother. “Most of our scrolls on dragons are in that crate there.” He nodded toward one of the smaller chests beside the table. “But it’s been some time since I last went through them. These past weeks, we’ve focused mostly on Valyria’s culture… and its governance.”

“We could move to that,” Marwyn suggested. “The Citadel already holds fragments on how the Freehold ruled itself, but this is the first time in centuries we’ve had anything new to compare them against.”

Aemon’s eyes flicked to Nyra, and she gave him a subtle nod. “We’ve devoted much time to untangling the politics of the Freehold in the years leading up to the Doom,” Nyra said, her voice calm but weighted with intent. “We believed that if we could understand everything that shaped the Freehold’s final decade, we might get some idea as to what might have caused the Doom.”

“And?” Aegon asked, leaning forward, his earlier disinterest gone completely.

“Not as much as we would have liked,” Aemon admitted. “What we do know is grim. The Freehold in its last years was even more of a viper's nest than it had been before: assassinations became routine, and whole bloodlines began to vanish. Whether these deaths were political or not we cannot say.”

“There were also the elections for new Archons,” Nyra added. “We cannot pin down the exact date, but the records place them no more than a year before the Doom. And we know Aurion departed the Freehold sometime during that same span.”

Aegon caught the faint tightening in his brother’s jaw, the almost imperceptible shift in his stance at the name. “Aurion,” he said slowly. “The self-proclaimed Emperor of Valyria?”

“Aye,” Aemon replied, his tone clipped. “Nyra and I have spoken of him at length.” He glanced at her again, and something unspoken passed between them. “She seems to believe that his sudden disappearance during that time seems a little too far-fetched to be just a coincidence.”

“And why would you think so, my lady?” Marwyn asked, his voice calm but his interest unmistakably piqued.

“Aurion was the head of one of the oldest and wealthiest families in the Freehold,” Nyra began, her tone measured. “He’d earned a formidable reputation in the last campaigns the Freehold fought before the Doom. The records we have deciphered from that time speak of him with a certain reverence. They place him among the leading voices in the Freehold, and some suggest he was a likely candidate for Archon in the final elections before the Doom. And yet… he left Valyria before those elections and only reappeared after the Doom.”

“And at a time when the Freehold was in worse shape than it had ever been before he vanished,” Aegon mused. “Strange, perhaps, but not impossible to explain. He might simply have had other business outside the Freehold.”

“I thought the same,” Aemon said quietly. “But Nyra has been… adamant that there is more to it than that.”

“There is precedent,” Nyra countered, her gaze shifting between the two brothers. “One of the great families leaving Valyria under peculiar circumstances before disaster struck.” Her meaning settled over the room. “The Targaryens.”

Silence followed as Aegon’s mind turned over the implication. Everyone knew the tale of how Daenys had foreseen the Doom twelve years before it came, and how her father had gathered their kin, their dragons, and their treasures, and fled to Dragonstone. It was the only reason House Targaryen still existed.

Valyrian blood had always been a strange inheritance. It gave them dragons, the gift, and curse, of dreams. His father was proof enough of that. And Valyria had been full of such blood.

“You’re suggesting,” Marwyn said at last, “that Aurion may have dreamt the same thing Daenys had.”

"That’s one of the theories we’ve considered," Aemon said, his fingers drumming lightly against the table. "But it leaves the question of why he would return to Valyria afterwards?"

It was then that the door to the chamber swung open again, and a servant with his arms full of rolled parchments entered. “The reports you requested, your Grace,” he said, before placing everything on one of the tables.

Aemon inclined his head in acknowledgment, already stepping toward the stack as the servant withdrew.

“What reports?” Aegon asked, following after his brother with a puzzled frown. “More things from Valyria?”

Aemon shook his head, loosening the twine and beginning to sort through the scrolls with quick, efficient movements. “These are recent reports from the Wall,” he said.

Aegon blinked. “The Wall? Why would you need…”

“Because after the tourney, I plan to go north,” Aemon interrupted, his eyes scanning the dates written across each roll. He paused at one, more recent than the rest, barely two moons old if the scribe’s hand was to be trusted. Seeing that Aegon’s confusion was genuine, he added, more quietly, “I want to see Uncle Aemon. When I asked muña about how he fared, she told me he grows weaker by the day. I’d like to see him at least one more time before the Stranger comes for him.”

The words settled heavily between them. Everyone in their family knew how much Aemon cherished his namesake. Years ago, when both brothers had been fostered at Winterfell, they had made the journey to the Wall to see the Watch and that had been the first time they had set eyes on the man their father spoke of so often: Maester Aemon Targaryen, the last living remnant of a bygone generation.

"Still, I don’t understand the reports," Aegon said after a few moments.

"I want to know the full state of the Wall," Aemon replied. His voice was even, but there was a restless undertone to it. "All I have is what muña told me on Dragonstone, and that was little enough."

Aegon searched his memory for the scraps of information from the recent small council meeting where the North had been mentioned at all. Most of the talk had been about muña Lya and little Daeron in Winterfell. The Night’s Watch, the Wall itself… Those were passing footnotes.

He remembered the place well enough from their visit years ago: the wind blowing his cloak, the wonder he felt when he had first laid eyes on the Wall, the black brothers moving like shadows in the snow. It had been crumbling then and he had no doubt it had only grown worse.

"Anything I should know about?" he asked lightly. "You know, as heir to the throne." He shaped it as a jest, though it felt hollow even in his own mouth.

Aemon was leafing through a report, his eyes scanning the script. "This one’s dated two moons past," he murmured. "Castle Black, Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, and the Shadow Tower are the only keeps still manned. The rest… abandoned. The Watch numbers less than seven hundred brothers now." He set it aside, took up another.

A moment later he spoke again, more quietly. "There have been disappearances. Too many, and not just in the past year, stretching back several. Rangers vanish beyond the Wall and whole hunting parties go missing. The Lord Commander fears strange Wildling movements, though the reports are… vague."

The name signed at the bottom of the parchment stirred an image in Aegon’s mind: Jeor Mormont, broad-shouldered and grey-bearded, the Old Bear whose voice had carried in the air like the rumble of a drum. It would seem that the man was still alive.

A few moments of quiet passed before Aemon set aside another report and turned back toward Marwyn and Nyra. “All we’ve managed to piece together about the last years of Valyria is in that crate over there,” he said, inclining his head toward a chest at the far end of the chamber. “If you wish to keep digging into the matter, everything we’ve uncovered will be there.”

“You’re not staying?” Aegon asked, brows lifting.

“I’ve other matters to tend to,” his brother replied, gathering the last stack of parchment into his arms. “The tourney begins in two days, and I intend to leave for the North as soon as it’s done.” He started toward the door, boots whispering against the tiled floor. “One more thing, if father comes sniffing around about dragons and how to hatch them again, Nyra, give him the scrolls we’ve collected on the subject, but do not feed his curiosity further than necessary.”

That should have surprised Aegon more than it did. In truth, it didn’t surprise him at all. Since Aemon’s return, he and Rhaegar had shared only a handful of proper conversations: brief, measured words in public, and one long, closed-door meeting the morning after the feast. Aegon hadn’t heard what passed between them, but he had his suspicions. His father’s obsession with that thrice-cursed prophecy had a way of poisoning even the most necessary talks, and judging by the guarded look Aemon had worn when he emerged, he guessed it had been no different this time.

“Of course,” Nyra said smoothly. The glint in her mismatched eyes caught the light. “I hope we will have the chance to speak on… other matters later today.”

“In the evening, once I’m done with these reports.” Aemon gave her a curt nod, then pushed the door open. The hinges groaned in protest, letting in a spill of cooler air from the corridor before the door shut behind him.

The Pearl Princess

Dany laughed as little Alyssa made it her solemn mission to take her nose between two determined, chubby hands. The girl’s pale fingers darted like quick little fish, and no matter how many times Dany gently deflected them, Alyssa only redoubled her efforts, cheeks flushed with the exertion of her campaign.

"She’s a treasure," Dany said, glancing up toward Laena with a fond smile and her good-sister returned it easily. They had grown close in the years before Laena’s wedding, during the long courtship in which Viserys had pursued her hand with all the stubborn charm of someone certain of his prize. In truth, Dany could not imagine a better match for her brother.

"You should have seen her with Prince Daeron," Laena said, her voice full of amusement. "The poor boy couldn’t refuse her a thing at Dragonstone. He would have given her the keys to the castle if she’d thought to ask." She chuckled, the sound mingling with the faint clink of her goblet as she lifted it.

They were seated upon one of the Keep’s high balconies. At first it had been only the two of them, but Elia and Lyanna had joined not long ago, and from what Dany had gathered, the pair had come from a private audience with Nyra, an effort, at Elia’s insistence, to draw out the truth of the woman’s history and her closeness with Aemon. Lyanna had confessed she would have rather left the matter alone after she had tried to do the same while at Dragonstone, but Elia’s resolve had been iron: no unknown woman would linger so near to their son while the family knew next to nothing of her origins.

"She seems to like the Keep well enough," Dany remarked, watching Alyssa’s wide-eyed gaze sweep across the balcony’s carved balustrade and the banners snapping lazily along the distant towers.

"I imagine the grey expanse of Dragonstone bored her beyond measure," Laena replied, sipping her wine. "Gods know it did me. A child would find little delight in those dark halls, but here? All this red and gold, the bustle of a thousand servants, the clang of armor in the yards… it must seem like a different world entirely."

Having their whole family gathered in the capital again felt like a blessing, and Dany had spent the past few days greedily hoarding every moment in their company. Meals ran long with laughter, afternoons vanished into strolls through the gardens or idle talk on balconies, and in the time she had left after was left to her trying to coax Aemon into taking her on another flight.

Her nephew had changed in the four years since he had vanished from Westeros, and how could he not? He had gone to the smoking ruins of Valyria, returned with a dragon, torn the Golden Company to pieces, and walked in lands most maesters still called cursed.

Yet the changes had not remade him into a stranger. Beneath the strange Essosi accent and the shadows in his eyes, Dany still recognized the boy who had chased her through the training yards with Rhae, Egg, and Senya, all of them breathless with laughter.

"Have you given thought to the tourney?" Elia asked suddenly, as her hand rested ightly near her belly.

"Somewhat," Laena answered, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Since it will be Alyssa’s first proper tourney, discounting the one held to celebrate her birth, I want it to be something memorable, even if she’ll end up forgetting it later on."

"It will be special," Lyanna said. "It’s the first time in years we’ve all been together. The realm may have come to see Aemon and meet Nyraxes, but for us…" She trailed off with a smile, her grey eyes softening. "For us, it’s about being whole again."

Dany returned her good-sister’s smile. The whole realm truly was here; the great houses had descended upon the capital in force.

She had always loved tourneys. From the time she was a little girl, the announcement of one had been cause for delight: days of feasts and music and the thunder of hooves in the lists.

But more than the pageantry, there had been the dream. As a child, she had pictured it countless times: a gallant knight, dismounting before the royal dais and pressing a garland of flowers into her hands and proclaiming her the Queen of Love and Beauty. That image had lived in her mind for years, and though time had dimmed its colors, it had never truly faded. Not until her betrothal.

Quentyn was not the sort of man who won tourneys, nor the sort to crown a lady before half the realm. He was dutiful, quiet, and, if Dany was honest, not the husband she would have chosen for herself. Still, there were far worse matches than Quentyn Martell.

Yet there was something in him she could never quite reach. Arianne had told her that Quentyn was always this way around women: awkward, reserved, as though the very idea of flirtation unsettled him. At first, Dany had found it charming in its own way, almost amusing. But moons spent in Sunspear had worn that amusement thin. Even after so much time at each other’s side, he seemed just as uneasy in her presence as he had the day they were betrothed.

The thought that her future husband might always regard her with that polite, uncomfortable distance made her wonder whether their marriage would make either of them truly happy.

"I hear both Aegon and Aemon plan to ride in the lists," Elia said, her gaze drifting toward Lyanna.

"Mhm." Lyanna nodded, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "I can already picture half the noble ladies in attendance will be falling over themselves to throw their favors at them."

Elia gave her sister-wife a playful shove, smirking. "I’ve no doubt you’re right. Though Seven help us, I hope Aemon has the sense to consider what will follow if he accepts one."

Dany knew all too well what would follow. The realm had been circling her nephew like hawks since the day he returned, each highborn family with an eligible daughter nudging her subtly into his path. At the feast, she had counted the partners he’d danced with: Margaery Tyrell, Myrcella Tully, Arianne Martell… and a dozen others whose names blurred together now.

He was the only member of the royal family, besides Daeron, still unbetrothed, and he was, currently, the only Dragonlord in the whole world.

For certain lords, the thought of such a man marrying into their line must set their knees trembling. And now that the long reconstruction of Summerhall had been completed, he was sure to be granted the seat and title as well.

If he were to take some lady’s favor in the lists, her kin would make it their life’s work to see that a betrothal was guaranteed with the wedding soon to follow.

Dany shifted, handing little Alyssa back to Laena. The babe’s tiny face scrunched in clear disappointment at the handover, her small fingers grasping for Dany’s sleeve before Laena settled her against her chest.

"I admit, I’m slightly worried for the crown’s coffers," Elia confessed, her gaze drifting toward the sky. "This tourney, two royal weddings, and the celebrations that will follow, surely it will put some strain on our finances."

"Rhaegar has always managed to spend enough to keep his reforms moving forward, but never so much as to tip the balance," Lyanna said. "And from what I’ve seen, the prizes for the victors in the lists are generous, but hardly ruinous."

Elia’s lips curved into a knowing smile. "Don’t tell me you mean to put on armor again as some mysterious knight," she teased, a quiet laugh slipping past her. But the mirth faded as she added, "Even so, all this… and the reconstruction of Summerhall… it leaves me wondering how deep into the treasury we’ll have to reach."

Silence followed for a moment and Dany wondered the condition the royal treasury must be in. It had been full when his father was removed from the Iron Throne but Rhaegar had made quite the reforms during his time as the King and some cost far more than others. "While we were at Dragonstone," Laena said, her voice calm but deliberate, "Aemon mentioned he’d sold some of the less important treasures he’d brought from Valyria in order to buy ships. He claimed Volantis would pay near anything for relics from the Freehold. Perhaps we might persuade His Grace to consider doing the same."

Everyone around seemed to turn Laena's words over in their mind before speaking. "That isn’t a bad idea," Lyanna agreed, turning the thought over. "It might help offset the cost when Aemon finally talks Rhaegar into rebuilding the Dragon Pit with that grand design of his."

Both Dany and Elia turned to stare at her, and for a heartbeat, the Wolf Queen blinked at them in confusion, as if unsure what had caused their surprise. Then a faint smile tugged at her lips. "Oh… did I forget to mention that Aemon has drawn up a rather elaborate plan for the Pit?" she asked. "You should ask him about it. From the design, you’d think he means to build something to rival the Hightower itself."

She had known the Pit would have to be rebuilt, for the city would need a place to house Nyraxes and the others that would hatch from the eggs that she had laid, but she had not known that Aemon already had a design in mind.

The eggs themselves, she had only seen once. They were beautiful, but they had been spirited away soon after, locked under constant watch. Aemon had told her that he knew how to hatch them, or was close enough to finding the final key, but it would not happen soon or, at least, not as soon as she might wish.

"Do either of you have plans for later today?" Elia’s voice drew her from her thoughts. "I was thinking we might share a meal later today, just us. Leave the men to their scrolls, dragons and all the rest."

Laena chuckled, her gaze dropping to the child in her arms. "Besides putting Alyssa to bed, I’ve nothing to keep me."

"And you?" Lyanna asked, her grey eyes moving to Dany.

"Not that I’m aware of," she said. Then, after a pause, "Will my muña be joining us?"

"Of course," Elia replied at once. "It wouldn’t do to leave her out." She glanced toward her wife. "We should ask Rhae and Senya if they’ll join us as well."

Lyanna inclined her head. "Rhae’s been with her cousins most of the day, so she’ll most likely be in her chambers, or theirs, but I haven’t seen Senya since breakfast."

"I believe Rhaegar sent for her after that," Dany said. "He mentioned he had something he wished to discuss with her." Immediately something shifted in her good-sisters. It was subtle, but Dany felt it, like a sudden draft in a still room.

"I’ll speak with Rhae," Elia said lightly, though her tone carried an edge. "Perhaps you might speak with Senya once Rhaegar is done with her." Lyanna gave a small nod and the topic was dropped there.

They lingered on the balcony for some time longer, until the sound of soft footfalls on stone drew their attention.

Her muña stepped into the sunlight. Rhaella was a vision in deep summer-blue silk. A slender girdle of gold clasped at her waist, and her silver-blond hair was bound in a style that framed her face with ageless grace. One might easily forget she was five-and-fifty, for her she looked no older than thirty. "I hope I’m not interrupting," she said, pausing beside Dany with the faintest curve of a smile.

"Not at all. Please, take a seat, mother," Elia replied warmly, gesturing toward a cushioned chair.

"Later," Rhaella demurred, her voice as even and composed as ever. "For now, there is something I must say." Her gaze settled squarely on Dany. "Sweet girl, I have arranged for a tea party tomorrow, hosted by you, and perhaps by Visenya and Rhaenys if they are willing to join." Dany’s gaze narrowed a fraction before she could stop herself, and the faint roll of her eyes did not go unnoticed. "You will play hostess to the noble ladies who have arrived in the capital," Rhaella continued smoothly. "They will be notified of it shortly."

It was the last thing Dany wanted to spend the day before the tourney doing: pinned in a perfumed solar, exchanging pleasantries with the daughters of the realm’s great houses. She could already picture the half-smiles, the questions, the feigned interest in their conversation, all circling toward the same subject: Aemon.

This gathering would not be about tea at all, it would be about taking the measure of Aemon, through what they could get out of her. "There is one more thing," Rhaella added, letting her gaze drift around the balcony before returning to Dany. Her voice dropped as she spoke again. "Something I would prefer to speak in private."

Dany rose at once, smoothing her skirts as Rhaella turned back to the gathering with a serene smile. "Excuse us," the Queen Mother said, her tone pleasant enough, though Dany caught the faint finality in it. She followed as Rhaella led her out of the balcony and into the quiet marble corridors, the sounds of conversation fading behind them.

When they were well beyond earshot, Rhaella stopped, turning sharply. The mask she wore at court settled over her features. Dany knew that look; it meant something weighty was about to be said.

"Do not think I haven’t noticed, sweetling." Dany blinked, unsure what her muña meant, but before she could ask, Rhaella’s voice went on, calm but edged. "You have not spent more than a handful of minutes in your betrothed’s company. In truth, you spend more time laughing with Arianne than you do speaking to Quentyn."

It was true. She had begun to keep her distance almost without meaning to, the habit settling in during their last few weeks in Sunspear. Her mouth opened, but all that escaped was a stammer. "I… I… Muña,"

"I only wish to understand why," Rhaella said, eyes fixed on her daughter. "I know the match was forced upon you, but still."

Dany hesitated, feeling the weight of the question. At last, she let out the breath she’d been holding. "I can’t, muña."

Rhaella’s steady gaze bade her go on.

"Quentyn… he’s…" she faltered, searching for the right words. "He seems… uncomfortable with me. I don’t know why. But I think he dislikes this match as much as I do. I’ve seen the way he looks at the Yronwood girl, and… and how he avoids my eyes. When he is near me, he is as tense as a man walking on a blade’s edge."

Her voice cracked despite her best effort to sound composed. The heat in her cheeks was not just from embarrassment, but from the sting of knowing her marriage would not be the fairytale she’d once imagined.

Rhaella stepped forward and drew her into a warm embrace, her hands smoothing down Dany’s hair in the way she had when she was small.

"I know, sweetling," she murmured, her voice softened by memory. "I know too well what it is to be bound to a man you did not choose, and to find that the one who will share your bed is not the one you dreamed of."

She must have been a fool to think her marriage would be anything like the ones in songs she loved so much in her youth.

Dany knew why she was to wed Quentyn, and that knowledge made the hurt cut deeper. This union was just a crude bandage on an old wound, one Aemon had left bleeding when he fled Dorne.

Rhaegar had always been unyielding when it came to his children’s betrothals, and Dany had hoped that he had no plan for her and would allow her to wed for love, like Viserys had. But hope had been traded away along with her hand.

"I know it must be hard," her muña murmured, fingers stroking through her hair. "This betrothal was not one I agreed with when Rhaegar first spoke of it. Yet he is King, and in the end… his word is law."

The words were meant to comfort, but they pressed down on her like a stone.

"But that is not the reason I wished to speak with you." Dany’s gaze lifted, the faintest spark of curiosity pushing through the weight in her chest.

"I spoke with Rhaegar," Rhaella said, her voice quiet but deliberate, "and the conversation drifted to Aemon and the fact that he’s not married, and unbound by any betrothal. Every great lord in the realm would have him tied to their house, but your brother is too shrewd to ignore what that would mean. To wed Aemon is to be bound to Nyraxes as well… and that is a prize even the Iron Throne must handle with care."

Dany knew this as well as any in the royal family. There were no close blood relatives left for Aemon to wed. "Still," Rhaella continued, "the possibility arose… that Rhaegar may betroth Aemon… to you."

The words hung in the air, making the world around her go strangely still. The noise of the castle seemed to fall away, leaving only the pounding of her own heart.

"But… but, muña, I… I am to be wed in two moons," Dany stammered, the words tumbling from her lips as Rhaella’s words settled over her.

Her muña gave her a soft, knowing smile. "I know, sweetling, I know. This is only an idea for now. And yes, it may seem impossible with your wedding so near, but in my years I have learned that anything is possible."

Dany searched her mother’s face, mind turning over the words. Aemon had always been like a brother to her. Rhaegar was far older, a distant figure even in her youth, but his children were of her age. In Egg, Rhae, Senya and Aemon she had found the easy familiarity of true siblings.

"But what of Dorne?" she asked at last. "Surely Prince Doran would not take this well, especially when he already took Aemon’s flight from the realm as a personal slight."

"I know," Rhaella said evenly. "But the world has changed. We now have a precedent in Nyraxes." Her voice took on a faint, dangerous edge. "The dragon gives us power we did not have before. If Dorne resisted, it could be brought to heel in other ways. And we might find allies in that effort."

Dany tilted her head, frowning. "You think Elia could convince Doran?"

"I was not speaking of Elia." Her muña’s gaze sharpened. "Your dear friend Arianne is Doran’s firstborn. Do not think she has forgotten her father’s desire to have Quentyn be his heir instead of her. That wound still bleeds. If she saw an opportunity to redress the insult… we might find her willing to aid us." The notion was cold and calculating, and yet it made a certain, ruthless sense.

"But it is only a possibility," Rhaella said, stepping back from their embrace. "Nothing more. Above all, I wish for you to be happy, my dearest, but there are limits to what even I can do."

Dany’s brows drew together. "Then why tell me this at all?" Her mother’s lips curved into a faint, unreadable smile, one Dany had seen her wear in council chambers and at feasts when she was holding her true thoughts close.

The White Lion

Being back in King’s Landing was pleasant enough, so long as one ignored the city’s stench. By the gods, he had forgotten how foul the air was here. The reek of fishmongers and tanners, of horse dung and unwashed bodies, clung to every corner of the capital. He might even have said Valyria smelled sweeter, and the Freehold had stunk of rot and ash. Still, it was easy enough to push aside the smell when one had better things to think on.

Seeing Cersei again had been… wonderful. His twin was like fine wine, only ripening with the years, and he had been near-overjoyed to find her waiting the morning they arrived, and even more so when he visited her chambers later that night. He had feared that her years in Riverrun, a place she had never chosen and never wanted, and the fact that he had disappeared for four years, would have soured her. Yet she had met him with the same warmth she had in their youth, perhaps even more, especially after their father had spoken of his own designs.

Tywin Lannister had not changed in the four years since Jaime last saw him. He had welcomed Jaime home with due ceremony… and then, without pause, set about work. Jaime had known what was coming before the words were spoken.

Being close to Aemon was always bound to end this way. The prince was a comrade, a friend and perhaps the only man in the realm Jaime would follow into fire without question. But to his father, such sentiment mattered less than the iron it might forge. The Old Lion saw opportunity in every bond, every weakness, every thread of loyalty that could be knotted to House Lannister’s advantage.

So when his father sat him down in the solar, and spoke of a “unique opportunity” to bind their house to the last living dragonlord, Jaime had not been surprised in the slightest.

"Uncle, are you listening to me?" Myrcella’s sweet voice tugged him back from his thoughts.

"Of course I am," he said with a smile, meeting her gaze. "Please, go on." And she did, speaking of all she had been about in his absence: her studies with the septa, her walks in the gardens, the little adventures that filled her days within the Red Keep, and the friends she had gathered among the daughters of great houses now flocking to King’s Landing for the tourney.

She was the very image of Cersei in her girlhood, but where mother and daughter were near identical in beauty, their natures could not have been more different. Myrcella was shy where Cersei had been bold, soft-spoken where Cersei’s tongue could cut, and kind, too kind, Jaime thought, for a court that fed on whispers and lies.

He remembered the feast, the moment she had blushed like a girl in a song when Aemon had danced with her. The prince had given her more of his attention than was strictly polite, speaking to her in low tones, smiling in that disarming way of his. Jaime had noticed, and so had Tywin.

When his father had spoken of Myrcella as the key to binding their house to the last living dragonlord, Jaime had understood at once. He knew the risks for he remembered all too well what had happened the last time Aemon was given a betrothal he did not want, and how it had driven him from the realm entirely.

Not that he would ever act without Aemon’s will. They were too close for that. In the years they had fought and bled together, Jaime had watched the boy grow into a man of rare steel, and to betray that trust was unthinkable. Still, in the quiet of his mind, he could not help but picture it: his friend bound to his family through Myrcella, through his blood, even if no one else ever knew the truth of it.

It was a tempting vision. But he knew too well that trying to corner a dragon, no matter how gentle it might seem, was never wise.

"Is your mind still in the clouds, brother?" Tyrion asked from where he lounged, a book in one hand and a goblet of wine in the other. "I imagine flying on a dragon’s back leaves a man rather weary of the ground below."

"I’m just tired, Tyrion," Jaime said, running a hand through his golden hair. It was not entirely untrue, though not quite the exhaustion he was pretending.

Tyrion had changed little in the years since Jaime last saw him. His love for wine remained undiminished, as did his sharp tongue and the complicated relationship he maintained with their sister and father. He had stayed close to Myrcella, too, perhaps closer than anyone save Cersei herself, though his bond with Joffrey had never been quite the same.

"What is it like, uncle?" Myrcella asked suddenly, her green eyes bright with curiosity. "Flying on a dragon."

Jaime smiled at her. "It’s unlike anything you’ve ever known. From the clouds, the world below seems impossibly small. The wind is sharper, cleaner, and you feel as though you’ve stepped into a place where nothing and no one can reach you."

The first time he had flown on Nyraxes, it had been one of the most exhilarating, and most terrifying, moments of his life. The dragon’s muscles had tensed beneath him, and the ground fell away in a rush stealing his breath away. In the time since, that fear had dulled, but never vanished. Even now, every time Nyraxes took to the skies with him on her back, there was that heartbeat of doubt before the wind swallowed it whole and left only the thrill.

"Oh, I almost forgot, I've been invited to a tea party hosted by Princess Daenerys tomorrow at noon," Myrcella said, her smile bright with excitement. "It’s so thrilling. So many ladies are said to be attending as well."

Jaime returned her smile, though his mind was already turning. He could see the shape of it clearly enough. Jaime did not doubt that his father had a hand in arranging this tea party. Aemon spent most of his time sequestered in that chamber with Nyra, Marwyn, and all the scrolls they had brought back from Valyria. Gaining an audience with him was no easy feat. But the prince’s family was another matter entirely. If one could not reach the dragon, one might court the nest.

Tywin would call it “positioning,” and Jaime could almost hear his father’s voice explaining the merits of making oneself useful to those closest to Aemon.

Jaime had told his father much about what he and Aemon had been up to all these years, but never that Aemon had once loved Rhaenys. That was not his truth to give away. Everyone worried over his relationship with Nyra, and with some cause. Jaime had little fondness for the woman himself, yet Aemon cared for her, and that alone was enough to keep Jaime from speaking ill of her.

Still, those who watched closely during the reunion in the Pit, and again at the feast, might have noticed what Jaime had: the glances between Aemon and Rhaenys, the quiet warmth lingering in their smiles. The love they had once shared was not gone, only dimmed.

"I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time tomorrow," Jaime said, setting his thoughts aside with an effort.

"I know I will," Myrcella replied brightly. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, "If Visenya comes, it will be even better." Jaime must have shown his confusion, because she tilted her head and smiled shyly. "Did I not mention that I’m one of Princess Visenya’s ladies-in-waiting?"

He shook his head. "No, you did not."

"Oh, well, I have been for nearly a year now," she said, smoothing the folds of her gown. "She’s one of my closest friends in the Keep." Myrcella went on, her voice full of quiet fondness as she recounted her adventures with Rhaegar’s youngest daughter.

Listening, Jaime found himself wondering why his father had never made use of this friendship. It was a thread already woven between their houses, yet his father seemed not to tug on it, or perhaps he had, in ways Jaime simply could not see. Tywin’s designs often were hidden until the last possible moment. Still, Jaime was growing tired of trying to read the map in his father’s mind.

"And what will you be doing tomorrow at noon, dear brother?" His brother asked, not bothering to lift his gaze from the book in his hands. His voice was casual, though the faint curl of amusement in it was unmistakable.

"I’m a sworn brother of the Kingsguard, Tyrion," Jaime replied. "Whatever the King commands, I obey." He glanced toward Myrcella, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Though I expect I’ll cross swords with Prince Aemon in the morning. He means to ride in the tourney, and I’m not sure I like the idea of him winning." He gave her a conspiratorial wink, and she giggled.

"You plan to ride as well?" Tyrion finally deigned to lift his eyes from the page, one brow arched in mild surprise.

"Does that surprise you?" Jaime asked. "It’s been far too long since I rode in the lists, and I’ve yet to win a tourney of this size."

"Ah," Tyrion said, setting his book aside and reaching for his wine, the glint in his eyes sharpening. "So the prospect of crowning some fair maiden as the Queen of Love and Beauty appeals to you, does it?"

Jaime sighed inwardly, wishing, yet again, that he had never allowed Tyrion the faintest hint of his secret with Cersei. That mischievous gleam in his brother’s gaze always seemed to land precisely where it shouldn’t.

The door opened without ceremony, and Aemon stepped in. His brown hair caught the light from the window, and his violet eyes swept the room with the faintest curl of amusement.
"I hope I’m not interrupting anything," he said, his mouth quirking into a small smirk.

"Not at all," Jaime replied easily. "Though I thought you’d be buried in those Valyrian scrolls you love so much." His tone was teasing.

Aemon rolled his eyes and stepped fully inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. "My Lady," he said, moving to Myrcella with courtly precision. He took her hand, bowing slightly before brushing his lips across her knuckles. "You look radiant today."

Her cheeks flushed at once, her gaze darting down to the floor. "You are too kind, your Grace," she murmured, her voice a touch unsteady.

"I only speak the truth," Aemon said with an easy smile, before turning to Tyrion. "Lord Tyrion, you look… well enough."

Tyrion raised his goblet in mock salute, a smirk playing at his lips. "And you as well, your Grace."

Aemon inclined his head, then fixed his gaze on Jaime. "I need a word with you." He nodded, rising from his chair. "If you’ll excuse me," Aemon said, his smirk returning in a heartbeat, "I’ll be stealing away Ser Jaime for just a moment." Myrcella gave a soft giggle as the two men stepped out into the corridor.

Once the door closed behind them, Aemon’s expression shed its warmth in an instant. The smirk was gone, replaced by a grim set to his mouth. "Do you remember when I told you I planned to travel North after the tourney?"

"I do," Jaime said. "You said you wished to visit your uncle at the Wall."

Aemon gave a brief nod. "That’s part of it. But there will be other stops along the way, before we return to the capital."

"We?" Jaime asked, arching a brow. "I don’t recall agreeing to accompany you." His voice carried the lightness of a jest, but Aemon did not smile.

"What kind of stops?" Jaime asked at last, a sigh slipping from him. He knew how this would go: if Aemon said they were going together, then they were going together.

Truth be told, he didn’t mind. He had seen the Wall only once, back when Aemon and Aegon had been fostered in Winterfell. The thought of seeing it again, this time from dragonback, had its appeal, and with Nyraxes, the journey north and back would take days, not weeks.

"Winterfell, of course," Aemon said. "But only after the Wall." He glanced up and down the corridor, his eyes narrowing. Then his voice dropped. "Before that, we’ll stop at the Nightfort."

Jaime frowned, sifting through memory until the name found its place. The Nightfort, the oldest, most storied of the Wall’s castles, abandoned for centuries. "Why there?"

"I need to confirm something." Aemon’s gaze sharpened, as though the very thought carried weight. "And I need you there… to make sure that I’m truly seeing what I’m seeing."

That was all. No explanation, and no further invitation into the depths of his mind. Jaime had traveled with him long enough to recognize that tone, it meant the conversation’s gates had been shut. His mind flicked to the dreams Aemon so rarely spoke of, the visions that left him unsettled for days after. When such matters arose, he turned to Nyra. Yet here he was, speaking to Jaime instead.

"Does Nyra know?" Jaime asked quietly. Aemon’s silence stretched long enough to give the answer away.

"No," he said at last. Then, with a look that could have cut, "And you won’t tell her."

"Not as if I speak to her much." Jaime muttered, though it was more to himself than Aemon.

Aemon gave a short nod, as though the matter were decided, and pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. "Good. Then we understand each other." Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode down the corridor, boots echoing on the stone.

Chapter Text

The Harpist King

“My lords, I apologize for my lateness," Rhaegar said as he strode to the far end of the council table with Arthur hot on his hills.

He had lost all track of time while pouring over one of the scrolls his son had brought back from the Freehold. The ink was faded and the tongues difficult, yet the fragments spoke of dragons and rites long forgotten, and Rhaegar had been too easily ensnared. He would have probably stayed that way for the rest of the day had Arthur not been there to remind him of the meeting.

The moment he sat down Visenya appeared at his side. His youngest daughter pressed a small kiss to his cheek before offering him a goblet of Dornish red. With the poise of a queen though she was but a girl, she moved down the table to serve Jon Arryn. Rhaegar felt a quiet warmth in watching her: his silver princess, bright-eyed and dutiful. He had not once regretted naming her cupbearer.

His gaze moved through every Lord seated around the table until it suddenly came to a stop three seats down from him, where Aemon sat besides Aegon.

It startled him more than he cared to admit. Since his return his son had chosen not to attend the small council meetings, preferring instead to bury himself in the strange relics and treasures he had dragged across the sea. Rhaegar had respected the distance, and so to see him here was unexpected.

He and Aemon… their relationship was a thing difficult to describe. Rhaegar had feared that when he and Aemon met he would find nothing but hatred in his son's eyes. Yet when their eyes had met again for the first time, he had found not rage, but pity, as though the son judged the father unworthy, yet forgave him all the same. That cut deeper than anger ever could.

They had spoken alone only once since his return, the morning after the feast. The conversation still echoed through Rhaegar’s mind, half-shrouded, half-understood.

It had taken coaxing and no small measure of strain to draw the truth from his son, for Aemon had no wish to speak of his dreams. He had answered questions with curt half-truths, revealing very little. Yet even so, Rhaegar learned enough: his son suspected, at the least, the threat that Rhaegar himself had long feared.

And yet… The boy seemed blind to the heart of it.

Aemon, who knew the scrolls and prophecies in all their twisted variations, who had braved the Freehold itself and returned with a dragon at his side, did not seem to grasp the truth of the three heads of the dragon.

“Shall we begin?” Lord Arryn’s voice was gentle but insistent.

Rhaegar nodded. “Let us begin, and make quick work of it. The hour is already past midday and with the tourney tomorrow, I imagine we all have matters to attend to.” A ripple of agreement passed around the table.

“The Triarch elections in Volantis have concluded,” said Connington. “And we’ve received confirmation of the results from multiple reliable sources.”

The Master of Whisperers cast a glance toward the King, and Rhaegar gave a nod in reply. Connington continued, fingers brushing aside a roll of parchment as he began to speak.

“As expected, Maegyr was reelected with little resistance.” he said, and no one in the chamber looked the least bit surprised. Maegyr had held the position for several consecutive terms, and the people loved him a great deal. His victory had been all but assured.

“Nyessos has also retained his seat,” Connington went on. “But barely. My agents report that his margin was narrower than anticipated. There are rumors, however, that he brokered a deal with several prominent figures in the other Free Cities. The nature of that agreement remains unknown, but it may well have tipped the scales in his favor.”

He paused to retrieve a sealed scroll from the small stack before him. “But Doniphos Paenymion was not so fortunate. He was ousted,” Connington said, scanning the parchment briefly before looking back up. “His replacement is Daelarro Phaelos, a tiger.”

That seemed to have an effect on the whole chamber. “Another tiger?” asked Arthur quietly from behind the King.

Since the rise of the elephants during the Century of Blood, it had been an unspoken rule that no more than one tiger would sit among the Triarchs at any given time. Not in over three hundred years had that balance been broken, until now.

“It would seem so,” Lord Tarly observed, swirling his goblet as he eyed Connington. “What do we know of this Daelarro?”

Rhaegar glanced at Jon, hoping for a quick answer. Instead, he was met with a blank, uncomfortable stare. Disappointment flickered in the king’s chest, for in Varys’s day, such a question would have produced a dossier: names, lovers, debts, ambitions, even the color of Daelarro’s favorite tunic. But Varys had vanished into the chaos that followed the Rebellion, and the crown’s web of eyes and ears had not yet regrown.

But while Connington offered no answer, Aemon did. “He’s the third son of one of the older families of the Old Blood,” he said, voice calm but sure. “Wealthy, though not so wealthy as to draw undue attention. Most of their coin came a few generations back, when they married into another family, one that had grown rich from shipping, if I recall correctly.”

There was a quiet ripple around the council table as heads turned his way, surprised. But in truth, they ought not have been. Aemon had spent more time in Volantis than any man seated here.

“He wasn’t widely known until a few years ago,” Aemon went on, lacing his fingers together. “But I suspect he had been working from the shadows far longer. His rise to prominence began when he became acquainted with Maegyr, and I would wager it was through that connection he was groomed for the Triarchy.”

A hush followed his words, broken only by the faint scratch of quill on parchment as Marwyn recorded it all.

Rhaegar studied his son closely, concealing his approval, and judging by the thoughtful glances being exchanged among the lords it was clear they, too, were impressed.

“How do you know all of this?” asked Aegon, seated two places down.

“I spent a long time in Volantis, brother,” Aemon replied, with a ghost of a smile. “Before our journey into Valyria, I only knew the rumors, but after we returned with Nyraxes… before we could sail home, I lingered.”

He looked at Rhaegar then. “The Triarchs made time for me,” Aemon continued. “The city that calls itself the heir to the Freehold wasn’t about to ignore the first dragon seen in over a century.” That drew a low murmur from the council.

“I met Daelarro at a private gathering in the Black Walls. We spoke briefly and he seemed cautious, though courteous. At the time, I didn’t give him much thought. I was more concerned with securing ships to carry us home.”

A ripple of assent passed through the council at Aemon’s account, the Lords’ curiosity seemingly sated for now, and so no one saw fit to press him further. Rhaegar turned to Connington. “Find out everything you can about this new Triarch,” he said quietly, but the meaning behind the command was unmistakable.

His old friend accepted the task with a nod. Jon was a proven battle commander, but the intrigues of court were a different battlefield entirely, and Rhaegar sometimes wondered if Jon had the subtlety for the master of whispers’ mantle, but there were few men he trusted more for this position.

The discussion moved away from Volantis, leaving behind Tigers and Elephants for matters closer to home, and as the Commander of the City Watch, Aegon rose to deliver his report.

“The streets are busier than they’ve been in recent moons,” he began. “In the days since our last meeting, we've made over two dozen arrests.” He spoke plainly, but the weight in his voice betrayed the tension beneath. “I've had to double the number of Gold Cloaks on patrol across the lower districts. With the tourney starting tomorrow, more strangers arrive by the day.”

He shifted and his gaze fell to the ground. “There’s also another matter. It would seem that several of my men have returned to old habits. The Street of Silk is teeming again, and the Blue Pearl in particular has become a favorite as far too many of my officers linger there.” He hesitated for a breath. “I have no confirmation yet, but I’ve begun to hear rumors. Whispers that some among the Watch have started taking bribes again.”

Rhaegar’s expression did not change, but he studied his son carefully. Aegon had worked hard to root out the rot in the Watch, he had broken fingers, dismissed veterans, and rebuilt it brick by brick. To hear it creeping back again clearly disturbed him, and rightly so.

“The Blue Pearl,” Connington mused aloud, folding his arms. “Isn’t that one of Baelish’s establishments?”

Aegon gave a nod. “It is. Why?”

Jon’s gaze swept the table. “If memory serves, the Lord Hand is familiar with the man. Is that not so, my Lord?”

All eyes turned to Jon Arryn, who regarded the question with a flicker of discomfort. “I know Petyr Baelish,” he said at last, “though not as well as some seem to think. He was a friend of Lysa’s in her youth, and I know the man through her. When he first came to court, she asked me to offer him some help, but we've had little contact in recent years.”

Rhaegar’s fingers tapped once against the table. “If possible, I would have you arrange a meeting with Baelish,” he said calmly. “Discreetly, and if there is truth to my son’s suspicions, I want to hear it from Baelish’s own lips, or from the mouths of those in his employ.”

Arryn inclined his head. “Anything else?” the King asked, his gaze sweeping across the table.

“Yes,” said Marwyn as he drew a folded parchment from the sleeve of his robe. The wax seal had already been broken, but Rhaegar recognized the direwolf sigil at a glance. “This arrived late last night,” the Grand Maester said, offering it forward. “From Winterfell.”

Rhaegar took the letter and began to read, his brow furrowing before he’d reached the second line. “Apparently the Skagossi have been building a fleet,” Marwyn continued. “Right under our noses.” He cast a pointed glance toward Connington, whose lips tightened. “We might never have known if not for Lord Stark’s vigilance,” Marwyn added, “and his decision to inform us before acting.”

Rhaegar gave a small nod, setting the parchment aside. Ned was ever the same: steadfast, proud, a man who bore his duty like a shield. Too rigid at times, almost to a fault, yet no one would be stupid enough to doubt his honor.

“Does he ask for our help in dealing with this?” Jon Arryn asked, already leaning forward.

Rhaegar shook his head. “No, Ned writes that the matter will be dealt with by the North alone.” He lowered the letter, eyes distant. “Why would Skagos build ships at all?”

“They’re savages,” growled Lord Tarly, arms crossed. “Wild and harder to rule than the mountain clans. All they know is how to raid.”
He wasn't entirely wrong. Of all the North’s vassals, the Skagossi were the most isolated, and the most uncontrollable.

Rhaegar considered it one of the great triumphs of his reign: not only bringing the North back into the fold after the Rebellion, but helping it prepare for what was coming. For all that Lyanna loved to repeat her house’s words he knew they were more than just a warning. A long summer always yields to a longer winter, and this winter would bring more than snowdrifts and cold.

The first year of his reign had nearly consumed him. There had been no time for rest, no room for celebration. He still regretted that he had never given Aemon a proper naming feast, let alone a tourney in his honor. His other children had known joy at their arrival, Aemon had not, for the realm was shattered in those days.

“There are more words from the North,” Marwyn said, taking out another letter, this one sealed in black wax.

“The Watch?” Rhaegar asked, though he already knew the answer.

“Yes,” the Grandmaester confirmed. “The Lord Commander writes again, with another request for men and support. He claims the winds of winter have already begun to lash at the Wall. Snowfalls deeper than any in living memory, and more rangers going missing with each passing moon.”

A scoff broke the silence. “It seems the Watch grows more useless by the day,” Mace remarked as he swirled his wine. “How many letters has this Lord Commander sent us? Ten? Fifteen?”

Monford nodded at his words. “One might think he'd forgotten his vows. It is they who swore to protect the realm, not beg scraps from its table.”

There was little love for the Watch in the south, for most lords viewed the men in black as outcasts, the worst of the worst sentenced to spend their last days at the edge of the world.

It pained Rhaegar more than he wished to admit. These were his counselors, learned men, powerful men, and yet they spoke of the Watch as if it were some withered branch on the edge of the realm, rather than its first line of defense against what lay beyond. He had no one to blame but himself, for he had done little to strengthen the Watch during his reign, offering only small support after the Rebellion, and then letting them slowly rot in silence.

The talk of the Watch and the Wall died quickly, brushed aside by Lords more eager to speak of coin, marriages, and matters closer to home. Yet the brief exchange left Rhaegar thoughtful, for it reminded him of Aemon’s intention to ride north once the tourney was done.

None of the family were pleased by the notion, but Rhaegar felt a quiet satisfaction. At least one Targaryen still cared for the Watch. Aemon said he planned to visit the Wall to see his namesake and yet the way he had gone over all the recent reports, it made Rhaegar believe that his son truly understood the threat that was coming from there.

Aemon would visit the Wall and pay his respects to the old Maester, but it was more than homage that drew him. He meant to help, if he could. And in that Rhaegar could not help but feel a flicker of pride.

“The costs are high,” Tywin said, steepling his fingers as he leaned forward, “but it could have been far worse. Thus far, the tourney remains within the range of my projections, and if it ends without incident, the crown’s coffers will remain largely intact.”

He gave a slight glance toward where Mace sat. “If trade continues at its current pace, and the grain levies from the Reach arrive on schedule, we could recover our losses within a year or two.” Rhaegar gave a nod. Tywin had many faults, but he understood coin, and he had kept the crown’s coffers in check better than any master of coin in recent memory.

“With those costs in mind,” Marwyn interjected, voice low and rough with thought, “how soon might we begin work on the Pit?”

Ah, the Dragon Pit. Rhaegar sighed at the mention of it. He had seen the designs Aemon had drawn. His son’s vision was ambitious, poetic even, and Rhaegar had been proud of it, but pride would not pay for it. Rebuilding the Pit would cost a fortune and take a long time.

Aerys had left the treasury full, hoarding gold while the realm burned. Rhaegar had spent sparingly in the years after, keeping the crown’s wealth mostly intact. His reforms had been modest, but this year had emptied more coin from the vaults than all his prior reforms combined.

He thought it to be the right choice with two weddings, one of them binding the three heads of the dragon, and the last year of the summer necessitating him to prepare the whole realm.

“Not for some time,” Tywin said. “At the moment, the best we can do is begin acquiring the materials, but even that should wait. I would advise against draining our coffers further without careful planning.”

Rhaegar inclined his head, though inwardly he frowned. The Dragon Pit had become far more important in the last moon, both Aemon and Nyra had explained that to him. The obvious reason was Nyraxes herself, as the great she-dragon had refused to rest within the ruins of the Pit, circling the city restlessly until she vanished beyond the walls, only returning when Aemon called her.

But there was another reason. Rhaegar had been told that the hatchlings, when they came, would need more than space, they would need the right environment. The ancient Valyrian breeding grounds had been crafted with that in mind, as to shape the mind and growth of dragons from the moment they cracked their shells. Aemon’s design had drawn heavily from those he saw in Valyria and had everything in mind.

“I would like us to begin work on the Pit as soon as we have enough resources to proceed without interruption,” Rhaegar said, breaking the silence. “The construction will be long and costly, and I would not have it stop halfway due to a lack of coin or planning.”

He turned to Tywin. “Go over the designs and draw up a list of every material we’ll need and estimate the costs. Source what we can at fair prices, preferably from people loyal to us. I want a detailed projection, and a working plan we can follow without waste or delay.” The Lord of Casterly Rock gave a curt nod.

“Nyraxes has taken little liking to King’s Landing,” Aemon added. “I may return to Dragonstone with her for a time. She seemed content there, even found a cave near the cliffs that she liked. It will have to serve until the Pit is somewhat ready.”

Rhaegar nodded slowly. “Regarding that... Summerhall has recently completed its reconstruction.” His gaze rested on his son. “It is yours by right, as we discussed. I would advise you to begin assembling your household soon, and if need be you could move her there for a time.” He could have arranged it all himself, but he wanted Aemon to shape it.

Aemon gave a quick nod. “Understood.” He gazed at his son a moment longer before his mind drifted back to the conversation he’d had with Rhaella the day prior.

Leaving Aemon unwed, and unpromised to anyone, was a great risk. With Aegon set to marry both of his sisters, and Daeron still far too young for marriage in general, Aemon was now the only unclaimed Targaryen son the great houses could latch onto.

Once, that issue had seemed solved for Aemon had been betrothed to Arianne. It had been a shrewd alliance on paper, one Doran had been pushing for years, and Rhaegar had agreed to after much thought. But that was before Nyraxes.

Now, binding Aemon to Dorne would be the most foolish thing Rhaegar could do. As Arianne’s consort, Aemon would effectively become prince of Sunspear, and with him, Nyraxes would be tied to Dorne’s future, and that would shift the balance of power drastically.

Arianne was no longer an option, but the alternative posed its own dangers. Daenerys was already promised to Quentyn, another gesture of peace, another fragile olive branch extended toward Dorne after the Arianne betrothal had been broken. Rhaegar had hoped it would smooth tensions, but now, it threatened to ignite something far more dangerous somewhere down the line

The solution seemed so simple: Break Daenerys’s betrothal and marry her to Aemon. It would tie off every loose thread at once. No more uncertainty about who Aemon might wed, no more speculation among the Lords, and the danger of any other house breeding dragonriders into their line would disappear.

It was the obvious answer, so obvious it almost mocked him. Nyraxes was here and her presence would be the reminder of the stakes. Aemon had to see it too, he had to understand. He must know that no bloodline outside their own could be allowed to claim such power. Surely he understood that dragons were not simply weapons or symbols, they were a dynastic force, and any rider not born of the crown could one day rise against it.

Doran would be angry, though he had to have known this was coming. Dorne would bristle, would call it betrayal, but Nyraxes was a deterrent stronger than any Dornish army, and Elia could speak to her brothers and ease their fury.

And yet… This choice would also wound where he least wished to cut, for there was another problem. A darker one, one he dared not name aloud.

He suspected that Aemon and Rhaenys still loved each other. It was a suspicion born not from proof, but from instinct, from the thousand small things a father notices. The way they looked at each other, the way their conversations bent toward one another, the embrace at the Pit, and the dance at the feast.

He had hoped time and distance had severed their bond, and yet his son’s eyes still drifted toward Rhaenys.

Rhaegar wasn’t sure. He hoped he was wrong, but he couldn’t take that risk. If Aemon chose to follow his heart, if he chose to go after Rhaenys, defied the crown, who could stop him? Who would dare?

“Your Grace, are you well?” Rhaegar blinked, startled, and turned his head to find Jon Arryn’s blue eyes narrowed with concern, but no one else around the table seemed to have noticed that he had stopped paying attention.

The King straightened, smoothing the front of his tunic. “I’m fine,” he said. “A poor night’s sleep, that’s all.”

“But our ships haven’t clashed with any of theirs,” Mace said, sounding more confused than concerned. Rhaegar barely caught the words, his thoughts chasing the thread of the conversation.

“It’s only a matter of time at this point,” Monford replied. “Do we have word from any of the Free Cities?” The Lord of Driftmark turned his gaze to Connington.

“None so far,” Connington said, “but this is an old game. Every time Volantis holds its elections, Tyrosh, Myr, and Lys begin quietly gathering forces. Mostly sellswords, but funding pirates has always been one of their favorite ways to cause trouble for the other two.” It clicked for Rhaegar than what the conversation was about.

The Stepstones had plagued the Seven Kingdoms for generations. Pirates thrived among those rocks, and every king who sat the Iron Throne inherited their endless nuisance, and many had led campaigns to clear them out, only for the next tide to bring new outlaws to their shores.

“Lys and Tyrosh have been locked in a practical trade war for some time now, while Myr has largely stayed out of it, thanks to the plague that struck the city last year,” said the Hand, joining the conversation. “Given that, it’s possible these pirates have no backing from any of the Free Cities at all, and are simply opportunists, exploiting the chaos while none of the powers are watching too closely.”

“With Myr, I would agree considering the situation there,” Tywin said coolly. “But Tyrosh and Lys would not hesitate to fund pirates to haunt the Stepstones and disrupt each other’s trade. It’s happened before, and they’ve never cared much if the raiders strike their ships, or ours. The absence of direct conflict with us so far doesn’t mean they haven’t been hitting other vessels passing through the region.”

“Regardless,” Monford said, “we should keep a close watch on the Stepstones, and I would advise we prepare for the possibility of open conflict.”

“History has shown that fighting in there is a messy business,” offered Rendyl. “Even should we win, there’s little chance the problem won't come back ever again.”

“We could conquer the Stepstones outright and make them a proxy of the realm,” Mace suggested, and the notion was every bit as foolish as it sounded.

“Conquering the Stepstones is out of the question,” Rhaegar said. “It would mean we would have to take care of Myr, Lys and Tyrosh as well. Worse, such a move would rouse the anger of the other Free Cities.”

“Conquering them would be a foolish notion,” Tywin intoned, his gaze settling on the Lord of Highgarden. “But something must be done, sooner or later.”

Aegon leaned forward, interest sharpening his tone. “Do you propose we wash the Stepstones in blood, my lord?”

“If it comes to that, yes,” the old lion replied. “A decisive campaign would clear the isles for at least a generation. And now, with a dragon, the endeavor would be less arduous than before.”

Connington shifted, fingers tapping against the table. “During the Rogue Prince’s campaign, his foes adapted quickly to Caraxes. What makes you think they will not do the same now?”

Tywin’s lips curled into something resembling a smirk. “Because then, the realm faced the Triarchy, but now? At best, the pirates are funded by two of the cities, and those two are locked in conflict themselves.”

Jon Arryn nodded thoughtfully. “Lord Tywim speaks wisely. I suggest we write to Lord Stannis and Lord Redwyne, bid them keep their fleets ready.” He then turned to Monford. “I would advise you do the same, my Lord. Driftmark’s sails may yet be needed.”

Monford inclined his head, silver hair catching the light. “The Velaryon fleet stands ready, Lord Hand. As it always has.”

“It would do much for morale, if the realm were to see a dragon fighting in its name,” Tywin added.

Rhaegar glanced at Aemon, searching his son’s face for any flicker of pride or concern, but Aemon’s expression remained unreadable. “Nyraxes is too great a power to squander on the Stepstones,” he said at last. “And men have killed dragons before, no matter how many songs are sung of their might.”

“We could reduce the risk if we coordinate with ground forces,” Aemon said, breaking his silence. “My lord,” he turned to Rendyl Tarly, “how many men would you judge necessary to scour the Stepstones clean?”

Tarly considered for a moment before answering. “Ten thousand at the most, if we move swiftly, and if the pirates are as fractured as we suspect. More, perhaps, should any of the Free Cities choose to intervene or reinforce the isles.”

“So, ten thousand men on the ground, and Nyraxes above. The campaign should be brief, if we choose to pursue it. Nyraxes could strike at dawn and be gone before their lookouts even raise the alarm. Her speed alone would break their lines before they even realized what hit them.” Aegon mused.

There was a murmuring of agreement from the Lords, the promise of a swift victory appealed to many. Rhaegar watched Aemon closely, and his son seemed almost indifferent, though Rhaegar remembered the old tales of how dragonriders sometimes drank deeply of the thrill of war, their hungers blending with the beasts they rode.

Yet the King’s own instincts were more cautious. He let silence gather for a moment, before raising a hand. “We will return to this matter after the tourney,” he declared. “As of now, these pirates have not yet dared attack our ships, and we lack certain knowledge as to whether they act alone or with the backing of any Free City.”

Rhaegar rose from his seat. “If there is nothing further, my Lords, you are dismissed,” he said, his voice calm but commanding. Chairs scraped back as the assembled lords stood, some quick to leave, others lingering for a few moments longer.

The Dornish Queen

Elia smiled as Rhaenys and Daenerys settled into the chairs before her, both girls looking more worn than she’d seen them in quite some time. Their posture was slouched, their movements languid, their silks slightly wrinkled from the day’s obligations. “How did the tea party go?” she asked.

Rhaenys rolled her eyes in exasperation, tossing her braid over her shoulder. “As well as one might expect when locked in a solar with a dozen noble ladies,” she muttered. “Had Arianne not been there to keep me company, I swear I would’ve gone mad.”

“It wasn’t that bad, Rhae,” Dany offered gently as she reached for a cup. “I actually enjoyed myself, surprisingly enough.”

Rhaenys sighed in response, more dramatic than angry, before directing her attention back to Elia. “Where’s Muña Lya?” she asked.

“She’s with Laena and Alyssa,” Elia replied, lifting her goblet for a small sip of Dornish red. “Daeron had a rough night, woke up screaming, poor thing, and Lyanna feared he might be running a fever.” Before concern could shadow their expressions, she quickly added, “He’s fine, Lyanna just worried more than was needed, as she tends to, and Laena decided to spend the noon with them to help settle her nerves.”

Dany nodded, visibly reassured, and moved to pour herself a glass of wine. She filled another and handed it to Rhaenys without needing to ask. “Thank you,” Rhaenys said, accepting the goblet and relaxing slightly into the cushions. She took a long sip, then glanced around. “What about Senya? I thought she’d be here with you.”

“She was summoned to council,” Elia answered. “Your father called a meeting this morning, he didn’t want to risk missing the chance once the tourney began. Both Aegon and Aemon are attending as well.”

Rhaenys blinked in surprise. “Aemon joined in?” she asked. “I thought the first one after his return had put him off the council entirely.”

“He did say that,” Elia agreed, resting the rim of her goblet against her lip. “But he chose to attend today for some reason, maybe to discuss his planned journey to the Wall.”

She saw it instantly, the way her daughter’s mood shifted. Rhaenys’s expression tightened, her gaze falling to the glass in her hand. It was the same look Elia had seen each time Aemon’s journey to the Wall came up. None of them liked it. Aemon had only just returned, and already he was planning to head north.

But Elia understood. Maester Aemon was nearing the end of his days, and her son had always loved his namesake, and he would not let the old man pass without seeing him once more and having him meet Nyraxes.

“Go on, then,” Elia said, her gaze unwavering as it moved between her daughter and good-sister. Both Rhaenys and Daenerys blinked at her, sharing the same puzzled expression. “Tell me how it went.”

“Are you really that interested to hear us recount what a group of noble ladies gossiped about over tea?” Rhaenys asked, clearly unenthused by the prospect.

Elia smiled. “My sweet, you should know by now that gatherings like these are never just idle chatter. They are where alliances are tested, where whispers become weapons, and where smiles often hide sharper intentions. You would do well to remember that information flows more freely between tea and cakes than between blades and banners.”

She reached for her goblet, taking a slow sip before continuing. “Start by telling me who was in attendance. Your grandmother mentioned a few names over dinner last evening, but I imagine the company was far bigger than her short list.”

Rhaenys sighed and leaned back, clearly weighing whether the conversation was worth the effort. Before she could respond, Dany spoke up.

“Well, Arianne was there, of course, along with the Sand Snakes,” Dany said, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Even little Obella came, and she kept sneaking sweets when no one was looking.” She chuckled softly.

Elia watched her good-sister with a quiet fondness. She often forgot that, by marriage, Daenerys was her good-sister, yet in truth, Dany was nearer in age to her children than to Elia. To any outsider unfamiliar with the Targaryen family’s tangled roots, Daenerys could easily be mistaken for Rhaenys’s and Visenya's sister, not their aunt.

“Who else?” Elia pressed gently.

Dany tilted her head as she tried to recall. “Margaery was also present,” she said. “She spent most of the time with Arianne. I think they like each other well enough, though I wouldn’t say they trust one another. Desmera too, all blushes and smiles. Allyria and Myrcella were also there.”

Dany continued listing names. Elia hadn't expected that many ladies to have attended. By Rhaella’s description, she had imagined a small affair: a polite tea, a handful of noble daughters, nothing more than courtly courtesy. But from the way Dany spoke of it, the gathering had drawn a full assembly of young women from nearly every major house. It hadn’t been a grand occasion, but it was far from the small gathering she had been led to believe.

“And we had to spend hours in that chamber,” Rhaenys interjected the moment Dany was done speaking. “Endless questions about Aemon and Nyraxes, and whether we had any tales from his time in the East.”

“Right,” Dany retorted with a teasing glint in her eye, “which is why you sat off to the side with Arianne and your cousins, only bothering to speak when someone said your name.” She smirked. “I had to host the entire thing myself, Rhae. You might’ve at least pretended to help.”

Rhaenys raised her brow, her own smile spreading on her lips. “You seemed to handle it just fine without me.”

Elia watched them, amusement tugging at the corners of her mouth as she lifted her goblet to her lips.

But the wine…

It tasted off. Not spoiled, just wrong. A sourness lingered beneath the sweetness, the flavor too sharp, almost metallic. She grimaced slightly as she swallowed. Her stomach turned just enough to remind her of the low, persistent queasiness she’d been ignoring for the last several days.

She had attributed it to poor sleep or the changing weather, but now she wasn't so sure. Everything had begun to taste strange: richer foods left a film on her tongue, even honeyed sweets made her stomach shift.

Perhaps it was a seasonal affliction. She had heard murmurs of some illness sweeping through the capital, something light: a flu it would seem. Still, with her health, even something small was enough to unsettle her.

“Muña?” Rhaenys’s voice cut through the haze, her tone shifting to concern. “Are you alright?”

Elia blinked, drawn back to the present, and saw her daughter studying her with narrowed eyes. “I’m fine, sweetling,” Elia replied softly, setting her goblet aside. “Just thinking, that’s all.”

It was then that the chamber doors creaked open, and in stepped Aemon, Aegon, and Visenya. The trio looked tired and Elia knew at once that the small council meeting had been a trying one.

“Muña,” Aegon greeted her with a tired smile. “I hope we’re not interrupting anything.”

“Not at all,” Elia said warmly, patting the cushion beside her. “Come, sit. You all look half-dragged by your heels.” Aegon settled beside her without protest, and Visenya sank down next to him, immediately reaching for the pitcher of wine.

Aemon, of course, made his way around the table to where Rhaenys sat. He took the seat beside his sister without a word, and Rhae offered him a smile, one he returned without hesitation.

Senya poured herself a cup of Dornish red as she spoke up. “What were you all talking about?” she asked lightly, as if she hadn’t already made her guess.

“Oh, nothing much,” said Dany with a mischievous glint. “Only the tea party you were invited to but chose to miss.”

Visenya gasped in mock outrage, hand pressed dramatically to her heart. “Dany! You know perfectly well I had to attend the council. Cupbearer’s duties aren’t optional.”

“Yes, I’m sure Rhaegar would have denied you leave,” Dany replied, her smirk widening. “Poor girl, shackled to a throne and old men while we drank tea and gossiped.”

Elia chuckled softly. The two had always shared a particular rhythm between them, a dance of barbs and laughter that no one else quite matched. It had begun when they were barely out of swaddling clothes, born just a few moons apart.

“What was discussed at the council meeting?” Elia asked, turning her eyes toward Aegon.

Her son reached for his goblet, took a sip, and replied with a casual shrug, “Apparently, we might be going to war soon.” All conversation stopped. Daenerys sat up straighter, and Rhaenys turned her head, her expression tight with sudden interest.

Aemon and Visenya, however, chuckled. “What my brother means,” Aemon said, “is that the Crown may be forced to deal with the pirates infesting the Stepstones. It hasn’t yet come to open war, but it may soon enough.”

“It’s practically a tradition by now,” Aegon added, more amused than concerned. “Once every few decades, someone has to clean up those cursed rocks.”

Elia sighed, the Stepstones again. How many times had she seen this dance play out? And now, of all times, just as the weddings were drawing near. Weddings that might not happen at all, she thought grimly.

Her gaze drifted, as it so often did these days, toward Aemon and Rhaenys. Her daughter had leaned in to whisper something to him, too soft for Elia to hear, but not too soft to see the way Aemon’s mouth curved into a smile at her words.

It wouldn’t surprise her if Aemon challenged Rhaegar soon, formally or not, for Rhaenys’s hand. He had no standing to do so before, but now?

That was what worried Elia most. Not the threat of pirates or Stepstones, not even the political ramifications of calling dragons to war. What kept her awake at night was the thought of Rhaegar refusing him, and what her husband might do then.

She had seen stubbornness in Rhaegar before, had seen the calm mask slip when his prophecy was threatened. Aemon pressing the issue could drive him to something reckless.

Elia’s thoughts drifted briefly to Nyra. She and Lyanna had shared suspicions when Aemon returned, believing the woman must surely be his lover. But if there had been something between them, it was not visible now, for Aemon’s eyes never lingered on Nyra the way they did on Rhaenys. Even so, Elia remained uneasy whenever she saw her sweet boy and that woman together.

“Can we not speak of war for now?” Rhaenys said with a theatrical pout, setting down her goblet. “There’ll be plenty of time for pirates and politics later. I’d much rather hear about tomorrow’s tourney.”

She leaned forward with a glint in her eye, gaze flicking between her brothers. “I hear both the Tyrell boys and several of our Kingsguard will be riding. How confident are you, dear princes? Should I place my favor now or wait until one of you’s unhorsed?”

Aegon grinned, lounging back like a cat in the sun. “I’m not worried in the slightest. I’ve made a habit of knocking our beloved Kingsguard from their saddles, or have you forgotten how Ser Barristan fared during Alyssa’s birth tourney?” He turned to Rhaenys with a sly look. “Though I do wonder how well our valonqar will perform. You said yourself Nyraxes has ruined horses for him. I only hope he doesn’t tumble off before the first tilt begins.” A soft ripple of laughter moved through the room.

Aemon gave a quiet chuckle, swirling the wine in his cup. “Oh, don’t worry, Egg, I’ll stay seated long enough to make sure you end up in the dirt. And if fate’s kind enough to pair us, I’ll knock you on your royal arse for all the realm to see.”

Aegon raised his goblet. “We’ll see, brother.”

Rhaenys clapped once, delighted. “Seven save me, I almost want you two matched in the opening round.”

“I hear Ser Arthur isn’t riding this time,” Dany said then. “And I have also heard that he offered his nephew as your squire, Aemon.” All eyes turned briefly to Aemon again, but Elia’s gaze lingered longer on Daenerys. She had caught it, the quick glint in Dany’s eyes, gone almost before it appeared.

“Aye,” Aemon said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Arthur asked if I’d be willing to take Edric on as my squire.” He paused, then let out a quiet chuckle. “Apparently every great house had taken it upon themselves to offer me someone from their family as a squire.”

“It seems they’ll do anything to get closer to you,” Rhaenys said, amused, as she leaned in and rested her head against his shoulder. “So, did you accept Arthur’s offer?”

“I did,” Aemon said with a nod. “Better Edric than some lordling I’ve never met and will likely never see again. At least Arthur’s trained the boy, and I trust his judgment. Still... he can’t be older than ten, can he?”

“Almost thirteen,” Elia corrected, with a fond smile. “And he’s grown into a serious young man, just like Arthur was at that age.” Aemon gave a thoughtful hum, but Elia wasn’t done. Her eyes twinkled as she added, “If you think the lords are circling you like vultures with their squires, you should hear what your sister and aunt have to say about the tea party.”

Rhaenys immediately groaned and buried her face against Aemon’s shoulder, her voice muffled. “Must we bring that up again?”

“Let me guess,” Aegon said, faking deep concentration as he tapped his chin. “Every lady suddenly developed a deep, scholarly interest in Nyraxes, and the man who rides her.”

“Well done, nephew,” Dany said dryly, clapping slowly. “Though you missed the part where half of them pretended they hadn’t ever heard of Aemon until five minutes before the tea was served. All innocent eyes and fluttering lashes.”
Everyone chuckled at her dry remark.

“I’d imagine this tourney is extremely important to them in that regard,” Visenya said, folding her hands in her lap. “Did any of them ask whose favor Aemon might carry? Or who he might crown?”

“They didn’t dare be that direct,” Dany replied, arching a silver brow. “But they danced around it with all the subtlety a bull might have, trying to understand if they had any hope of being the lucky one.”

“Oh, so I’m to be forgotten now?” Aegon said with mock outrage, pressing a hand to his chest. “My brother returns, and suddenly every noble lady in the realm forgets the crown prince in front of them?”

Visenya leaned in and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Don’t pout, Egg. You’re still important to us, as our betrothed.” Her tone was sweet as she glanced at Rhaenys who didn't meet her sister's gaze. “And it’s only our attention that should matter. Aemon’s simply unpromised, for now. Once he’s bound, the whispers will die down.”

Elia’s eyes didn’t move from her eldest daughter. Rhaenys had gone very still at Visenya’s words, her expression composed, but her gaze carefully averted. She reached absently for Aemon’s hand and squeezed it.

Aegon, for his part, offered a mild smile, more thoughtful than amused, as his eyes flicked briefly between Aemon and Rhaenys. He said nothing either.

Visenya, Elia thought, might suspect something, but she didn’t know. If she had, she wouldn’t have spoken so blithely about betrothals and attention. She might not have teased so carelessly about who would marry whom. Because if she had known, she would understand the quiet worry behind her sister’s eyes, and the terrible weight beneath Aemon’s silence.

A knock at the door cut through the silence, and Elia found herself grateful for the distraction. The tension that had crept into the room after Visenya’s words vanished in an instant.

“Enter,” Dany said, rising slightly in her seat.
The door creaked open to reveal a lean boy in the livery of the Red Keep, no older than five-and-ten. He bowed quickly, hands clasped.

“Your Graces,” he said, eyes flicking toward Aemon. “Forgive the intrusion, but Lady Nyra requests Prince Aemon’s presence in the library.”

The brief sense of relief that had filled the room began to dissolve, and another silence replaced it. Elia’s gaze drifted to Aemon, and found him wearing that same unreadable expression he usually had on these days.

Rhaenys turned her head toward him as well. Her hand, which had rested lightly in his, closed tighter around his fingers. Elia noticed. “Did she say why?” Aemon asked, his voice calm but distant.

The boy nodded. “She said you’ve more work to finish before the tourney begins, and she doubts you’ll find time once it does.”

Aemon let out a quiet sigh. He lingered for a moment, then leaned in and whispered something into Rhaenys’s ear. She nodded, almost absently, her eyes never leaving him. Then he stood up and crossed the room without another word, the door shutting behind him with a final click.

Chapter Text

The Silent Princess

The crowd roared as Garlan Tyrell unhorsed yet another Frey, Danwell, if Rhaenys remembered rightly, though the name hardly mattered. There were too many Freys in the lists to bother keeping track. Fortunately, this one had been the last.

The tilt had ended swiftly, for Danwell hadn’t stood a chance. Their lances met, and the Frey’s splintered clean across Garlan’s shield while the Tyrell’s struck true, catching Danwell square in the chest. The man was tossed from his saddle like a sack of potatoes and tumbled across the field, landing hard enough that the crowd let out a collective wince before the laughter began.

Garlan, for his part, simply wheeled his destrier and guided it toward the royal box. He dipped his helm respectfully toward her family and then turned and rode off.

“And that’s another Frey laid flat on his back,” Dany quipped as she lifted her goblet of Dornish Red. “By my count, that makes five, doesn’t it?”

“Six,” Visenya corrected from Dany’s other side. “This one was Danwell. Before him it was Jared, Hosteen, Emmon, and two others whose names I doubt even the herald remembered.” Her brow furrowed, as if she were still trying to remember the names.

Rhaenys laughed softly and gave her sister a teasing nudge. “The fact you remembered those four is impressive enough, little sister. Gods, doesn’t old Lord Walder have enough sons and grandsons to raise an army on his own?”

“An army, a small city, perhaps even a kingdom if he wished,” Dany replied with dry amusement. “With all the wives he’s taken, I imagine the Twins must keep a full-time septon just for weddings and births. When old Walder finally dies, the succession might be a bloodbath.”

Visenya snorted. “Can you imagine? Eighty heirs all claiming the same seat at once. The poor ravens won’t know which name to carry.”
The girls broke into laughter at the thought.

Rhaenys leaned forward slightly. At her feet, Ghost lay curled like a patch of snow, his massive white form unmoving save for the occasional twitch of his ears. His head rested on his paws, and his eyes were closed, though she knew well enough not to be fooled by that. The direwolf slept light, if at all.

He had scarcely left her side since Aemon’s return to the capital. Wherever she went, Ghost followed, and Rhaenys suspected it was no accident. Aemon hadn’t said a word, but she was certain he had sent the direwolf to watch over her. She didn't mind it because she liked Ghost, and the direwolf seemed to like her.

But Rhaenys also knew that like their Stark cousins Aemon was a Warg. She had seen him enter Ghost’s mind before, had watched his violet eyes go glassy with the trance of it. And so she wondered, when Ghost curled beside her like this, when his red eyes flicked open for a heartbeat and then shut again, was it truly the wolf watching her? Or was it Aemon?

Before the next bout could begin, Rhaenys allowed herself a glance away from the lists, turning to see what the rest of her family was up to.

To her left, Viserys sat cradling little Alyssa in his arms, the babe squirming happily in his lap, her tiny hands grasping at the silk trim of his tunic. Alyssa seemed entirely taken by the spectacle of banners and bright steel, her silver-gold hair catching the sunlight as she looked about with wide, awestruck eyes. Viserys smiled fondly down at her while Laena leaned in to whisper something into his ear. Whatever the words were, they made Viserys chuckle as he leaned in and kissed his daughter’s cheek.

Just behind them sat Muña Elia with little Daeron curled protectively in her lap. Her little brother had been plagued with troubled sleep of late, waking in the night crying and drenched in sweat. Ever since the first time, neither of their mothers strayed far from his side. Today, Elia held him close, whispering to him softly as she brushed back his unruly hair. Whatever she said made Daeron beam, his small face lighting up with the kind of smile that made him seem like the happiest boy in the world.

Next to them, Muña Lya was deep in quiet conversation with Rhaella. The Dowager Queen looked especially regal today, her silver hair pinned in a cascade of braids. Rhaenys could not hear them over the hum of the crowd, but if she were to be honest, she didn't much care what they spoke of now.

Then the sound of the herald’s voice rose over the murmur of the crowd. “Ser Jaime of House Lannister, Knight of the Kingsguard!”

A thunder of cheers erupted, and Rhaenys turned back to the field just in time to see the White Lion ride forth. The crowd adored him, and why wouldn’t they? Even seventeen years later the people of King's Landing hadn't forgotten who had stopped the Mad King from burning them all alive.

Like his twin, Jaime had aged like fine wine and the four years spent in Essos had done nothing to diminish his looks. If anything, the sun of the East and the battles he had fought there had burnished him into something sharper.

She was not surprised to see half the noblewomen in the stands turn their heads toward him, eyes gleaming with curiosity, hunger, or foolish dreams. No doubt some were already imagining themselves as the one who might coax the White Lion from his vows.

The crowd had barely begun to quiet when the herald called again: “Lord Renly of House Baratheon!”

Cheers erupted anew, lighter this time, more playful than reverent. Rhaenys turned her eyes across the grounds to see Renly ride in on a sleek black courser, helm off, dark hair tousled by the breeze. His smile was wide, boyish and bright, and he waved to the stands as though this were a feast and he, the guest of honor. The crowd loved him for Renly knew how to charm a crowd, and the crowd adored being charmed.

Rhaenys knew him well enough. Renly had spent much of his life within the Red Keep as the crown’s ward and political hostage following the Rebellion. Though they were not close as she had her siblings, and he had his own coterie of pretty squires and sly lords, Rhaenys had always found him amiable, clever, and shrewd beneath the smiles.

What had always amused her, however, was comparing him to his elder brother. Rhaenys’s eyes scanned the crowd and found the Lord of Storms End seated with the highborn spectators, brooding as ever. Stannis Baratheon looked as though he would rather be anywhere else but here.

What made the sight more amusing was the fact that Renly's squire was the young Lord Steffon, Stannis’s only son. The boy bustled eagerly at his uncle’s side, eyes bright with admiration, while across the field Stannis sat stiff as stone, his displeasure plain. How Renly had coaxed his brother into allowing it, Rhaenys could not guess.

The two riders took their places at opposite ends of the lists. Renly gave the crowd one final wave before lowering his stag-shaped helm. Across the field, Jaime did not acknowledge the stands, as he simply adjusted his grip.

The horn sounded, and for a heartbeat the world stilled, no sound but the thunder of hooves as the chargers burst forward. The distance between them vanished in a blur of motion, until…

Crack.

The splintering of wood rang across the field as both lances shattered on impact, shards flying into the air. Jaime held his seat without much trouble, barely shifting in the saddle. Renly, by contrast, rocked violently, his body teetering for a breath too long before he was able to fix himself with visible effort.

They wheeled about, took fresh lances from their squires, and readied for the second pass.

From her place in the royal box, Rhaenys leaned forward. Muña Lya had taught her, Dany, and Senya the finer points of horsemanship: posture, pressure, the subtle dance of balance between man and mount. And now, watching Jaime, Rhaenys saw it clearly, the way he leaned just so, shifting his weight to narrow his profile and guide the tilt.

The riders thundered forward again. At the final moment, Jaime adjusted, almost imperceptibly, his shoulder rolling inward as Renly’s lance glanced off his shield at the wrong angle. The strike had no weight behind it and got deflected without much trouble.

Jaime’s strike, however, landed clean. His lance hit Renly square in the chest, and the force of it lifted the Baratheon lord from the saddle. He hit the ground with a heavy thud, his helm crashing into the dirt, breath knocked from his lungs. Gasps rippled across the stands, before quickly being replaced by cheers and applause.

Renly quickly stood up from the dirt, unbothered by the fall. He brushed himself off with a theatrical flourish, then pulled off his helm to reveal that ever-charming smile. A bow to Jaime, another to the stands, and the crowd erupted in cheers as if he’d won the tilt rather than lost it.

Jaime, by contrast, made no show of it. He turned his horse toward the royal box, inclining his head in a formal bow to her family. Then he guided his horse toward the western seats, where the crimson and gold of House Lannister mingled with the blue and silver of the Tullys. Another bow and he was gone, vanishing behind the tented pavilions without a word.

Rhaenys watched him go, her goblet of wine cool against her palm. She sipped, letting the richness coat her tongue as Dany leaned in. “It seems spending all that time flying on Nyraxes hasn’t dulled Jaime’s riding at all,” she mused.

Rhaenys smirked as she and Visenya shared a chuckle, both remembering Aemon’s old complaint of how Nyraxes had utterly ruined horses for him. And in truth, there was something to that.

During his first tilt of the tourney, against Bryen Caron of Nightsong, it had been plain that Aemon felt uneasy atop his white stallion. His posture was stiff, his movements fractionally delayed, and though he won the bout by knocking Caron from the saddle on the first pass, he himself had come close to falling. The crowd had roared, but those who knew him could see it had been less triumph than struggle.

His second match had fared better. Against Lothor Brune, Aemon rode with more confidence. His balance had improved, his lance steadier, and on the second pass, he shattered Brune’s shield and sent the man sprawling, drawing a roar from the spectators.

By contrast, Aegon had no trouble at all with his horse. He rode with ease and confidence, a natural in the saddle, his years of training honed by a genuine love for the lists. Of all her siblings, it was Egg who relished tourneys the most, not for spectacle or glory, but for the challenge itself. Every time he entered the lists, he did so to win.

His first tilt had been against some mystery knight, and the bout had ended swiftly. One clean strike, and his opponent was in the dirt. The second match had brought a sterner test in Andar Royce, eldest son of the Bronze Yohn, but even then, Aegon had prevailed with little difficulty, dismounting him on the second pass.

Now, his next opponent would be Loras Tyrell. The name alone stirred murmurs in the crowd. Their rivalry was no secret. It had begun at Alyssa’s birth tourney, when Aegon had unhorsed the famed Knight of Flowers in front of half the court, and worse, half the Reach. Since then, there had been a friendly rivalry between them.

Loras was a prodigy in his own right, famed in the Reach and far beyond. With his beauty, gallantry, and grace in the lists, he had become something of a legend among maidens and minstrels. But it was more than fame he sought for he wanted a white cloak. All the realm that Loras chased a place in the Kingsguard as eagerly as some men chased crowns. And the path he chose to reach it was lined with shattered lances and roaring crowds. But here, in King’s Landing, luck had not yet favored him.

“Prince Aemon of House Targaryen, Prince of Summerhall!” The herald’s voice rang out across the grounds, cutting through the din like a sword through silk. A hush fell, then a roar followed it: cheers, whistles, the pounding of fists against wood, as all eyes turned to the far end of the lists.

Rhaenys turned with them, her breath catching just slightly as her valonqar rode into view.

Aemon sat tall atop his white stallion, the beast moving with the slow, regal grace. His armor had been forged to mirror the set worn by Egg, and before him, their father Rhaegar. The dragon-wing motif flared along the pauldrons, and his chestplate bore the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, wrought in red enamel, as if it was burning.

He carried his helm under one arm, but there was no smile on his lips as he looked to the stands. His eyes swept the crowd with solemn focus, until they reached the royal box. And then they found her.

For a moment something softened in his expression. His gaze lingered on hers, and Rhaenys felt the familiar warmth appear in her belly.

“Ser Humfrey of House Hightower!” the herald called out. No doubt all eyes turned toward the opposite end of the field, eager to assess the man who would face the Dragon Prince.

All eyes but hers, as Rhaenys’s gaze lingered on her valonqar a moment longer.

Aemon had already begun riding toward his place at the far end of the lists, the sunlight catching on the curve of his dark plate. Just before he put his helm on, he glanced up toward the royal box and offered a faint smile: quick, private, and unmistakably hers.

His helm was made in the shape of a dragon’s head, the steel dark and smooth, with two rubies for eyes, and small wings jutted from either side of the helm.

Edric Dayne stood ready at the barrier, offering up Aemon’s lance with both hands. Rhaenys didn’t know him well, not like she knew his aunt Allyria, but she’d heard only good things whispered about the young heir of Starfall. Honorable, well-mannered, and keen to prove himself.

Aemon weighed the lance in his hands, testing its feel, letting the shaft roll between his gauntlets. Rhaenys didn’t know much of the craft herself, but she remembered what Muña Lya had once told them: a proper lance should be heavier at the butt than the tip, and the balance was never quite center, it lay just under the halfway point. Watching Aemon’s movements, she could see he was testing exactly that, adjusting the tilt until it rested just right.

Reluctantly, Rhaenys turned her gaze to his opponent. Ser Humfrey Hightower looked every bit the picture of chivalry. His armor gleamed silver and white beneath the sun, the beacon of House Hightower displayed proudly on his chestplate. He had shoulder-length blond hair, combed and oiled, and he had a small smirk on his lips

Rhaenys did not know him. The Hightowers were a large and ancient house, second only to the Tyrells in the Reach, and Lord Leyton had sired a small dynasty of his own through four different wives. Ten children, if she remembered right, maybe more.

Of them, she knew Baelor, through stories Muña Elia and Uncle Oberyn used to tell of him. Alerie, she knew as Mace Tyrell’s wife and mother to all his children. Lynesse, through the scandal of her running off with Ser Jorah Mormont and disappearing into exile. And then there was Gunthor, rumored to be among the many names vying for Arianne’s hand, though Rhaenys doubted that her cousin would suffer a man like that for long.

The two riders took their places at either end of the list, facing each other. Their squires moved to the sides, the murmurs from the stands began to fade, and then…

The horn sounded.

They were off in an instant, hooves pounding against the earth, a thunderous rhythm that matched the racing hearts of the crowd. One black blur, one silver, hurtling toward each other with all the fury of the gods, and then came the impact. A brutal meeting of wood and steel echoed across the grounds, the crack of splintering lances sharp as lightning splitting a tree. For a moment, it was hard to tell who had prevailed as dust rose in a choking plume, and both horses veered past each other in the chaos.

But then Humfrey was seen tumbling to the ground, his shield shattered in pieces and what remained of his lance rolling from his grasp. The silver knight lay stunned in the dirt, and the crowd roared their approval as Aemon remained mounted, but only just.

Rhaenys’s breath caught. The blow Humfrey had landed had been fierce, his lance had struck Aemon’s shield with such force that the whole arm had absorbed the brunt of it. The shield had held, barely, but the aftershock was clear in the way Aemon’s left shoulder now sagged.

He tried to hide it, but she could see it in the way he adjusted his grip on the reins, in the slight tremor in the fingers of his gauntlet. He was hurt. Not grievously, not enough to yield, but wounded all the same.

And yet, he had struck truer. His own lance had slammed into Humfrey’s shield with such precision that it had driven straight through the center. The force of the blow had lifted the Hightower from his saddle and sent him crashing down, armor and pride both dented.

The crowd was still roaring as Aemon made his way across the field. He slowed only once, near the royal box, lifting his head slightly, a subtle gesture of acknowledgment to his kin. Then he turned and disappeared behind the pavilions, Edric trotting after him.

By contrast, Ser Humfrey was still sprawled in the dust, and two men were already crossing the tiltyard to lift him by the arms and help him limp away.

Even her family had taken notice. Every member of the royal box had risen to their feet in applause, even the usually reserved Rhaegar had offered a nod of respect, while little Daeron had bounced in Muña Elia’s lap, clapping and beaming with pride as if he had unhorsed the knight himself. Alyssa had let out a delighted squeal, waving her fists in the air as if cheering her dragon prince of a cousin.

But Rhaenys barely noticed. Her gaze remained fixed on Aemon until he and Edric vanished from sight behind the crimson banners of House Targaryen.

“And Aemon moves through,” Dany murmured beside her, swirling the last of her wine in her goblet. “Now if Egg gets lucky enough to knock Loras down again, we might see both our dear princes meet in the next round.”

“I doubt it,” Visenya said coolly from her other side, drawing both their glances. “Based on how the pairings have gone so far, I’d wager Aemon ends up against the Mallister lordling next, while the winner between Egg and Loras will face Ser Barristan.”

“So if Egg beats Loras and gets past Barristan…” Rhaenys began, trailing off with a slow smile.

“We could have Aemon and Aegon facing off in the final.” Dany finished for her.

Rhaenys hummed in agreement. “That would be something,” she echoed, though her thoughts drifted elsewhere.

Her mind turned to history, as she tried to recall the last time a crown prince had faced their brother in the tourney lists. It might have been during the reign of Aegon the Fifth, with Prince Duncan the Small and his younger brother Prince Daeron. Or perhaps further back, during King Maekar’s time, when Prince Aerion Brightflame had scandalized half the court with his brutality and Aegon the fifth was still known only as Egg.

Mayhaps even in the days of Daeron the Good, since it was said that Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar had quite the rivalry, before the tragedy of one brother killing the other in an accident.

There had always been something enticing about the image of two princes charging at one another before the eyes of the realm. The stuff of songs and chronicles, but in truth, Rhaenys knew, those moments never passed into legend clean.

If Aemon and Aegon were to meet in the final, as Visenya had noted was the only possible way for them to meet in the tourney, it would not be seen as a moment of brotherly sport or shared glory. The court would murmur, and the lords would read too deeply. They would see ambition where there was only affection, rivalry where there was none, and whispers of fractures in the royal line even if the tilt ended with an embrace. But that was the nature of court.

“Prince Aegon of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone!” The herald’s voice rang clear, and the roar from the stands was thunderous, every bit as loud as the one that had greeted Aemon earlier. The people of King’s Landing adored their crown prince, and their adoration rang through the air like temple bells.

Aegon entered the field atop his familiar black mare, the same one he had claimed for his own at just ten namedays. She moved with grace and poise beneath him, her braided mane adorned with red-and-gold ribbons. Aegon’s armor mirrored Aemon’s in design, but where their younger brother’s was dark and sharp-edged, Egg’s was lighter in hue, polished steel chased with gold. The dents and scratches it bore were not polished away, but worn with pride, proof of tilts past.

He rode bareheaded, silver hair kissed by the sun, and flashed the crowd his most disarming smile. He waved to the stands and the crowd responded in kind: cheering, waving, some even standing in salute. Aegon was no stranger to their affection.

“Ser Loras of House Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers!” The herald’s voice rose again, and another swell of cheers followed. The Reach contingent erupted with pride as their champion entered the lists, riding beneath a canopy of summer green and gold. His horse was pale as cream, his armor chased with ivy filigree.

Loras rode with theatrical poise, guiding his mount across the tiltyard until he came to a stop near the section where the Redwynes sat. With a flourish, he pulled a deep red rose from his saddle and offered it to his cousin, Desmera, who accepted it with a blush and a kiss to her fingertips.

It was his signature. Loras began every tilt by presenting a flower to some lady of court, and the people loved him for it. Rhaenys recalled once hearing that during a tourney in the Reach, after winning every tilt with ease, he had crowned no queen of love and beauty at all. Instead, he had tossed the flower crown to the crowd itself, letting the people be his muse.

The two riders took their places at opposite ends of the list, and Egg turned once more toward the stands, lifting a hand in a final wave. The response was immediate: a fresh chorus of cheers and applause that echoed across the grounds like thunder.

Loras mirrored him a heartbeat later, though with less fanfare. As he slid his helm over his curls, Rhaenys caught a flicker of expression, just the hint of a smirk passed between him and Aegon.

The two riders took up their lances, eyes fixed forward, bodies poised like arrows on the string. Silence swept the field. Then the horn blasted and hooves tore against the earth, and the two riders launched forward with explosive speed.

The Dragonlord

Aemon groaned as he rolled his left shoulder, the pain pulsing through muscle and bone before dying down into a dull ache. The pain was nothing compared to the wounds he’d taken in Essos, broken ribs, a dislocated knee, the gash above his hip that still flared up every once in a while, but it was persistent. And worse, it made his shield arm sluggish. Not ideal with another tilt looming.

The Hightower had ridden like a man already resigned to losing, but he'd had just enough gall to put all his strength into one punishing blow, driving his lance into Aemon’s shield with such force that it jarred the socket and left his arm tingling. A petty tactic, to be sure and one that made Aemon feel less guilty for how savagely he’d unhorsed the man in return.

He flexed his finger, testing the motion, and turned his gaze back to the tourney field. Egg and Loras were squaring off once more, lances in hand and horses pawing at the dirt. It must have been their third or fourth pass, Aemon had lost count.

Two riders thundering down the lane, banners fluttering, the thunder of hooves building until the moment of collision. Their lances struck nearly simultaneously, but Loras took the worst of it. The Tyrell knight was torn from the saddle and hit the ground hard, his shield flying from his arm, crashing to the dirt beside him. His horse galloped a few strides more before realizing that its rider was gone and slowing down as the crowd erupted into another roar.

Aemon watched with a raised brow, impressed despite himself. There had been talk among the smallfolk of some rivalry between the two, murmurs that Loras wanted to unhorse Egg as an answer after his brother had done so to him a few years back during some other tourney.

So much for that, Aemon thought as he rolled his shoulder again. The gods love a rematch, but they favor spectacle more.

"Your Grace." Aemon turned his head and was met with Edric standing there, and holding out a cup with both hands. "The water you asked for."

Aemon took it with a nod. "Thank you," he murmured.

He drank deeply, draining the cup in a single pull. The cool water did little to cut through the dryness in his mouth, but it helped. The last tilt had left his throat dry, and though the long summer was said to be coming to its end, the heat still lingered like a stubborn ghost.

He handed the cup back to the boy, then paused, studying him for a moment. When Arthur had first asked him to take Edric as a squire for the tourney, Aemon had accepted without much thought. Better him than some highborn pup he’d never met.

It wasn’t until later that Aemon learned how deeply the Sword of the Morning had trained the boy, and in the days since, Aemon had come to see the truth of it. He couldn’t yet speak to Edric’s skill in the saddle or with a blade, but as a squire the hair to Starfall was as reliable as one could be.

"Valonqar." He turned to see Egg dismounting, his black mare snorting softly as she was handed off to a waiting squire. "Seems we’re both faring well in the lists so far," he said as he drew closer, pausing just a few paces from them. Then his gaze shifted downward slightly, toward the boy standing beside Aemon. "Lord Edric. You're looking well. I hope my brother hasn’t been working you to the bone."

Edric bowed and offered a modest smile. “Not at all, your Grace. Prince Aemon pushes me only as much as is required of a good squire.”
Aegon gave a quick nod. The exchange was simple, but Aemon took note. The boy handled himself well.

Aemon's gaze shifted to his side. “Edric, see that my lance is ready for the next tilt, and polish my helm while you're at it. I want it gleaming.”

"Of course, my prince." The boy bowed once more and set off. Only once Edric was out of earshot did Aemon turn back to his brother.

"I want to ask you something."

Egg arched a brow, his expression casual but curious. “Go on.”

“The rider who faced Redwyne, Hobber, I think. Did you see him? Wore red robes under his armor. Carried a banner with a flaming heart.”

Aegon blinked, then let out a short breath of recognition. “Ah, you mean Thoros,” he said, as though speaking of an old drinking companion. “Thoros of Myr. Been here for years.”

Aemon’s eyes narrowed slightly. The moment he had seen that banner, his mind had flashed back to Volantis, its towering temple of R’hllor, its red priests. The flaming heart was unmistakable. And now, here it was again but here, in the capital, at a royal tourney no less.

Why?

“Thoros,” Aemon echoed. “He’s well known here?”

Aegon shrugged, adjusting the grip on his helm. “Somewhat. He’s a Myrish priest who drinks too much, swings a sword more than he preaches, and tends to set things on fire, including his own blade, when the mood takes him. The smallfolk love his showmanship, and the court tolerates him because he’s harmless.”

Aemon hummed in response, then leaned back against the wall behind him. The ache in his shoulder pulsed again.

During his time in Volantis, the Red Temple had revealed more than he’d expected, more than he’d wanted, perhaps. One detail lingered in his mind now: that some twenty years past, the High Flame of Volantis had ordered a Red Priest to be sent to Westeros to convert his fire-obsessed grandfather, in an effort to spread the faith of R’hllor beyond Essos.

Which meant that if this Thoros had not come to Westeros by his own will, then he had likely been the one sent to meet with Aerys, and had been stuck here ever since.

“Should I be worried about him?” Egg asked.

Aemon shook his head. “No. I was just… surprised,” he said. “I saw so many Red Priests across the Free Cities that I’d forgotten how rare they are here. Seeing one in the capital, at a royal tourney, no less caught me off guard.”

The truth was, every encounter he’d had with the followers of R’hllor had been memorable, in Volantis especially. He should have expected their attention, given his return from Valyria with Nyraxes. He’d seen how their eyes had burned when they looked at him.

“My princes.” Aemon blinked, then turned his head. Nyra stood before them, her silver-blonde hair pinned elegantly. She wore a gown of white silk that shimmered faintly in the sun, laced with the palest thread of gold.

“Lady Nyra,” Egg said stiffly. “What a surprise. I didn’t see you in the stands and was beginning to worry you had chosen to skip the day’s jousts entirely.”

She laughed before stepping closer. “I was in the stands, your Grace,” she said, her gaze drifting between the two brothers. “I simply preferred not to make myself too visible.”

Aegon’s eyes flicked between Aemon and Nyra. “I need to prepare for my next bout,” he said at last, offering them both a nod before turning away.

Aemon watched him go, his gaze lingering for a moment before shifting back, only to find Nyra standing noticeably closer than she’d been a moment ago.

“I went through your journal this morning,” she said, voice low and calm. “There were things you wrote that you haven’t seen before.”

He inclined his head slightly. Last night’s dream had been different.

“If you’re here to talk about it,” Aemon said, “I’d rather we don’t, not until the jousting’s done.”

Nyra said nothing at first, but her expression darkened, just slightly. She gave a stiff nod, though it was clear that his words weren't to her liking.

They hadn’t done proper work in days. Not since the day before the tourney began, when they had pored over old Valyrian texts together. One old legend in particular had stayed with him, it spoke of some old prophecy and claimed that “when gold from the Rock came to the Freehold, the fires shall turn inward, and Valyria shall choke upon itself.” Nyra had lingered on that passage, while Aemon had scoffed. To him, it sounded like nonsense.

“Then I’d suggest you get ready for your next bout,” Nyra said coolly. “And try to keep your full attention on your opponent.” Aemon turned toward her, brows drawing together in mild confusion. Nyra only tilted her head, a faint smile blooming across her lips. “Your eyes find your sister at every given opportunity,” she added, voice low and knowing.

She wasn’t wrong. His gaze drifted almost involuntarily toward the royal box. There Rhaenys sat, speaking softly with Senya on one side and Dany on the other. She wore a breathtaking crimson gown and it clung to her frame perfectly. It deepened the glow of her olive skin, the faintest blush of heat rising at her cheeks as she laughed at something Senya said. Her violet eyes shimmered like dusk over water, and her dark hair had been tied back in elegant braids, falling loose across her back.

And then there was the single strand of silver, woven near her temple and tumbling down like a comet through the night. Even now, after all the years, it never failed to draw his gaze.
He remembered it from childhood, how often he had stared at it, wondering if it felt different from the rest of her hair, if it held some secret to her beauty, like a single thread of starlight spun by the Maiden herself. He had once reached out to touch it before a feast, only to snatch his hand back when she turned her head and smiled at him.

“You’re doing it again.” Aemon blinked and turned to her, caught in the act.

“Am I not allowed?” he asked dryly, lifting a brow. She met his look without flinching. There was no jealousy in her eyes, there never was. Their bond had never been built on love, nor anything in any way similar to it. She had always been the first to draw the line between them.

It had been Nyra who convinced him, at Dragonstone, that Rhaenys still loved him and that time had not dimmed it. It had been Nyra’s suggestion, once they arrived at court, that they stop sharing each other’s beds. Not out of spite, but strategy.

“If they catch us together, the wrong tongues will start wagging, and the realm will only see what it wants to see.” She had told him then.

“Focus on the joust,” she said now, her tone sharper than before, but not unkind. More like a teacher chastising a favored pupil. “And when it’s over, you’ll be locked in the library with me for the next few days.”

Aemon blinked again. “Locked?”

“With scrolls,” she replied with a smirk. “Because while you’ve been out here knocking down knights and charming half the court with your brooding silences, I’ve been doing all the actual work.”

She stepped back, her body almost pressing into his. “You’ve got quite a bit of catching up to do, my prince.” Aemon exhaled through his nose, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

The jousting stretched late into the afternoon, and the sun had begun its slow descent behind the walls of the city, painting the sky in shades of gold and rose. The air had cooled slightly, but Aemon’s shoulder continued to bother him for a while longer. Only now, after hours in the saddle, did it begin to fade into the background.

He and Egg had carved their way through the lists, unhorsing knights and lords alike. Aemon had finally grown comfortable with the rhythm of his steed: the pacing, the weight shift before impact, the moment to strike. It wasn’t like riding Nyraxes, but it no longer felt foreign.

By the time the final four were called, the sunlight had dipped low on the horizon. Only he, Aegon, Jaime and Garlan Tyrell remained.
It would come down to them.

Aemon flexed his gauntleted fingers as he watched the matchups being drawn. He would face Jaime. Egg would ride against Garlan.

He wasn’t sure he could unhorse Jaime, but the thought of Rhaenys watching from the royal box hardened his resolve. The vision of placing the crown upon her brow was enough to drive him forward. For that, he would find a way to win.

Aegon’s match, however, was laced with quiet irony. After unseating Loras earlier, he now faced the elder Tyrell brother, a kind of poetic symmetry, or perhaps a subtle form of vengeance on Loras’s part. If he could not best the Crown Prince, then perhaps his older brother would.

And, to the surprise of many, that’s exactly what happened.

On their fourth pass, whether from fatigue or some injury, Aegon failed to hold his seat. Garlan’s lance struck clean, and his brother tumbled from his mare. A moment later, the crowd erupted in mixed cheers and gasps.

Aemon felt a flicker of disappointment. He had grown fond of the idea of facing Egg in the final tilt. Now, if he managed to best Jaime, it would be Garlan awaiting him across the lists, and the Tyrell was no lesser opponent.

If anything, he rode better than Loras, more focused, less reckless, with the discipline of a man who didn’t need flowers to make the crowd adore him. His passes had been clean, his strikes precise, and his horsemanship nothing short of masterful.

Aemon tightened his grip around the reins. Jaime first, then the Gallant. And if the gods were kind… Rhaenys at the end of it all.

“Make sure you unhorse Jaime,” Egg had told him with a crooked smile after his own fall. “At least one of us ought to ride in the final, otherwise we'll have quite a disappointing end to the tourney.”

One might have thought that after years training side by side, Aemon and Jaime would know how to face one another in combat, and if it had been sword against sword, that would’ve been true. They knew each other’s rhythms intimately, for Aemon had grown into a swordsman under Jaime’s eye. When they fought with blades, they danced a familiar pattern, but jousting was not swordplay.

In the tourney grounds, there was no circling, no feinting, no retreat. Only a straight line, a pounding heart, and the split-second between impact and glory.

The crowd held its breath as they took position. Aemon gripped his lance tightly, bracing his shoulder.

The horn blew and they charged. The first pass was over quickly. Their lances met clean in the center of their shields and splinters flew, but both riders remained seated, shifting with the shock.

The second pass was much the same, as were the third and fourth. Blow for blow. Tilt for tilt. Neither man gained ground, and neither lost it. But Aemon could feel the strain in his arm.

They lined up for the fifth pass, and Aemon exhaled slowly. Calmed his mount with a gentle touch to the reins. He lowered his profile slightly in the saddle and whispered to the stallion, as he would usually do with Nyraxes.

When the signal came, he charged again, and as they closed, he studied Jaime’s frame. And there it was: A shift barely noticeable but present.

Jaime angled a fraction to his left, a common adjustment to better expose the opponent’s right shoulder. But Aemon had seen that movement before. In sparring, it was the moment just before Jaime would bait and parry. On horseback, it left a narrow seam: a soft spot just under the armpit.

Aemon made his decision in an instant. Instead of striking center mass or the shield, he disengaged the line, drawing his lance away and dipping it just slightly inward. At the same time, he offset his shield, letting Jaime’s lance skid across its edge. It was a calculated risk: too far and he’d expose himself, too early and the trick would fail.

But his timing held and Jaime’s lance glanced wide while Aemon’s own slammed into his upper chest, catching him off-balance. The White Lion flew from the saddle, crashing to the earth in a spray of dust and shouts, and the crowd erupted.

A thousand voices cried out at once, shaking the stands with the sound of roaring approval. Some shouted Jaime’s name. Others cried Aemon’s. But one fact rang clear over the noise: at least one prince had made it to the final.

Aemon didn't get the luxury of basking in his victory over Jaime. One moment he was sliding from the saddle, muscles aching and sweat running down his spine, and the next he was already being fitted for the final bout.

“This great tourney, held in honor of Prince Aemon Targaryen’s return,” the herald proclaimed, his voice echoing across the grounds, “now reaches its final tilt.”

A hush fell, and for a breathless moment, not even the wind dared speak. Then, a raven.

Its wings beat slowly as it glided over the tilting ground and came to perch atop the royal box. The black bird ruffled its feathers once, then stilled, making some among the crowd whispered of omens.

“Prince Aemon Targaryen,” the herald continued, “shall face Ser Garlan Tyrell. Let the better rider seize glory and crown a Queen of Love and Beauty.”

This time the silence broke as cheers burst from the stands. Tyrell banners snapped and danced in the wind. The red of Targaryen and the green of Highgarden clashed in the crowd like twin tides. Lords and ladies leaned forward with eager eyes, and children stood atop benches to catch a glimpse of the two champions.

“Don’t lose, your Grace,” Edric said, fastening the shield to Aemon’s arm with deft fingers.

Aemon gave a short, dry laugh. “I don’t plan to.” Turning his gaze away for a breath. “I’ve come too far to lose now.” But his voice was softer when he spoke it, for his eyes had already moved past the field, drawn to the royal box.

Rhaenys was speaking with muña Elia, laughing at something Daeron said, but then her gaze found him, and for the briefest moment, the world narrowed. Even though she could not see his face under the helm, he smiled.

Then, a flicker of motion near her shoulder.

Nyra stood further back, half veiled in shadow, dressed not in court finery but the quiet leathers of a scholar-traveler. Her expression was unreadable but her eyes were fixed on Aemon, and the curve of her lips hinted at a knowing smirk. And above them both, the raven watched.

He lowered his visor and quickly took up his position on his side of the ground. His posture grew immediately stiff and his eyes found Garlan on the other side immediately and even though both had their helmets on, Aemon still imagined that their gazes met.

The horn sounded and both riders surged forward.

His stallion thundered beneath him. He kept his body low, shoulders square, the lance firm in his aching grip. His eyes locked onto a single point just under Garlan’s shield, where the steel edge didn’t quite cover his chestplate. A gap no wider than a coin. He angled the lance there.

The crowd erupted in a storm of noise, the shouts of thousands crashing like surf against the silence in Aemon’s ears. Somewhere above, that damned raven croaked again and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to a single, closing point between them.

Crack.

Aemon’s lance splintered on Garlan’s shield with a sound like a lightning crack, shards of wood flying like shrapnel, grazing his arm as the shaft shattered into ruin.

Garlan’s lance struck back, colliding squarely with Aemon’s shield with far more force. The impact nearly wrenched him from the saddle.

He wavered and his balance shifted violently. One leg slipped free of the stirrup, and for an instant his weight tilted in the wrong direction. The world tilted with it but his fingers found the reins just in time.

Aemon pulled hard and his stallion bucked under him, responding to the sudden shift. He gritted his teeth, forcing his legs down again, heels tight against the horse’s flanks. The pain in his shoulder flared, and his back ached from the strain of realigning, but he held.

Garlan was stronger. Aemon had size, precision, and instinct. But if he tried to meet the Tyrell head-on, lance for lance, strength against strength… he would fall.

He needed to think.

Edric rushed to meet him, breathless, passing up the next lance with wide eyes. “He’s strong,” the boy said, unbidden.

“I know,” Aemon muttered, taking the weapon and riding hard to the end of the field. “So we don’t meet him head-on again.”

The horn sounded and again they charged.

Hooves churned the earth. The light was fading into gold and shadow now, the crowd roaring dimly behind them. The banners of Targaryen red and Tyrell green rippled in the breeze like battling flames.

Both riders leaned low. Both aimed center-mass. This time, Aemon did not go for the gap in Garlan’s shield. He drove his lance slightly high, trying to force his opponent to compensate upward, testing how he shifted in the saddle. The result was bone-jarring.

Their lances struck nearly at the same time, another shattering impact, another explosion of wood. Aemon felt the vibration crawl through his arm, up into his bad shoulder. Garlan rocked back in his saddle, and for a second it looked like he might lose balance, but he stayed mounted.

They galloped past each other once more, both horses foaming at the mouth now, both knights grim-faced and breathless.

He’s more grounded, Aemon thought. But he’s slower to recover.

“I need you to tighten my left stirrup, now.” Edric obeyed, fumbling at the strap, and Aemon leaned down in the saddle as he braced for the next pass. As the boy finished and stepped back, Aemon exhaled once.

He’s going to expect a straight charge, he thought. So I won’t give him one.

He had done something like this before, but on a horse: on Nyraxes.

The last time they were at the Painted Mountains, he had experimented with sudden banking dives, twisting in mid-air to shift his center of balance and break free of a locking maneuver. It was reckless then and it would be even more reckless now.

The horn blew for the third pass.

Aemon leaned into the saddle, pressing his chest near the neck of his stallion. But this time, he adjusted the line, angling slightly outward instead of dead center, creating the illusion of over-correction. At the last moment, he pulled in, slamming his weight into his shield and twisting the reins inward.

The horse responded, veering just slightly. Enough to shift the entire angle of the pass, and Garlan, already committed to his center strike, adjusted too late.

Aemon drove the lance not into the shield but into Garlan’s upper arm, just above the pauldron. The angle was risky, dangerous and off-balance. The impact sent both riders reeling.

Aemon’s stallion screamed under him. His own balance slipped again, his back slamming into his saddle as his vision blurred. For a heartbeat, he thought he’d made a mistake. But when he dragged himself upright he looked back just in time to see Garlan fly backward from the saddle, crashing into the dirt hard, rolling a few feet, his armor scuffed and body motionless.

Without missing a beat, Aemon turned his stallion and spurred him toward the spot where Garlan had fallen. The crowd roared around him, banners flapping, but it all blurred into noise.

As he drew near, he threw one leg over the saddle and dismounted mid-gallop, his boots hitting the earth with a thud that nearly sent him stumbling. His knees buckled slightly, the accumulated strain of the day crashing down upon him at once. His muscles screamed and for a heartbeat, it was all he could do not to collapse beside the Tyrell knight.

Garlan had made it to one knee, clutching his ribs with one hand. He looked up and saw Aemon standing over him with an outstretched hand. He took it without a pause.

Aemon hauled him to his feet with effort. Both of them grunted, armor clanking, and for a moment they leaned into each other for balance like comrades-in-arms rather than opponents.

“That was one hell of a move, your Grace,” Garlan said, his voice hoarse, nearly as breathless as Aemon’s. “For a moment I thought you were trying to fall off your own horse on purpose.”

He managed a dry chuckle. “Aye, it may have looked like it. It was reckless, but you gave me no other choice. I don’t think I could’ve bested you otherwise.”

Only then did it truly hit him. He had won.

The crowd surged around them in deafening waves. Cheers rolled across the tourney field like thunder. Hands clapped, hats flew into the air. The noise washed over him.

Without a word, Garlan reached for Aemon’s left arm and raised it high into the air. The crowd's roar crescendoed. A thousand voices shouting his name. A thousand hands clapping in unison. The sight of the victor and his vanquished, shoulder to shoulder, sealed the moment in the minds of the realm.

“The pleasure was mine to ride against you, my Prince,” Garlan said, loud enough to be heard over the chaos, though he still had to lean in. “I hope we ride against each other again, perhaps at your siblings’ wedding tourney, or your aunt’s.”

“I hope so as well,” Aemon replied, though in truth, the thought of another tilt made his joints ache even more. Every limb felt as if it had been hammered on an anvil. Tomorrow, the true pain would come knocking. He smiled anyway. “Just so long as it doesn’t turn into one of those rivalries, like the one my brother has with Ser Loras.”

Garlan barked a laugh, brushing a clump of dust from his shoulder. “Loras lives for the spectacle. Me? I’m too old and too bruised to hold grudges against men who beat me fair and square.”

"CROWN FOR THE CHAMPION!"

"CROWN FOR THE CHAMPION!"

"CROWN FOR THE CHAMPION!"

The cry echoed across the tourney grounds, swelling in waves from the commons to the Lords, taken up by hundreds, then thousands. Nobles and knights, sellswords and septons, even merchants and kitchen girls, all chanted with one voice as they beat fists to breastplates, palms to benches, banners to the sky.

"CROWN FOR THE CHAMPION!"

Aemon stood still for a long moment as it washed over him. Then, slowly, he turned toward his horse. Edric was already at his side, grinning like a madman and holding out a fresh lance. Wound about its tip was a crown of roses: lush, blood-red, thick-petaled and gleaming with dew, their scent strong even through the dust and sweat of the field.

Garlan clapped a hand on his shoulder and leaned in to say something. Aemon saw his lips move but the words didn't reach his ears. Edric offered congratulations, too, but Aemon barely heard him. His pulse pounded too loud, like a drumbeat in his ears. His body ached, his vision tunneled, his mouth dry. Still, he mounted. His limbs groaned at the motion, but he rode through the pain.

All around him, the stands leaned forward in anticipation. Lords’ daughters and merchant’s wives pressed against railings. Squires whispered wagers, and knights nudged one another with knowing looks.

Every eye turned toward him, and yet Aemon saw only one place.

He rode for the royal box, and all of his family were there to meet him. Rhaegar stood at the center, his hands resting upon the railing, and as Aemon approached, he saw the light in his father’s violet eyes begin to darken, for Rhaegar understood what he was about to do.

Aemon saw it, and did not stop.

The crowd began to shift. Confused murmurs replaced the chants. Nobles exchanged glances. Lords of the court stiffened as if bracing for a blow.

At last, he stopped before the royal box. He looked up and there she stood, smiling down at him. “It is with great honor and distinct pleasure I crown my dear sister the Queen of Love and Beauty.” There was no flourish, no drawn-out proclamation. Just truth, spoken plainly.

He raised the lance toward her, and Rhaenys took the crown gently from its tip and placed it upon her brow. Her eyes never left his, and in that moment she looked like the single most beautiful being that had ever existed.

From the corner of the box, Nyra leaned lazily against a pillar, silver hair loose about her shoulders, a wicked smirk curling on her lips as if amused by it all. Above her, unnoticed by most, a single black raven took flight from the railing.

Chapter Text

The Hollow Prince

They said the moment Rhaegar crowned Lyanna at Harrenhal was the moment all the smiles died. Aegon had always thought the saying poetic, if a little exaggerated, but the stories he heard of it had always seemed to echo the same sentiment.

So when his brother crowned Rhaenys after claiming victory in the final tilt, Aegon was not surprised in the least to witness the ripple of unease. Lords and Ladies turned to one another with narrowed eyes and questioning glances. Some whispered behind their hands, others frowned. He could all but hear the gears turning in their minds, forming thoughts better left unspoken. But Aegon would not allow the seed of doubt to take root.

He had been the first to stand up, before hesitation could curdle into disapproval. With a clap loud enough to break the tension, he made his stance known. A breath later, both of his muñas rose with him, joining their hands in support. That was all it took. The stands followed, as they always did. Murmurs gave way to applause, cautious at first, then swelling like a tide as the stands came alive with clamor and color once more.

And when Rhaenys and Aemon turned, reluctant to look away from each other, but finally lifting their eyes to the gathered crowd, and when the curve of Rhaenys’s lips blossomed into something warmer, brighter, unguarded… Aegon knew. He had done the right thing.

He had always known of the bond his siblings shared. In fact he was fairly certain he had been the first to truly see it. The way Rhaenys looked for Aemon in every hall, and the way Aemon’s voice softened when he spoke of their sister. And in time, Aegon had understood what their father still had not.

Rhaenys’s heart had never been his to claim, and it would never change, for it belonged to Aemon, just as his brother’s soul had long belonged to her.

Rhaegar hadn’t done much after the tourney, though Aegon imagined their father wanted to, especially after Aemon crowned Rhaenys, and even more so during the feast, where the two danced only with each other, oblivious to the stares that followed them across the hall.

While Aegon had never placed as much faith in his father’s prophecy as Rhaegar clearly wished he would, he had at least studied it simply to try and understand what it was that their father always spoke about. He wanted to understand why their father had always been so adamant that he wed both his sisters, and why Rhaegar had been so resistant to giving Rhaenys to Aemon.

"Something on your mind?"

His sister’s voice drew him from his thoughts, and Aegon glanced up from the stack of parchment in his hands.

Rhaenys reclined on the couch by the window, and Aemon lay stretched next to her with his head nestled in her lap, his dark hair a tangle under her fingers. She combed through it absently. Aegon realized that this was perhaps the most at peace he had seen his valonqar since his return from Essos.

“Just sorting through a few things,” he said, turning his attention back to the documents spread across the low table before him. “You know, as Commander of the City Watch, I have many responsibilities.” His tone was dry, though not without warmth.

Rhaenys hummed in agreement though her gaze was no longer on him. It had fallen back to Aemon, her fingers still threading through his hair. Since the tourney, all the pretense between them had all but vanished. Whatever veil of discretion they had tried to maintain before had since burned away, and now they made little effort to hide what they truly felt for one another. Aegon didn’t need spies to know the court was buzzing like a disturbed hive with rumors.

“Does this have something to do with that Baelish fellow who came up during the council meeting before the tourney?” Aemon asked suddenly, eyes still closed.

Aegon glanced at his brother, mildly surprised he remembered. “Yes,” he said simply.

“Who’s Baelish?” Rhaenys asked, brow arching in curiosity.

“He owns a few brothels along the Street of Silk,” Aegon replied, eyes dropping back to the parchment in his hands. “More than a few, actually. Word is, he’s been expanding a lot recently.”

“And he came up during the council meeting because…?” she pressed, her tone light but laced with interest.

Aegon exhaled through his nose. “Apparently, there are whispers that some of my Gold Cloaks have been spending a little too much time in his establishments.” Rhaenys gave him a questioning look, and Aegon sighed again.
“Apperantly some of them have started taking bribes again.” He admitted.

His sister looked just as surprised as he imagined he was when he first heard of this. “And you think Baelish has something to do with that?” Rhaenys asked, her tone now more guarded.

“Mandia, even if he’s not,” Aemon said, eyes still closed, “the Gold Cloaks frequent his brothels enough that he’d know exactly what’s going on. If he isn’t orchestrating it, he’s at least profiting from it in some way.” Aegon looked up from his reports, gaze flickering between his siblings before returning to the pages. “Didn’t Lord Arryn say he’d arrange a meeting with the man?” Aemon asked after a beat.

“He did,” Aegon replied. “But it hasn’t happened yet. The Street of Silk’s likely been overflowing since the tourney and I imagine the Hand’s plate is full at the moment.” He shifted in his seat and tapped one of the scrolls with the end of his quill. “So, I’ve taken it upon myself to learn more about Petyr Baelish.”

“And has your research borne any fruit?” Rhaenys asked, her fingers stilling in Aemon’s hair before falling to her side.

“Somewhat,” Aegon admitted. “Though not nearly as much as I’d like.” He leaned back in his chair, eyes scanning the scattered reports. There were threads to follow, yes, but they unraveled far too easily, and none yet led to the core of the matter.

“I’ve identified a few of the Gold Cloaks who’ve been spending time at the Blue Pearl and the other brothels Baelish owns, and a handful of them have histories of gambling debts.” He could see it clearly: a guard with a family to feed and debts to pay, offered a bribe. That’s how rot sets in, one coin at a time.

“But that’s not all of them,” Aegon continued, rubbing his temple. “Most of the names don’t match any debt ledgers I’ve found. Some might just be enjoying their coin too freely.”

He glanced back up at his siblings. “The real problem is Baelish himself. I don’t know much about him.”

“He’s from the Fingers,” Aemon spoke up, “hence the moniker, Littlefinger. Fostered at Riverrun in his youth. That’s where he became... friendly with the Tully sisters. Which is likely how he’s built his connection to our dear Hand.”

Rhaenys raised a brow. “Friendly?”

“They say he once duelled for my aunt's honor against Brandon,” his brother said. “He lost, but it makes me wonder how close he is with Lord Edmure. And through him, perhaps, with the Lannisters.”

Aegon groaned, dragging a hand through his hair as a weary sigh escaped him. “You think he might be connected to the Lannisters?” Rhaenys asked, her gaze drifting to Aemon.

“It’s possible,” Aemon replied, eyes still half-lidded, his tone more thoughtful than concerned. “Aunt Cat told me that she and her sister were quite close to him when they were children. And Baelish obviously still holds Lysa’s favor since she had asked Lord Arryn to help him when he first came to the capital.” Their brother explained.

“But he also likely has some measure of familiarity with Edmure too. And Edmure is wed to Cersei, so it’s not a far stretch to imagine Petyr Baelish might have built a quiet bridge to Casterly Rock through that chain.”

Aegon didn’t like the thought, not one bit. It was plausible. Worse, it was possible.

Tywin was the master of coin and as such, he was responsible for the funding, provisioning, and oversight of the City Watch’s resources.

It had always irked him that the Commander of the Gold Cloaks was still tethered, however indirectly, to the will of the Master of Coin. Worse yet, he had no doubt that some of Tywin’s men still walked the alleys in black and gold. “I wouldn’t worry too much about Tywin’s hand being in this,” Aegon said at last, trying to sound more certain than he felt. “Though I won’t say it’s out of the question.”

The thought of Baelish having any connection to the Lannisters of all people, made Aegon uneasy. Yet while he respected Aemon’s instinct, he suspected his brother’s theory about Baelish’s link to the Lannisters through Edmure was likely off the mark.

Aegon had seen firsthand how Tywin dealt with his good-son. There was no warmth between them, no true regard. The Old Lion barely concealed his disdain for the Lord of Riverrun, treating him more as an obligation than a family member, and if Baelish was seeking favor through Edmure, he had chosen poorly.

Marrying Cersei to Edmure had been understandable, necessary, even. After the Rebellion, there had been few matches that made sense politically. And while Aegon had heard the old rumors, that Cersei Lannister had once been infatuated with his father, Rhaegar had already been married twice over by then, and there had never been room in his vision for the proud lioness of Casterly Rock.

But regardless of whether Baelish had Lannister ties or not, Aegon did not trust Tywin. Only a fool would. His father might have been wise to keep the man close, as one keeps a sword nearby even when peace is declared, but Aegon had always known that proximity to the lion did not dull its teeth.

Tywin Lannister was a dangerous man. Aegon had studied history. He knew Tywin had kept his banners leashed during the Rebellion, biding his time. He hadn’t declared for Robert, nor had he ridden in Rhaegar’s name. He had waited until the tides turned, and only then had the lions marched.

Aegon often wondered what might have happened if the Trident had ended differently. If it had been his father who fell.

The Lannister host had been the first to reach the capital. And had it been Robert who stood victorious over Rhaegar’s corpse, Aegon had no doubt that he and his entire family would have been butchered before the dust settled.

He sat up straighter and tapped one of the reports on the table before him. “Very few of my men have any direct dealings with the man. And when the Watch needs something, I deal with him myself.” Aegon’s gaze drifted from the half-finished reports back to where his siblings lay entangled. “I thought you were going North immediately after the tourney,” he said. “And yet, here you are. Why?”

His brother had been quite adamant about his desire to go North and visit their great-uncle Aemon. A simple thing in paper, but Aegon had always suspected there was more to it.

No one in the family was pleased by the idea. Not after Aemon had only just returned from the East. Aegon himself had tried to dissuade him, but Aemon had inherited their muña Lya’s brand of stubbornness.

At Aegon’s words, Rhaenys flinched, just slightly. She, too, clearly hated the thought of him leaving again. “I was planning to go,” Aemon said, his voice even as ever. “But now that Summerhall has been fully rebuilt, I thought it best to at least complete the formation of my household before I leave.”

He opened his eyes then and turned his head slightly to look up at Rhaenys. “There’s also one other thing I want to do before I leave,” he added.

“Oh?” Aegon asked, glancing between them, though he already suspected the answer. He could see it written across Aemon's face.

His brother sat up slowly, his hand taking Rhaenys's in his own. “Before I go North, I will speak with our father,” Aemon said. “ and I will challenge him for our dear mandia’s hand.” Rhaenys’s breath caught, and then a smile broke across her lips, wide and bright and unguarded. A smile Aegon had never seen stretch that far before, not even in childhood.

Aegon allowed himself a quiet smile. As much as he felt the warmth of their happiness, saw it reflected in the softness of Rhaenys’s expression, the way she leaned back against Aemon’s chest, her fingers drifting to his jaw, he knew someone had to remain clear-eyed. Because for all the romance of the moment, theirs was still a complicated situation.

“As happy as I am for the two of you, and believe me, I am,” Aegon began, his voice breaking through the intimacy, “you both know what father said four years ago. He refused then, and I don’t see what’s changed that would make him say yes now.”

At his words, both siblings turned to look at him. Rhaenys’s expression flickered first. “Egg,” she said, her voice soft but firm, “our valonqar has a dragon now.” Her eyes gleamed with wonder as she looked up at Aemon, as though Nyraxes herself might descend from the sky at her call. Aegon, however, felt a flicker of irritation.

Of course she would say that. It always comes back to Nyraxes, these days. The gleaming symbol of power returned to House Targaryen. And yet Aegon knew that dragons alone did not solve political impasses.

“She’s not wrong,” Aemon said, his voice gentler now, his arm circling Rhaenys’s waist as she settled more comfortably against him. “But you’re right too, Egg. Father is… difficult. And prophecy still clouds his judgment.”

Rhaenys pouted at that, clearly displeased her beloved wasn’t fully siding with her.

“I’ve been working on a plan,” Aemon continued, more serious now. “Something to fall back on. A way forward if Rhaegar refuses to see reason. I won’t leave this matter to hope alone.”

That gave Aegon pause, and a measure of relief. At least Aemon wasn’t relying solely on Nyraxes to strongarm Rhaegar. He still had his wits, and a plan meant he wasn’t walking into this blind. “And what sort of plan?” Aegon asked, eyes narrowing slightly.

Aemon met his gaze with that with his calm one before speaking. “It involves you, brother,” he said. “If you're willing. If not, I won’t force your hand.”

Aegon immediately leaned forward, his interest piqued. “I’m listening,” he said, eyes narrowing as he caught the smirk curling at the edge of Aemon’s lips.

His brother looked down at Rhaenys. “I hope you won’t have any objections to us marrying under the Old Gods,” he said, “if father proves... difficult.”

Rhaenys shook her head without hesitation, but the comment gave Aegon pause. The Old Gods. A weirwood wedding. Northmen rites. It was clever, simple, binding, and outside their father’s immediate control.

Still, something nagged at him. If Aemon already had a plan in place, a workaround for their father's inevitable refusal, why speak to Rhaegar at all? Why not elope and be done with it? He voiced the thought.

“Because,” Aemon replied, meeting his gaze evenly, “imagine the storm if Rhaenys and I simply vanish for a few days, only to return wedded under a heart tree. The court would descend into chaos. Rumors would fly. And worse, father would be publicly humiliated.”

“I’d rather give him the opportunity to make the announcement himself,” he continued. “To frame it as his decision, even if it isn’t. If he refuses, then yes, I’ll act. But I won’t deny him the chance to avoid scandal.”

Aegon nodded slowly. It made sense. But his doubts remained. “There’ll be a scandal either way,” he pointed out. “Even if Rhaegar does somehow agree, the realm will talk.”

“A smaller storm than if we defy him outright,” Aemon said. “You remember what happened the last time a prince crowned a woman promised to another at a tourney, then ran off with her.”

“That didn’t go so well the first time.” He said and Aemon nodded. “You do realize that the moment you ask father for Rhaenys’s hand, there’s a very real chance he’ll act to stop you.”

He gestured toward the window, where the Red Keep’s towers cut into the sky like spears.

“He could have you confined. Nyraxes may come when you call, but she stays beyond the city walls. If Rhaegar doesn’t agree, he won’t give you a chance to flee. He won’t risk the only living dragon slipping beyond his grasp.”

His brother’s lips curved into a smirk at his words before Aemon leaned forward and started to explain his plan.

The Harpist King

"Your Grace, are you listening to me?" The voice cut through the haze of Rhaegar’s thoughts, dragging him back to the Red Keep’s council chamber.

"Yes, please continue." Rhaegar inclined his head, though his mind still lingered elsewhere.

Jon Arryn hesitated a moment, perhaps weighing whether to press further, then turned to address the rest of the table again. "As I’ve said before, the best course of action is to write to Ned and ask that he bring the Greyjoy boy with him when he travels south."

It irritated Rhaegar more than it should have, that this was the first matter he was forced to deal with after the tourney. Balon Greyjoy was dead, and his only surviving son had been a hostage in Winterfell for more than a decade now.

Ever since their Rebellion had failed, the Iron Islands had had little direct contact with the rest of the realm, and nobody seemed to mind it. But now, when Balon was dead and his heir had been fostered in the North under the eyes of the King's good-brother no less, the realm suddenly grew interested in the Ironborn again.

"And what do we mean to do once the Greyjoy boy is here?" asked Mace, lifting his goblet of to his lips.

"We will make him understand what will be expected of him when he finally returns to the Iron Islands," Tywin said. "And if we are wise, we will find a good marriage for him, and a binding one at that."

"Easier said than done," came Marwyn’s voice, his chain clinking faintly as he leaned forward. “The Ironborn may name their sons as heirs, but the old customs still run deep in their blood. We’d do well to remember they have long held other ways of choosing their rulers.”

Rhaegar said nothing as he leaned back in his chair, slender fingers resting against his cheek, and let the conversation wash over him. He should have been focused on the Ironborn, on Theon Greyjoy and the implications of his reintroduction into court life, but instead, his mind strayed and it returned, inevitably, to the tourney. To the moment Aemon rode through the tourney grounds and crowned Rhaenys Queen of Love and Beauty.

Rhaegar had said nothing then. He had simply fixed his younger son with a cold gaze, but Aemon didn't even seem to notice it. His eyes had been fixed on Rhaenys.

And the silence that followed the crowning had reminded Rhaegar too much of another silence, one nearly two decades gone. The one that followed his own crowning of Lyanna beneath the willows of Harrenhal. But this time, the silence did not linger. Aegon had been the first to stand up and start clapping. A ripple followed and murmurs turned to cheers. And then the roar of approval, the crowd’s confusion dissolving in the celebration, for what scandal could there be if Rhaenys’s own betrothed took no offense?

Rhaegar had done nothing at the feast that followed either, though the urge to act had been too strong to ignore. He had held his tongue, held his place, though every tradition cried out for his intervention, for it was custom that the Queen of Love and Beauty share her first dance with the champion who crowned her.

And so when the music began, and the great hall fell into silence, Rhaegar watched as Aemon rose without hesitation and offered his hand to his sister, and Rhaenys took it with a smile.

"Perhaps it would be best not to involve ourselves with the Ironborn at all," said Mace, swirling the wine in his goblet. "They’ve been quiet for years." Rhaegar was once again pulled out of his mind and brought back to the conversation at hand.

"We shouldn't be so trusting," Connington interjected, as he turned his gaze toward the Lord of Highgarden. "Clearly, you’ve never had the misfortune of meeting either of Balon’s brothers, my lord. I have, and I promise you the realm will be better served if we begin preparing Theon Greyjoy to return and assume his father’s seat."

"Connington speaks wisely," Jon Arryn added. "None of us who had the displeasure of encountering Euron Greyjoy during the Rebellion would wish to see him rule the Iron Islands."

Rhaegar noticed how Tywin's jaw tightened at the name. The Crow’s Eye had burned the Lannisport’s fleet in a single night before vanishing into the mist like a ghost. Clearly Tywin had not forgotten that.

"Better Theon," Jon Arryn went on, "who has been raised by Ned, and by all accounts, has been treated quite well at Winterfell."

He knew little of Theon, but he knew Ned, knew the kind of man his good-brother was. The boy would have been raised as one of Ned’s own, taught the North’s stern codes of honor, not left to rot in chains or dungeons. He would ask Lyanna about the boy later. She would know more.

"The only complication," said Randyll, "is that Balon died several days ago, and we’ve heard nothing from Pyke. No raven requesting the boy’s return. No formal word from the Ironborn at all." He paused. "Mayhaps it’s too late. They may already have chosen another."

"I wouldn't be too worried about that," Monford said. "If they've already chosen someone else, we can correct it easily enough. I doubt the Ironborn are even half as strong now as they were during their rebellion, and they weren't all that formidable then."

There were a few murmurs of assent around the table.

"We must also not overlook that we have a dragon now," Connington added, and Rhaegar sighed and rolled his eyes at his old friend's words. "I doubt any of their ships would be able to stand against Nyraxes and her fire if we sent Prince Aemon to deal with them," Jon finished, as if the matter were simple.

It made Rhaegar uncomfortable, this growing tendency among his council to treat Nyraxes as the answer to every potential crisis. Yes, the she-dragon had immense power, but in Rhaegar’s eyes, relying on her too often was not only unwise, it was dangerous.

Men had killed dragons before, and she was the only living dragon in existence until more could be hatched.

His thoughts drifted back to Aemon. His son had said he planned to leave for the North immediately after the tourney but with Summerhall’s restoration now complete, he had lingered, chosen to remain in King’s Landing for a few days longer to begin gathering his household. It wasn’t much, but it had won Rhaegar a sliver of time and he still wasn’t sure what to do with it.

He had hoped Aemon would understand. That the dreams would have shown him the same truths they had once shown Rhaegar, but his son remained either blind to it… or worse, willfully resistant. Not only did Aemon seem to not understand the importance of the three heads of the dragon coming together, he was actively trying to break them apart, simply because of the love he had for his sister.

"I suggest we put aside further talk of any possible future conflict with the Ironborn for now," Lord Arryn said. "Instead, we should keep a close watch on the Iron Islands until Ned brings the Greyjoy boy here. And per Lord Tywin’s earlier counsel, we ought to begin considering a marriage alliance, one that will bind him more closely to the Crown."

There were nods of agreement around the table. "If there is nothing more," Rhaegar said, his tone signaling the end of the session, "you are dismissed."

Chairs scraped against stone as the lords rose, bowed, and began filtering out of the chamber in small clusters, voices hushed, boots soft against the tiled floor.

"Jon," Rhaegar said, just as the Lord Hand turned to leave. "Stay." Arryn paused, brows lifting in quiet surprise, then inclined his head and returned to his seat without protest.

They waited in silence until the last of the lords had left the chamber and the great doors swung shut behind them. Only then did Jon turn toward him. "Is there something you need from me, your Grace?"

Rhaegar exhaled, the weight of his decision already settled on his shoulders. He had turned it over in his mind a hundred times, and now that it was made, there was no turning back, only managing the consequences.

"As you know," he began, voice low and steady, "with my son bonded to a dragon, and intent on hatching more, the value of Targaryen blood has risen once again." Jon nodded, and the King imagined that his hand knew where this was going.

"I'm sure you also understand the danger," Rhaegar continued, "should any other house obtain the ability to bond with dragons. It would shift the balance of power."

The Lord Hand studied him for a long moment, lips pressed into a line. Finally, he sighed. "This is about Princess Daenerys and her betrothal to Prince Quentyn, isn’t it?"

Rhaegar gave a solemn nod. "That and the fact that Aemon remains unpromised, despite every house in the realm vying for him."

"They were all watching closely during the joust," Jon said. "Many hoped he'd make his intentions known, that he'd crown some maiden from their house and tip the game in their favor." He paused, then offered Rhaegar a pointed look. "Instead, he crowned Princess Rhaenys. It was a clever move, diplomatically neutral, publicly affectionate, and above all, safe." He gave a faint smile. "Though I imagine it raised a fair number of eyebrows... and stirred more than a few old memories."

Rhaegar allowed himself a quiet chuckle at that. He could not deny the parallel.

Aemon crowning Rhaenys had echoed his own crowning of Lyanna all those years ago. But unlike that scandal, no one cried treason this time. To the court, it was simply a brother honoring his elder sister, while also not showing favor to anyone else. But Rhaegar knew better.

"So, if I understand you correctly," Jon said, bringing a hand to his beard in thought, "you intend to dissolve Princess Daenerys’s betrothal and have her wed to Prince Aemon instead." He paused, arching a brow. "Have you spoken to the Prince about this? Last time he was promised to someone, he vanished across the sea the first chance he got."

Rhaegar sighed and leaned back in his chair. "I will speak to him in time. Once the Dornish betrothal is taken care of." His tone was measured, but resolute. "He won’t run off this time. He’ll understand the necessity of keeping the bloodline strong, and ensuring that no other house gains the power that flows in our veins."

He did not mention how he intended to ensure Aemon stayed. That part was best left unsaid, even to his hand. Rhaegar knew his son well, knew that Aemon would understand why he broke Dany's betrothal, but he would not like that Rhaegar was not giving him Rhaenys. He would be furious, and yet, sentiment could not dictate strategy. The realm could not afford it. He would not allow Aemon to break apart the three heads, not for love, not for pride, not for pain.

"The Dornish will take offense," Jon said after a moment. "Prince Doran already saw Prince Aemon’s flight as an insult to his house, and this betrothal was meant to mend that wound. Breaking it now risks opening that old breach again."

"Doran is a wise man," Rhaegar replied. “He had to have known this was going to happen the moment word of Nyraxes reached him."

Jon inclined his head slowly, but his eyes were sharp. “Yes, but knowing something will happen is not the same as forgiving the insult when it does.”

“I am not and will not be asking Doran for forgiveness,” Rhaegar replied. “Only for understanding and he will give it, for the sake of the realm.” The King sighed and leaned back in his chair, “Aegon is still my heir,” he said, “and he will wed both Rhaenys and Visenya. Dorne’s blood will sit the throne regardless, and betrothals have been broken before, often for reasons less grave than these.”

Jon inclined his head, but his expression did not soften. “That is true, your Grace, yet rarely has a royal betrothal been broken so close to the wedding. Logic, however sound, will not soothe the insult.”

Rhaegar’s violet eyes lingered on his Hand, studying the man. For all that Jon had never been his choice, necessity had bound them together after the Rebellion, and in truth, the falcon of the Vale had served him faithfully since. “And how would you have me deal with this, then?” he asked, the faintest edge creeping into his tone.

Jon folded his hands on the table. “Through her Grace. Have Queen Elia speak with both Prince Oberyn, and Prince Doran. They hold their sister in the highest regard, and the news will cut less if it comes from her lips. She can soothe what you cannot. And the insult may be salved with promises: a seat on your small council, or greater trade with Sunspear. Even marriages, should it come to that.”

Rhaegar regarded Jon for a long moment before finally inclining his head. His Hand was right, of course. In truth, there was likely no soul in the realm better suited to soothe the princes of Dorne than Elia herself.

And yet, even as he yielded to the thought, a flicker of unease stirred in him. For what if even Elia’s voice, so trusted and beloved in Sunspear, proved unequal to the task? Rhaegar’s gaze drifted toward the windows of the council chamber, where the afternoon light streamed through and painted the floor in gold. He knew the answer already, and it left a bitter taste upon his tongue.

The Crown had a dragon now. Nyraxes was no mere symbol but a power in truth, a deterrent unlike any the realm had seen since the Dance. For the space of a breath, he almost laughed at himself, for was this not the very hypocrisy he had chastised his lords for earlier? To weigh every quarrel, every insult, against the fire of a single beast.

Still, politics required more than threats. The offer of richer trade flowing through Sunspear’s ports, a seat on the small council, perhaps even the promise of titles to sweeten the sting. These things cost the Crown little, yet would be worth much in Doran’s eyes, and if still more were needed, there were marriages to consider. Quentyn or Arianne might be bound to another great house, perhaps one eager to draw nearer to the royal line.

Rhaegar fixed his gaze on his Hand. “Jon, write to Ned. Tell him he must come south sooner than planned, and he is to bring the Greyjoy boy with him.”

Arryn inclined his head. “As you command.”

“And another letter,” Rhaegar continued, his tone steady. “To Doran, Inform him that the betrothal between Dany and Quentyn is hereby dissolved.” He paused, drawing in a slow breath. “Elia will speak with Oberyn and the rest of her kin presently in the capital.”

Jon’s eyes flickered with unease, but he kept his composure. “You will offer Doran trade and offices,” Rhaegar pressed on. “Lay before him every path that might keep his pride intact: greater rights for Dornish ships, new markets opened to their merchants, and if need be, the prospect of marriages for both Quentyn and Arianne into other great houses. Promise him as much as you think is needed, but not more than that.”

A seat on the small council had been the final piece Rhaegar instructed Jon to offer, if need be, though he had yet to decide which seat it would be. That bridge could be crossed when the time came.

“Will that be all, Your Grace?” Jon asked, his voice neutral but laced with fatigue.

Rhaegar gave a brief nod. “See the letters dispatched before nightfall.” Lord Arryn bowed and withdrew, the doors groaning shut behind him. The echo faded, leaving only silence in the council chamber.

Rhaegar leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly. The decision had been made, and with it, the path ahead was set. There would be no undoing it. He had gambled not only with Dornish pride and courtly favor, but with the remaining trust his son had in him, and likely lost it. Aemon would never forgive him for this, of that he was sure. And though the thought pained him more deeply than he cared to admit, he would endure that hate for the sake of the realm.

But the battle was not yet won. Aemon was still in the capital and Nyraxes with him, though the dragon had remained far beyond the city walls. That was some comfort. So long as she remained outside the Red Keep, and Aemon within, he could still be contained.

Rhaegar’s fingers curled against the armrest. He would have the announcement made swiftly, and the wedding arranged soon after, within the week if he could manage it. A public union with Daenerys would bind Aemon’s path and make escape politically untenable. And if Rhaenys proved difficult... then perhaps her wedding would need to be brought forward as well. That thought turned his stomach, and for a moment, he loathed himself.

He stared into the dying light slanting through the high windows, then spoke softly: “Arthur.”

The shadows shifted, and the Sword of the Morning stepped forward from where he had been standing guard, ever silent, ever present. “Your Grace,” the knight said, inclining his head.

“You are to reassign Jaime to other duties,” Rhaegar said, voice quiet but firm. “Away from Aemon. Far away, if possible.” Arthur blinked once, but gave no protest. “He’s too close to my son,” Rhaegar continued. “He helped him flee once before, I will not have it happen again.”

Arthur studied him for a moment, violet eyes meeting violet eyes. Of all the Kingsguard, he was the one Rhaegar trusted beyond question.
“As you command,” Arthur said, and turned to carry out his orders.

Rhaegar remained seated long after he was gone, alone with the weight of what he had set in motion.

The She-Wolf

"And what happened then?" Daeron asked, eyes wide with wonder despite the fact that Lyanna was sure she’d told him this story a hundred times before.

"Then your father crowned me," she said with a soft smile, brushing back a strand of his silver hair, "and he, I, and Elia lived happily ever after." She left out the Rebellion for Daeron was only eight and he didn’t need those parts of the story yet.

Her boy gave her a quick, satisfied nod and returned to the drawing he’d been fussing over all morning. Lyanna leaned back in her chair and sipped her tea, letting the warmth spread through her as she watched him.

He had not been sleeping well. For the past few nights, he had woken up crying, and she and Elia had taken turns comforting him through the dark hours. So when the handmaid woke her at dawn with word that Daeron had risen early again, she dressed without complaint and joined him here.

Elia had promised to join them later, after her audience with Rhaegar. Their husband had been… distant, even more so than usual, in the days since the tourney and Lyanna knew precisely why. Aemon had crowned Rhaenys, and If Rhaegar had expected their son to crown someone else then he was a greater fool than Lyanna had feared.

Both she and Elia had been happy, and among the first to start clapping, while Rhaegar had fixed Aemon with a cold stare, the kind Lyanna had only ever seen on her own father’s face.

Thankfully, he hadn’t done much more than that. Well, aside from casting that same cold look at both their children during the feast. As tradition dictated, the first dance was to be between the champion and the Queen of Love and Beauty, and it felt as though the whole world had turned to watch as Aemon led Rhaenys to the center of the hall.

It reminded Lyanna of Harrenhal, of that heavy silence after the crowning, of the confused stares and anxious whispers, of the way tension seemed to coil in every corner of the room. The only difference was the betrothed of the queen for where Robert had stormed off in anger, Aegon had been the first to applaud his brother and sister. He had always known of the love his siblings had. Lyanna was almost sure that he had been the first to find out about them all those years back.

And when the stands saw that Rhaenys’s own betrothed had taken no offense, and was, in fact, smiling, all that tension seemed to melt, if only for a moment.

The thing was, Aemon’s choice hadn’t just been personal, it had been politically astute. Had he crowned anyone else, it would’ve caused them many headaches down the line. If he’d chosen some noble lady, her family would have surely pushed for a betrothal with every shred of influence they had.

And it would’ve been far worse had he crowned someone from one of the great houses. The Lannisters, the Tyrells,even the Hightowers, had all been watching her son like he was a gift from the gods themselves. If Aemon had crowned a daughter from any of their lines, they would have moved to claim him and refusing them afterward wouldn’t have been easy, and could have come at a cost.

And it wasn’t unusual for a champion to crown a member of their family, and since Lyanna doubted that anyone beyond the family knew of Aemon’s and Rhaenys's true feelings for one another, most would have likely seen his decision as a careful maneuver.

Lost in thought, Lyanna didn’t notice when Daeron rose from his seat and wandered over to the bookshelf. It wasn’t until a loud thud echoed through the chamber that she looked up.

Her son had hauled one of the larger tomes down onto the table with both hands. She arched a brow, surprised to see that it was the old compendium on the geography of the Seven Kingdoms. It was a dense volume full of maps, trade routes, and historical footnotes, but also richly illustrated, and that made sense.
Daeron didn’t usually enjoy reading, not in the way his siblings did. But he did love pictures.

He flipped through the pages with care until something caught his attention. “What are you looking at?” Lyanna asked absently, lifting her teacup again.

Daeron didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed on the page for a moment before he glanced up. “Cities,” he said simply, then turned to another picture. “We don’t have that many here but Aemon said Essos has a lot more. Why?”

Lyanna was a little surprised by the question and took a moment to think about how best to answer it. “Well, my sweet boy,” she said gently, “Essos is much bigger than Westeros, and far older too, and over the centuries, many great empires rose there. And when those empires fell, they left colonies behind, settlements that grew over time and became cities of their own.”

Daeron looked up from the book. “What’s an empire?” he asked.

“Well,” Lyanna began, pausing briefly to consider her words, “an empire is like a kingdom, only much bigger. Instead of ruling just one land or one people, it rules over many. Lands far away, different tongues, different gods.” She tilted her head slightly. “Do you know where your father’s ancestors came from?”

Daeron nodded quickly, his voice full of pride. “From Valyria!”

“That’s right,” she said with a faint smile. “Valyria was an empire, maybe the greatest the world has ever known.”

Daeron stared at her for a long moment, as if weighing her words, then gave a quick nod and turned back to his book. His little fingers flipped the pages carefully, eyes drifting back to the maps and illustrations. Lyanna watched him quietly. She was almost sure he hadn’t understood half of what she’d said, but chose not to press him.

Lyanna wondered if it was watching Aemon pore over all those scrolls he’d brought back from Valyria that had sparked Daeron’s sudden interest in learning. Her youngest had always been quick to mimic his older siblings, though he’d never admit it aloud.

She reached for the teapot and refilled her cup, then leaned back with a quiet sigh, rubbing the tiredness from her eyes. She wouldn’t have minded having someone to talk to just now. Daeron was sweet company, but there were some thoughts a mother couldn’t unburden to an eight-year-old.

The door eased open with a soft creak, and in stepped Elia, her posture composed, but her face far too weary for this early in the day. Whatever her meeting with Rhaegar had been about, it had clearly drained her.

“Muña,” Daeron murmured without lifting his head, acknowledging her with a brief glance before turning back to his drawing.

“Hello, sweetling,” Elia replied with a tired smile as she crossed the room and sank into the cushioned chair beside Lyanna. Her movements were slow, the kind that came from tension held too long in the spine. “You look exhausted,” she said. “Did Daeron wear you down already?”

“You don’t look much better yourself,” Lyanna countered with a smirk. Lyanna poured a second cup, steam curling lazily into the air, and handed it over. “Here, with a slice of lemon.”

“Gods bless you,” Elia murmured, accepting the tea and taking a long sip.

“Muña,” Daeron piped up again, still focused on the parchment before him, “I’ve been drawing my dream like you told me. I’m almost done.”

Lyanna cast a curious glance toward her wife.
“I asked him to draw what he saw, the part that frightened him,” Elia explained softly, keeping her voice low so Daeron wouldn't overhear. “We used to do the same with Senya, remember? It helped calm her down.”

Lyanna gave a small nod and took a sip of her tea. “So,” she asked, voice carefully neutral, “how did your meeting with the Queen of Thorns go?”

Elia exhaled through her nose, the weight of the question settling on her shoulders. “As well as one might expect,” she said, casting a glance around the room as if half-expecting someone to be listening

“Well, go on,” Lyanna prompted.

Elia sighed, lifting her teacup with both hands. “One of these days, I’ll send you to deal with the Queen of Thorns,” her wife said, and Lyanna chuckled.

“Gods forbid,” she replied. “She’d have me strangled with lace within the hour.”

Usually it was Elia or Rhaella who spoke with Lady Olenna. The Queen of Thorns rarely dealt with Lyanna directly, though she had never been overtly hostile. Lyanna suspected Olenna still saw her as the same young girl she was during and after the Rebellion.

“All right,” she continued, folding her legs. “Let me guess. She asked, very politely, of course if we had any intentions for Aemon’s hand, and reminded you how important the Reach is to the realm.”

Elia gave a wry smile. “You’re not far off,” she said, sipping her tea. “It seems Olenna took note that Aemon crowned Rhaenys.” She gave Lyanna a look.

It was no secret that Aemon was the most desired match in the realm, and many had hoped that the tourney would reveal where his affections lay. But his choice had been Rhaenys. And while the court might pretend that gesture had been brotherly, those who knew of their true feelings understood that it was not.

“Olenna mentioned Margaery, then,” Lyanna said, already knowing the answer.

Elia nodded. “Twice, in fact. Once outright, and once through a metaphor about roses and dragons being a surprisingly good fit for each other.”

Lyanna snorted. “And I assume she reminded you that the Reach controls nearly half the food in the realm and a third of the fleets?”

Elia gave a nod before taking another sip of her tea, her dark eyes thoughtful. “A part of me wonders,” she said, “just how far the Tyrells are willing to go to see themselves bound more tightly to us.”

Lyanna let out a chuckle. “Well, their words are Growing Strong.” An idea passed through Lyanna’s mind then, and she turned to her wife, thoughtful. “Elia, do you remember when I told you how determined Cat was to see her children wed into southern houses?”

Elia blinked, momentarily confused, then nodded. “Yes, though you also said Ned wanted to keep Robb’s match in the North, something about a few lords grumbling that their future Lord of Winterfell looked more Tully than a Stark.”

Lyanna rolled her eyes and let out a scoff. “As if hair and jawlines were all that made a Stark. Robb may have his mother’s features, but he has the North in him. He rides like a Stark, fights like a Stark, and carries himself just like Ned did when he was his age.” She waved the thought away and leaned in. “But I wasn’t speaking of Robb. I meant Sansa.”

“What about her?” Elia asked, curiosity lighting her gaze.

“Catelyn asked me to help find a good match for her, someone here at court,” Lyanna explained. “And I’ve been thinking... what if we offered her to Willas Tyrell?”

Elia blinked at the suggestion, surprised. “Sansa and Willas?”

"Well, it's quite a beneficial match when you think about it," Lyanna said, swirling the last of her tea before setting the cup down. "The North gains a stronger grain supply, the Reach gains another tie to the royal family, through my brother’s line, and not through the Crown directly."

It wasn’t as bold as the Tyrells had hoped for, Lyanna was sure of that, but it was something Olenna could walk away with.

Mace already held a seat on the small council. Loras would one day join the Kingsguard and Margaery had positioned herself perfectly as Rhaenys’s lady-in-waiting. The Queen of Thorns was no fool. She was building influence in every direction, planting roses wherever soil could be turned.

"Cat would be thrilled," Lyanna went on. "And Sansa even more so. That girl’s had dreams of marrying a southern lord and dancing at court since she could walk. This is exactly the kind of match she’s always imagined." She paused with a faint smirk. "Though she’ll need to get over the fact that he doesn’t joust."

Willas was the heir to Highgarden, well-read, patient, and kind by all accounts. His leg may have been ruined from a tilt gone wrong, but he was no less a man for it. Lyanna had never understood the distaste for such things. Lords down here fretted more about the cut of a doublet than the strength of a man’s mind.

"It’s foolish, really," she added, her voice a little sharper. "Half the realm’s daughters chase after boys who can ride well and preen like peacocks. Meanwhile, the heir to Highgarden sits without a match because he walks with a cane." She shook her head. "He's still the Lord of the Reach in all but name, and more capable than most men twice his age."

Elia looked at her for a long moment before a smirk tugged at her lips. "Seven save me," she said with a soft chuckle. "Look at you. Far from the wild girl I met at Harrenhal, now you’re speaking like a queen should."

Lyanna allowed herself a satisfied smile. It was strange to think about it now, but in those early days, southern court politics had been a maze she was wholly unprepared for.

It had been Elia and Rhaella who took it upon themselves to guide her through the court’s treacherous waters, and though she was no master player, Lyanna knew she was no pawn either. "Still not as sharp as you or Rhaella," she said, tilting her head. "But I daresay I could outmaneuver most of the Lords these days"

Elia laughed. "Oh, I’m certain you could." She leaned back and took another sip of her tea, her dark eyes thoughtful. "We’ll have to speak with Rhaegar about the match, of course. But I imagine he’ll agree. It's politically sound, and it gives the Tyrells a prize without giving them too much." She paused, then raised a brow. "And while we're on the topic, any other matches you’ve thought of for your brother's brood?"

Lyanna shook her head. "Not really. As I said, Robb will likely wed in the North. Bran and Rickon are still too young, and as for Arya..." She trailed off with a half-smile.

"A wild wolf if ever there was one," Elia finished for her, lips curving.

Lyanna chuckled. "That she is.” Truth be told, she was proud of Arya, the girl had taken to sword lessons with a passion. Catelyn hadn’t approved, but Lyanna had always backed her niece. There was no shame in wanting to know how to defend oneself.

Elia lifted her teacup again, but paused mid-sip. Her brow furrowed slightly, and she set it down without drinking. "Gods," she muttered, grimacing faintly. "That taste..."

Lyanna’s amusement faded. "What is it?" she asked, already rising. Even Daeron glanced up from his drawings.

Elia shook her head quickly, one hand resting lightly against her stomach. "I'm fine. Just... a wave of something. Nausea, maybe."

Lyanna reached over and placed the back of her hand against her wife's forehead. "You feel a little warm. You sure you're not coming down with something?"

"If I am, it’s nothing serious," Elia said with a dismissive wave. "And my moon’s blood isn’t due for another fortnight, so don’t start fretting yet."

Still, Lyanna didn’t sit back down right away. Her gaze lingered on Elia’s face. There was a faint paleness to her complexion, and a tiredness behind her eyes that hadn’t been there that morning.

"Maybe you should rest, just in case," she said gently.

A knock on the door broke the quiet and a moment later, a servant stepped inside, head bowed low. "Pardon the interruption, your Graces," he said, eyes fixed on the floor. "His Grace requests Queen Elia’s presence in the throne room."

Lyanna felt her wife's body stiffen. Elia exhaled through her nose, not surprised but clearly not thrilled either. "Tell Rhaegar I’ll be there shortly," she said. The servant bowed again and left without another word.

Elia started to stand up, but before she could rise fully from her chair, Daeron darted across the room. "Wait! I’m done!" he said, holding out the parchment he’d been working on all morning. "You said I should show you when it was finished."

Elia blinked, visibly softening as she turned back toward him. "Of course, sweetling. Let’s see what you've made."

He handed the parchment to her, eyes bright with pride with what he had drawn. Lyanna leaned in beside her, looking at the drawing. It was messy, crayon-like smears of charcoal and ink, blotched colors bleeding over shapes, but even through the childish strokes, the image had an unsettling clarity.

A city stood on the edge of the sea. Towering spires twisted in strange angles. The waves were not blue, but a deep red, like blood, and they lapped hungrily at the city’s foundation. Black smoke rose into the sky as flames leapt from the buildings, some painted in green, others in pitch black.

It was grotesque and strange… and far too specific for an eight-year-old’s dream Lyanna’s brows furrowed. "What city is this, Daeron?"

The boy hesitated, then gave a tiny shrug. "I don’t know. But it was near the sea. And the water… it wasn’t right. It was red."

Elia passed a glance to Lyanna, the amusement in her eyes now fully gone. "What are these fires?" she asked, pointing gently to the green and black streaks along the rooftops.

"It was burning," Daeron said, tapping the paper. "But not normal fire. One of them was green and it hissed like snakes, and the black one... it didn’t crackle, it screamed."

A chill passed down Lyanna’s spine. "And these clouds?" she asked quietly.

Daeron looked up at her, his face suddenly solemn. "It was night in the dream, but not really. The sky looked wrong and there was a sound, like a horn. It made everything shake."

"A horn?" Elia echoed.

Daeron nodded. "Loud and far away, like it was coming from under the water." He leaned in slightly, whispering as if the dream might still be listening. "It made the sea move."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Elia finally placed the drawing gently on the table and cupped their son’s cheek. "Thank you for showing us, my boy." Lyanna brushed a hand through Daeron’s silver hair, her thoughts racing.

"What do you think it means?" Daeron asked softly, as if afraid to know.

Lyanna forced a smile and kissed the top of his head. "I think it means you’ve been listening to too many of Aemon’s stories."

Elia gave a small laugh at that, but it was hollow, her eyes still fixed on the drawing. Then she stood, smoothing out her skirts. "I have to go see your father now," she said, her voice more composed than before. "Stay with your muña until I return."

Daeron nodded, clutching the edge of the table. "Will you be back soon?"

"Soon as I can, sweetling," she promised, then paused at the door. Her gaze flicked one more time to the drawing and then to Lyanna.

Their eyes met and no more words were exchanged.

Chapter Text

The Pearl Princess

“Could you pass me the scroll on arcane Valyrian legends?” Nyra asked from across the chamber. She didn’t look up from the cluster of scrolls spread before her.

Aemon let out a groan and leaned back in his chair. “You’re going to have to be more specific,” he replied, glancing at the mountain of parchment in front of him. “There are at least a hundred scrolls here, and none of them are labeled, catalogued, or even stacked in the same direction.”

From her place against the wall, Dany chuckled as Nyra sighed and pushed her chair back. Her robes whispered against the stone floor as she crossed the room before coming to a stop behind Aemon.

Daenerys tilted her head, observing closely, as Nyra reached down and plucked a single scroll from near the center of the chaos, one indistinguishable from the rest, and held it up between two fingers. “This one,” she said, tone entirely too pleased.

Aemon stared at it, then at her, expression flat. “Of course,” he said. “I must be blind for not being able to immediately find it. It's not as if every other scroll on this table looks exactly the same.”

Nyra gave him a smirk before turning back to her table. Aemon’s gaze lingered on her until she settled once more among her nest of scrolls, and only then did he turn to his aunt. “Right. Is there something I can do for you, Dany?” he asked.

Daenerys smiled, tilting her head. “Am I not allowed to come and see what my nephew occupies himself with?” she teased.

In truth, her reasons for seeking him out had little to do with the maze of parchment that covered his table, though it intrigued her all the same. Ever since girlhood, she had been enthralled by the stories of her house, the golden age before the Dance, when dragons darkened the skies and the power of their line was undeniable.

She remembered well the afternoons spent in the library with her nieces and nephews, voices hushed and eyes wide as they pored over history books. Rhaenys gravitated to the tales of lovers and warriors. Visenya recited the names of all the dragons that died during the Dance, and Aegon lingered over the duties of kingship.

Aemon… Aemon had always been different. While the others dreamed of the age before the fall, he studied what came after: Daeron the Young Dragon and his conquest, Aemon the Dragonknight and his doomed devotion, Aegon the Unlikely who gambled everything for the realm.

Ironic, she thought now, that he was the one who had found Nyraxes, the one who had walked in the smoking ruins of Valyria and returned with knowledge no maester could hope to match. He, of all of them, now rode the only living dragon.

But today, her purpose was not scrolls or stories. She had come with something else weighing on her mind.

Her muña had told her before the tourney, that there was talk that she and Aemon might be joined. A match that would keep Nyraxes bound only to their blood, and keep Dany herself from being given away to some foreign house eager to plant a seed of dragonblood in its line. She had not spoken of it to anyone, not even to Visenya, though the thought had lingered at the back of her mind ever since.

She had believed Aemon knew too, and so when he unseated Garlan Tyrell in the final tilt and rode towards the royal box, a foolish hope began to stir inside her. The trumpets had sounded, the crowd had roared his name, and for one breathless moment she thought that maybe he would crown her.

Of course, in the back of her mind, she knew the truth of it: that her betrothal to Quentyn Martell had not yet been formally dissolved. The Dornish delegation was still in the capital. To crown her before the matter was resolved would be provocative, perhaps even seen as an insult to House Martell. But in that moment, none of that mattered. Not to her.

And then, Aemon crowned Rhaenys, and Daenerys sat still, the applause ringing in her ears like the crash of waves.

She told herself it was a strategic decision. That Rhaenys was a neutral choice. Crowning a highborn lady from any great house might have been misread as favor or intent, and could spark a storm of suitors and scheming. Rhaenys was family, and no house could take offense at her being crowned.

It was the safe choice. The smart one, and yet, it still stung.

“What are you working on?” She finally asked, brushing aside her thoughts and choosing instead to anchor herself in the present. Best to let the moment unfold naturally and see where it might lead.

Aemon didn’t look up from the scroll in his hands. “Old scripts,” he replied vaguely. She gave him a look and after a pause, he sighed and relented. “Scrolls about Dragons,” he clarified. “Most of them I reviewed after the expedition, but a few were too damaged, too arcane, or written in forms of High Valyrian I hadn't fully learned at the time. Now that I’ve had more time I’m going back through them.”

“Is it all just about dragons?” she asked, her voice just a touch more eager than she intended. Then, after a moment: “Or more specifically, about how to hatch them?”

She didn’t bother pretending otherwise. Of all the marvels Aemon had brought back from the Freehold, it was the prospect of hatching dragons that excited her most. Riding Nyraxes with him had been exhilarating, but the dream of bonding with a hatchling, raising it, training it, feeling that ancient connection for herself, was something else entirely. Even if it took years for a young dragon to grow large enough to ride, she would wait. She had waited her whole life already.

Aemon set the scroll down and met her eyes. “Both,” he said simply. “There’s still so much we don’t know. Our ancestors lost more knowledge than they passed down, and what we do have is often contradictory, incomplete, or filtered through maester ink and Faith superstition.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “You did say you wanted the Dragon Pit rebuilt before trying anything.”

“I did,” Aemon said. “And I still do. Letting them hatch in the wild, like Nyraxes did, is possible but risky. We’d have no way to monitor them properly, no control over what they imprint on.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “Especially her brood.”

Daenerys raised a brow. “Because they’ll be the first dragons born in over a century?”

“That,” he admitted, “and something else.”

She leaned forward slightly. “Go on.”

Aemon hesitated, glancing briefly toward the scroll he had set down. Then he spoke. “Everything we’ve found that touches on dragons and their hatching says an egg shouldn’t have quickened in Valyria after the Doom.”

“And yet Nyraxes did.” He sighed before continuing. “Marwyn thinks that makes her unique in some way. I don’t see anything in her that makes her different, but if she is, it may show in her hatchlings.”

Daenerys felt a quiet chill settle at the base of her spine. She glanced across the chamber, imagining Nyraxes somewhere far above the city now.

“We will need to watch her brood closely when the time comes,” Aemon said, more softly now as he leaned back in his seat. “There is, however, a possibility that I simply understand less than I think, and there’s a plainer answer I’ve yet to learn.”

Her thoughts drifted to the books she’d read in her youth, records detailing the decline of the dragons after the Dance. It had always puzzled her how, under the Conciliator dragons had flourished. His reign saw hatchlings born almost regularly, and yet, scarcely thirty years later, those same fires had guttered out.

By the reign of Aegon the Dragonbane, birthing a single healthy dragon had become a near-impossible task. She remembered reading of one hatchling born blind and wingless, a pale wyrm that lived barely long enough to crawl out of the egg. Others were stunted, malformed, incapable of flight or fire. And though there had been one, described as a green she-dragon and stronger than the rest, she too had died young, some two decades after the Dance.

It had never made sense to Dany. How could so much vitality vanish in such a short time?

“Will Marwyn not be joining us?” Nyra asked suddenly, eyes never leaving the scroll before her.

Aemon didn’t glance her way. “He’s at a small council meeting,” he said, reaching for another parchment. “I doubt we’ll see him for some time.”

Dany barely heard them because her thoughts were still somewhere else. Only when she felt Aemon’s gaze on her did she blink and return to the present. “I was thinking,” she began, “about the dragons that hatched after the Dance. We still had many eggs then but the ones that hatched… they were weak, and didn’t live long at all.”

Aemon held her eyes for a moment, then slowly nodded. He leaned back in his chair, expression thoughtful. “You know, most of the dragons our ancestors raised were hatched with their riders, placed in the cradle beside the newborn babe. Some even claimed the soul of the child helped shape the hatchling.”

“And more than that,” he added, glancing toward the window. “In those days, there were dozens of dragons alive. In the skies, in the Pit, on Dragonstone. Magic… was thick around them.”

He turned to her then. “Dragons are magic, Dany. Or at least, when they are in the world it grows stronger.” He said, tapping a finger gently on the scroll before him, “When the dragons died, much of it faded.”

“They used to say,” he continued more quietly now, “that after the Doom, all the magic in the West died. Maybe something similar to that happened to our ancestors after the Dance.” Aemon mused.

She nodded, but her thoughts remained adrift. Only when she felt Aemon’s eyes on her again did she pull herself back to the present. “Is she working on the same thing?” she asked, gesturing subtly toward Nyra.

Aemon followed her gaze and let out a chuckle. “No,” he said. “Nyra’s chasing down old Valyrian legends. I tried to get her to join me in translating the scrolls on dragon-lore, but she was rather adamant.” A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

From across the chamber, Nyra spoke without looking up. “If we work on separate threads, we’ll cover more ground in less time,” she explained. “And besides, I think you’ve read enough by now to manage a few scrolls on your own.”

Aemon's expression tightened, almost as if he was displeased by her words. Dany saw it and asked him about it. Her nephew hesitated, then leaned back in his chair. “You know I meant to leave for the North after the tourney.”

She did. And she remembered how quietly miserable the others had been at the idea of him leaving so soon. “I stayed a few more days,” he continued, “mostly to finalize matters for Summerhall. Nearly a week now. I’ve finished organizing most of the household, but there are still a few things left to settle.”

“Regarding Summerhall?” she asked.

“Yes and no,” he replied. “The estate itself is more or less in order. But while I was busy jousting,” he said with dry amusement, “Nyra was buried in the Valyrian texts, and she’s taken a particular interest in the legends lately.”

“With good reason,” Nyra said. “Or have you forgotten that you were working on the same thing with me before the tourney?”

Aemon’s jaw tightened. “And if I recall, I told you our time would be better spent on the scrolls concerning dragons and bloodline histories,” he replied coolly. “Not on obscure myths about the gold of Casterly Rock.”

At that, Dany raised a brow. Gold of the Rock,? What did that have to do with the Freehold. “There are Valyrian legends about Casterly Rock?” she asked, glancing between the two of them.

Aemon sighed. “Casterly Rock has always held significance, Dany,” he said. “A mountain of gold sitting on the western edge of the world, a site like that finds its way into many records.”

“But not this kind,” Nyra cut in, rising from her seat with a scroll in hand, as she moved towards them. She gave the scroll to Aemon, who accepted it with a tired look on his face.

Dany leaned over to read as well, and while she didn’t see everything that was written, she still caught something that held her attention.

“…when gold from the Rock comes to the Freehold, the fires shall turn inward, and Valyria shall choke upon itself.”

She read the line again. Then again. The phrasing unsettled her for some reason.

When she finally looked up, Nyra was watching her, that ever-present smirk tugging at her lips and a glint dancing in her mismatched eyes.

“I’ve told you before, it’s naught but an old legend,” Aemon said. “You and I have discussed plenty of theories about the Doom, some grounded, others half-mad, but this one?” He shook his head. “It feels like pure myth, and a poorly-sourced one at that for I haven’t seen it mentioned anywhere else.”

“Oh, but it has,” Nyra replied, voice almost teasing. “Though not in any of the scrolls we've reviewed so far. But here, in Westeros, many years ago.”

Both Dany and Aemon turned toward her, equally confused. Nyra allowed a beat of silence to pass before explaining. “Septon Barth mentioned it in his Unnatural History.”

Septon Barth, the name sounded familiar. Dant frowned, trying to place it, until it finally clicked. If she remembered correctly, he had served as Hand to the Conciliator in his later years.

“And how would you know that?” she asked before she could stop herself. Nyra was supposedly from Volantis so how would she know of a Westerosi book written over two hundred years ago, a book so rare even the Citadel tried to erase it?

“Volantis has an interest in anything tied to Valyria and dragons, my princess,” Nyra answered smoothly, as though the question had been expected. “The great libraries within the Black Walls hold volumes from every corner of the known world, sometimes even fragments thought lost to time. Westerosi tomes among them.”

Aemon, for his part, stared down at the scroll, fingers drumming once against the table before stopping.

“So let me understand this,” he said at last, his tone flat. “We have an old Valyrian legend, some vague line about gold from Casterly Rock bringing doom, and now you’re telling me that this same myth somehow found its way across the sea and into the hands of Septon Barth, who then recorded it in a book the Citadel has all but purged from its archives.” He lifted his gaze, pinning Nyra with a look that wasn’t quite dismissive, but not far from it. “All this does is prove that this legend exists, which we already knew, but not why it’s at all relevant to us now."

Nyra didn’t flinch under his scrutiny, she smiled, and looked at Aemon for a long moment without blinking. Dany got the sense that Nyra wanted Aemon to reach some conclusion on his own, but what that was, she couldn't tell.

Finally, Aemon let out a sigh before placing the scroll onto the table. “We can come back to this later,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. Dany caught the brief flicker of displeasure that crossed Nyra’s face, and she couldn’t help but feel mildly amused by seeing it.

“Now,” Aemon continued, gathering a small stack of scrolls and turning toward Nyra, “I would rather you help me go through these.” He handed them to her. “Instead of worrying about gold from Casterly Rock.”

He gave her a smirk as he said it, and Dany bit back a chuckle. Her nephew was clearly more satisfied with himself than he probably should be.

Nyra sighed as she accepted the scrolls. “I miss the days when you knew nothing about deciphering Valyrian and simply did whatever I told you to,” she said as she returned to her table.

“I had an excellent teacher,” Aemon replied, lowering himself back into his chair. “One who taught me a great deal in a very short time.” He glanced toward her again. “And if memory serves, we usually work better when we are focused on the same subject at the same time.”

Nyra said nothing, but her lips twitched at the corner, betraying the smallest of smiles.

She watched them and after a moment, she spoke again. “Didn’t Rhaegar send for more maesters to help you?” she asked.

“He did,” Aemon said as he leaned back. “But the road between Oldtown and King’s Landing is long and it will take quite some time for them to reach us.”

They worked on dragon-lore for some time, though in truth it was Aemon and Nyra who worked, while Dany remained more a listener than participant. They discussed the dragons of old, Nyraxes, and half-forgotten scraps concerning the first Valyrian dragonlords. For a moment the subject changed to wyrms and wyverns but the digression was brief and quickly abandoned as the discussion moved to the matter of the eggs.

From the first moment Dany had seen them she had found it impossible to get them out of her thoughts. They had seemed less like stones than jewels, each one a wonder of its own. How could such small things ever give birth to something as vast as Nyraxes, whose wingspan could blot out the sun?

Dany knew not how long she lingered there, watching Aemon and Nyra sift through old scrolls. From time to time she offered a word of her own, though more often she stood apart, watching them.

After a while, Aemon pushed back his chair and stood up. “I think that will be all for me tonight.” he said, his gaze settling on Nyra.

“I’ll stay a while longer,” she replied, her lips curving into a small smile. “There are a few more things I want to go over.” A beat passed before she tilted her head at him. “Retiring so early?”

“Not yet,” Aemon answered, already moving toward the door. “There’s a matter I must bring to my father. An overdue conversation, one I can put off no longer.”

Nyra gave Aemon a questioning look, and her nephew returned it with the briefest of nods. Clearly, she knew what he intended to say to Rhaegar. When the door shut behind him, Nyra turned to Daenerys. “Is there something else you need, your Grace?”

Dany hesitated for only a moment, then stepped forward. “Yes,” she said simply. “I meant to ask Aemon something. About the eggs.”

Nyra's lips curved into a smile. “Perhaps I can help with that.”

“When we first saw them,” she began, “the eggs. I remember when I touched them they felt warm.” She paused, then added, “But every account I ever read said dragon eggs are cold to the touch. Dead things, fossilized stone.”

Nyra leaned back slightly, her eyes drifting toward the far wall. “Most of the eggs left after the Dance were just that,” she said. “Dead, for lack of a better word. Whatever spark once lived inside them had long since faded.”

“But there have always been stories,” she continued, gaze sliding back to Dany. “Some whispered that only those with the blood of Valyria could feel any lingering heat. That to most, the eggs are stone, but to a dragonseed they hum.”

Dany’s eyes narrowed in thought. “And most of those old records were written by maesters,” she said slowly. “Men without a drop of Valyrian blood.”

“Exactly,” Nyra said, pleased. “To them, the eggs were always cold. So that’s what the world came to believe.”

Dany stepped closer, her arms folding across her chest. “Could it also be because Nyraxes laid them so recently?”

Nyra nodded. “That too. A dragon cannot lay a lifeless egg. The fire within must still be burning when it’s laid. It's said that even the smallest and weakest hatchling will give its final breath before the egg cools completely. These eggs are only a year old and have been quite close to Nyraxes for most of that time.”

She spoke with Nyra for a little longer, though the conversation remained shallow. The silver-haired woman clearly had work she wished to return to, and truth be told, Dany still did not feel entirely at ease in her presence.

And so she excused herself and stepped out into the hall. The hour was still early, and the Red Keep felt quieter than usual. She found herself wandering without particular aim, hoping to come across someone with whom she could pass the time.

As she neared the stretch of corridor that housed the royal apartments, she slowed. Not far from her own door, standing beside the entrance to Senya’s chambers, she spotted a figure she had not expected to see.

“Your Grace,” Jaime Lannister said, straightening at once when she came within earshot.

“Ser Jaime,” she greeted with a smile, though her brow arched in surprise. “I thought you would be with my nephew.”

“Ser Gerold has reassigned me,” Jaime said, his voice stiff. “I am to guard Princess Visenya for the foreseeable future.”

That gave her pause. Jaime had been Aemon’s sworn shield for years. To be reassigned, now, and to Visenya of all people… seemed strange, though if the order had come from the Lord Commander himself, then there was likely some reason behind it.

“Is my niece inside?” she asked, glancing toward the ornate door. Visenya was meant to have been present at a small council session that morning, but if Jaime was posted here, perhaps she had returned early.

“She is,” the knight replied. “Though I haven’t seen her all morning. I imagine she’s still abed.”

That, at least, was no surprise. Senya had never been an early riser. Dany smiled at the memory of how often Rhaenys had teased her for needing half a morning just to open her eyes, let alone attend court. Still, the timing was unfortunate for she had hoped to spend some time with Senya.

“Ser Jaime,” a voice called from behind, and when Dany turned she found Aegon approaching. “Aunt,” he greeted her with a smile.

“Egg,” she replied with a smile of her own. “I thought you would be at the small council, or else patrolling the city streets.”

“Father didn’t summon me to the council today,” Aegon said lightly, though there was the barest edge of irritation in his tone. His violet gaze shifted then, settling on Jaime.. “I need a word with you,” Aegon said. His tone was courteous, but there was no mistaking the authority in it.

The Kingsguard knight’s eyes flicked about the corridor, before he gave a single nod and stepped toward the prince.

Aegon glanced back at her, his smile returning, for a moment. “I’m sorry, Dany, but this is a rather private matter. If you would allow us a moment.”

She inclined her head, hiding her curiosity. “Of course.” Then she turned and made her way toward the end of the corridor.

The Quiet Wolf

Vayon closed the door behind him, leaving Ned alone in the solar. The Lord of Winterfell leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly, running a hand through his dark hair, now shot with a few grey strands.

Too much had happened in the past moon’s turn, and little of it for the better. His eyes fell to the parchment on the desk before him. A group of Skagossi longships had been sighted off Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.

Not two weeks ago, there had been a skirmish near Umber lands. Ned knew the signs of pressure mounting. The Skagosi had never been easy folk but would they dare attack the Night’s Watch?

Maester Luwin had been skeptical, but he was a student of scrolls, not of war.

Ned had sent a raven to Jeor with a warning, and another to Eastwatch, though he doubted there were enough men stationed there to mount a proper defense. The Watch was stretched thin. Of the nineteen castles along the Wall, only three were still manned, and with more brothers vanishing beyond the Wall the last thing they needed was an attack from the sea.

That was the other thing that troubled him. Too many rangers had gone missing in the deep North. More men had vanished in the past two years than in the decade before.

Jeor had written of it plainly. He worried that the wildlings were stirring. The rangers that did come back claimed that villages closest to the Wall had been found empty.

It worried Ned more than he cared to admit. Mormont was not a man easily rattled, yet his tone had grown more urgent with each raven. He feared a great gathering beyond the Wall, a host like the one Raymun Redbeard had raised some seventy years back. They had been able to breach the Wall then, slipping through where the Watch’s patrols were few and far between. They had pushed deep into the North before the lords of the North met them in force near Long Lake.

The Watch was now in a far worse state than it had been back then, and they weren't all that well off before. Less than a thousand men remained, scattered between Castle Black, Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, and the Shadow Tower.

A part of him wondered if the sudden Skagossi activity was tied in some way to the wildlings, though it was most likely a coincidence.

The door to his solar opened and Robb stepped in. “You wanted to see me, father?” he asked.

Ned nodded and gestured to the seat across from him. “Aye. Sit.”

The boy obeyed, though he was not so much a boy now. Seventeen and already a man grown, with his mother’s coloring and his own bearing. Ned had begun preparing him for rule ever since he’d come of age, gradually giving him more responsibility.

The North was vast and its people were fewer than those of the South, but hardier. A Stark must always be vigilant, and Robb had taken that lesson to heart.

“You know that in less than a moon’s turn, we ride south,” Ned said. “I had hoped that most of us would be able to attend your cousins’ weddings,” Ned continued, his gaze drifting briefly toward the window. “But recent events have forced me to reconsider.”

Robb leaned back in his seat and exhaled slowly. “This is about the Skagosi, isn’t it?”

“Aye,” Ned said. “But not only them.”

He folded his hands atop the table. “Your mother will remain here. She’s near her time, and Maester Luwin believes the babe will come within two moons, likely while we’re away. I would not risk her traveling, even if she insisted she could.”

Robb gave a nod, but his brow furrowed in thought.

“I do not doubt Catelyn’s strength, she’s ruled this hall before, and well. But with her so near her birthing, and Rickon still young, I cannot leave Winterfell without someone to watch over it.”

“There must always be a Stark at Winterfell.” Robb mused. “I take it Uncle Benjen won’t be returning?”

Ned shook his head. “No, your uncle’s place is with his family.”

“So,” Robb said, settling his hands on the arms of the chair. “I’ll be the one to stay behind.”

“You will,” Ned said simply. “I had thought to leave Bran, but with Rickon staying and your mother soon to be confined to her chambers... it would be too great a burden.

Ned slid the parchment across the desk. Robb took it in hand, and gave him a puzzled look before reading through it. “Skagosi ships sighted sailing north in the direction of Eastwatch.” He looked up. “Are they planning to attack the Watch?”

“I doubt it,” Ned said, though his tone held little comfort. “It would be a reckless move, even for the Skagosi, but the possibility remains.” He leaned back slightly. “I’ve already sent word to White Harbor. Lord Manderly is to ready his galley.”

Robb frowned. “Doesn’t Eastwatch have ships of their own?”

“They do,” Ned admitted. “But only a few. Light crafts meant for fishing and patrol, not battle. The Watch has neither the coin nor the craftsmen for more.”

Their conversation soon turned to different matters that Robb would likely have to take care of while Ned was away, but beyond the Skagosi and their possible attack, there was only the grain shipment from the South that was delayed at the Neck due to heavy snowfall.

Some time passed before the door to the solar opened again, and Jory stepped inside. “Lord Stark,” he said. “Begging your pardon for the interruption.”

Ned looked up and gave a slight nod. “Go on.”

“A rider came in from the hills. One of the Mollen patrols. He says they’ve caught a deserter from the Night’s Watch.”

Another one.

Ned’s jaw tightened. That made three in the last four moons, and yet Jeor worried of his man going missing beyond the Wall when many were fleeing south.

He felt Robb’s eyes on him. The boy still held the parchment in hand, half-forgotten. Ned turned to him. “Go find Bran,” he said. “And Theon as well.”

Robb hesitated for only a breath, then gave a nod and left the room with long strides.

“Have the horses readied,” Ned told Jory, rising from his chair.

“Aye, my lord,” the captain said, already turning to carry out the order.

They rode from Winterfell within the hour.

Arya had wanted to come, but Catelyn had refused her flatly, and Ned hadn’t had the heart to argue with his wife.

The snow was high beyond the walls of Winterfell. The wind had turned from chill to sharp, biting even through wool and leather.

The long summer was truly over.

The white ravens had come a year past, flying from Oldtown to every great seat in Westeros. Since then, the warm days had waned more quickly than any could remember. The summer snows were gone now, melted and passed, and the cold had been creeping in slowly ever since.

This would be the second winter of Ned’s time as Warden of the North and if the old men were right, it would be a long and cruel one. The sort his ancestors had never seen.

The deserter had not come far, barely an hour’s ride from Winterfell. And yet, when they reached their destination and saw the man, Ned was surprised he had made it that far. He was crouched in the snow, cloak in tatters, boots half-frozen to his feet. His lips were cracked, his skin pale and blotched with frostbite. He trembled violently, though not from the cold alone.

One of the guards dismounted and roughly pulled him to his feet, and the deserter barely resisted. His eyes were wide and glassy, and his breath came in gasps.

Ned asked the questions he always asked of deserters, and the answers he got were near the same as those given by the other two who had fled the Wall in recent moons.

White shadows with eyes like pale blue stars, the man said. Tall, silent, deathly cold. They came upon his ranging party beyond the Wall. All his sworn brothers were cut down. He alone survived.

“I saw them,” the man whispered, lips cracked and trembling. “One of them looked at me… looked at me, my lord… and I ran.”

Tales from his childhood stirred in Ned’s memory. Stories Old Nan used to tell, back when he and his brothers and sister had huddled close at night. Tales of the Long Night. Of pale demons that came with the cold. Of the Others, with their swords of ice and of the Children of the Forest, who vanished into shadow when the world of men grew too loud.

Children’s tales, he reminded himself. Meant to scare the young into closing the shutters and obeying their elders.

And yet… There was something in the deserter’s eyes that made Ned believe for a moment that maybe there was some truth to the man’s words.

A madman sees what he sees, Ned reminded himself again. He had known good men broken by seeing their friends and family fall during battles. Men who came back from battles unable to sleep, who flinched at the crackle of fire or the cry of a babe. The mind could fracture in strange ways when it saw something horrifying.

Finally, Ned gave the command, and two of his guards stepped forward, taking the deserter by the arms and dragging him across the ground to the ironwood stump in the center of the square. They forced the man down, pressing his head against the wood as Ned began to remove his gloves.

Theon stood ready at his side, offering up Ice with both hands. Ned gave the boy a brief nod and accepted the greatsword.

He looked to where Robb and Bran stood with the direwolves at their heels. The boys’ expressions were blank and tight-lipped. This was not their first execution, nor did Ned believe it would be their last.

The deserter never looked up. "In the name of Rhaegar 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, by the word of Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I sentence you to die." He said quietly before raising Ice with both hands firm on the hilt.

The deserter still did not lift his eyes, and when Ice fell, it did so swiftly and cleanly. The blade took the head with a single stroke, and the body slumped forward.

The man’s head rolled across the snow and came to rest against a drift. Blood steamed in the cold, staining the white ground in a line of red, though the snow drank it fast and left behind only a memory of the act.

The Dragonlord

He spoke with Egg before setting out for the throne room. Everything was in place, should the worst come to pass and though a part of him still hoped that his father would reason that hope had grown thin.

It had started shortly after the tourney. He woke one morning to find that Jaime no longer stood guard outside his chambers. Only the Lord Commander or the King himself could reassign a knight of the Kingsguard, and Jaime had been posted instead to watch over Visenya.

It had not taken Aemon long to understand what was going on: his father was walling him off. In Jaime’s place came other white cloaks, ones more loyal to the crown than to him. Ser Jonothor, Ser Oakheart, Ser Oswell, capable men but not friends.

But it didn’t matter. He had already asked Egg to find Jaime, to tell him everything. If Rhaegar thought to weaken him by removing his sworn shield, then his father never truly understood how close he and Jaime had become over the years.

As Aemon walked the long corridor toward the throne room he reached inward and tugged the thread that bound him to Nyraxes.

It stirred, sluggish at first. The connection had dimmed over the past few days. This was the longest they had been apart since Valyria, and he felt the distance more and more with each passing day.

Ghost, at least, was with him. The great white direwolf padded silently at his side. Aemon could sense the tension under the thick fur, though the beast moved with the same grace as always. His ears twitched once, alert to the sounds ahead, but his eyes remained forward.

Before the doors that led to the throne room stood Ser Barristan and Ser Oakheart, and Aemon slowed slightly as he approached. It surprised him to see two Kingsguard stationed here. He knew the small council was in session, but unless matters of true consequence were being discussed it was rare to see the royal guard flanking the doors.

As he approached, the two knights dipped their heads, then turned and pushed the doors open. Aemon returned the gesture with a nod and stepped through.

The throne room was quieter than he thought it would be. The long table at the chamber’s center was fully occupied, and all eyes turned to him the moment he crossed the threshold. He scanned the gathered lords quickly and paused for half a breath at the sight of Oberyn seated among them.

That was unexpected. Still, perhaps the council was discussing some matter concerning Dorne, though why such business would require the presence of two Kingsguard outside the door remained unclear.

His gaze shifted toward his father, seated atop the Iron Throne. Their eyes met, and without a word, Rhaegar raised a hand and gestured toward the lords at the table. “Leave us.”

Chairs scraped against stone. Scrolls were rolled up, ledgers closed, and silence fell as the lords rose. One by one, they walked past him on their way out, each offering a glance.

Aemon tried not to let it show, but something in their stares unsettled him. He wasn’t certain what had just been discussed, but the way they looked at him made it feel as though he had been the subject.

The doors closed behind them, leaving inside only his father, himself, Ghost, and Ser Arthur and Ser Gerold, who stood beside the throne.

“I was going to summon you after the council adjourned,” Rhaegar said at last. “But it seems you wanted to speak with me as well.”

Aemon gave a nod and crossed the floor to the table, pulling out a chair. He cast a glance around the room and was a little surprised not to find Senya anywhere. She hadn’t been among the lords who exited, which meant that Rhaegar had kept her from the meeting entirely. That confirmed to him that whatever had been discussed was important.

“Yes,” Aemon said. “There’s much we need to speak of before I leave for the North.” He reached for the silver flagon and poured himself a cup of wine. “And I suspect delaying the conversation any longer would do neither of us any favors.”

He brought the cup to his lips, but did not drink yet. The wine would be for later, if things soured, as he expected they might.

Rhaegar rose from the Iron Throne, the metal groaning faintly under his feet as he started to walk down the steps. He came to stand beside the table, hesitating only a moment before taking the seat across from his son.

There was something in his eyes that Aemon couldn’t quite place in his head. His father had worn many masks over the years, but this one was new.

Aemon tilted the flagon toward him. “Wine?”

Rhaegar declined with a shake of the head. Behind him, Ser Arthur and Ser Gerold moved as one, taking up positions just behind their king.

Aemon placed the cup down, fingers lingering briefly at its rim. He met his father’s gaze. “I imagine you already know what we’re going to speak of,” he said quietly. “So why don't we get down to it?”

His father didn’t react. Aemon sifted quickly through the thoughts he had prepared, sorting which to voice first, only for Rhaegar to reach inside his robes and pull out a sealed parchment. He slid it across the table without a word.

Aemon gave his father a questioning look, but Rhaegar’s eyes betrayed nothing. He picked up the parchment and broke the seal.

The contents were brief, formal and once he was done reading his gaze lifted to look at his father. “You’ve broken Dany’s betrothal?”

Rhaegar nodded. “Yes. Elia has already spoken with Oberyn, and a letter has been sent to Doran. I expect he’ll receive it soon enough.”

So that’s why Oberyn had been present.

Aemon hadn’t expected this, he’d wanted to speak with his father about it after returning from the North. The match had never sat well with him. Quentyn was a good enough boy, but the arrangement had felt like a noose disguised as a garland.

“It’s the right decision,” he said carefully, watching his father’s face for any trace of motive.

Tying Dany to Quentyn would’ve bound them too tightly to Dorne. It sounded good in theory, but he knew how quickly shared blood could curdle into blame once interests diverged.

He let out a breath and leaned back in his chair. Their forebears understood this. Jaehaerys bound the realm with marriages but kept dragons inside the blood. Gifting a dragon to a political marriage was how you birthed factions, not peace.

Aemon looked down at the parchment again, thumb brushing over the edge. Dany might never bond with a hatchling. But to deny her the chance entirely? To clip her wings before she even stretched them, just to tie the Martells even closer to the crown? It would’ve been too cruel.

"Still," Aemon murmured, swirling the wine in his cup. "Dorne will not like this."

Rhaegar gave no reaction. He didn’t blink, didn’t even shift in his seat before answering. “They’ll have the right to be angry, nothing beyond that,” he said. “As I have already said, Elia has spoken with Oberyn, and she’s persuaded him to accept this, even if he isn’t pleased about it.”

He paused, then added, “I’ve promised to find suitable matches for both Arianne and Quentyn, if Doran asks it. Oberyn will sit on my small council. Trade concessions will follow, perhaps a few court appointments, should the need arise, but this ends here.”

Aemon blinked. “And what post will he hold?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“Preferably Master of Laws,” Rhaegar replied. He must have seen the flicker of concern in his son’s expression, because he continued without waiting for comment. “Randyll Tarly is already Master of War, and Loras is to join the Kingsguard as soon as a position becomes available.”

Before he could speak, his father went on. “Your mothers have brought another proposal to my attention,” Rhaegar said. “They suggest a marriage between Willas Tyrell and Sansa Stark.”

Aemon looked up, surprised. That caught him off guard. He didn’t know Willas personally, only what he’d heard. A quiet man, intelligent, crippled young in a tourney but loved in the Reach. If the rumors were true, he bred fine horses and read more books than most maesters. And if Sansa hadn’t changed too much since their childhood, he could see her being content with such a match.

“I haven’t agreed to it yet,” Rhaegar admitted. “But if tying the Starks to Highgarden gives Mace another reason to let go of his position himself, I will allow it.”

That made sense. Everyone knew Mace Tyrell still held his seat on the small council because Rhaegar needed Highgarden’s allegiance in the early days after the Rebellion. That debt was long repaid, but Mace had clung to his position for years. It surprised Aemon that his father hadn’t removed him already.

Still, for all that these were weighty matters, they weren’t what Aemon had come here to discuss. And Rhaegar knew that, so why bring them up now?

“This is important,” Aemon said, placing the parchment down. “But it’s not why I came here, and you know that.”

Rhaegar tilted his head, ever so slightly. His silver-blond hair shimmered in the light, but his expression remained unreadable. When he spoke, his voice was calm, almost flat. “Isn’t it?”

Aemon hesitated. He glanced over his father's shoulder toward the two Kingsguard standing sentinel. Arthur’s eyes were fixed ahead, and Gerold’s posture was so still he might have been carved from the stone walls themselves.

He turned back to his father. “No,” he said again, louder this time. “I understand the importance of breaking Dany’s betrothal. I know what it means for Dorne, for the court, for the alliances you’re carefully balancing.” He drew a breath, steadying himself. “But that isn’t why I’m here.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “I came to speak about Rhaenys. About us, and our future together.”

He watched Rhaegar closely as he said it, waiting for the flinch, for the subtle betrayal in his father’s impassive face. And he wasn’t disappointed. A flicker passed over the King's face. A tension behind the eyes that hadn’t been there a moment before, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

For a heartbeat, Rhaegar said nothing. Then, slowly he looked at his son. “I’ve shown you your future already.”

Aemon’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

Rhaegar didn’t answer directly. Instead, he nodded toward the table. “It lies before you now.” Aemon followed his gaze.

The letter sat where he had left it, the wax seal still cracked. He stared at it. At first, it was just a letter, nothing more. At first, nothing seemed different. Then, slowly, the meaning began to twist in his mind. His thoughts ran backward: what had been said, and more importantly, what hadn’t.

“You… You can’t be serious,” Aemon said, barely above a whisper. He stared at his father, searching for some sign of jest, of uncertainty, of anything that might crack through the cold mask Rhaegar wore so well. But the King’s face remained untouched by emotion.

Aemon’s hands curled into fists under the table. He should have seen it. He should have known the moment Rhaegar handed him the parchment.

He forced himself to breathe. Rage pulsed at the edges of his vision, but he swallowed it back. Rhaegar might have severed the Dornish match, but Aemon was sure that the announcement of a new one had not yet been made.

“I knew you’d try something,” he said at last. “But I didn’t think you’d go this far. Should I remind you what happened the last time you tried to force me into a marriage I didn’t want?”

Across the table, Rhaegar’s gaze didn’t shift. “You won’t run this time,” the King said calmly.

The confidence in his voice surprised Aemon. He quickly stood up from his chair but in that instant, both Arthur and Gerold shifted. Their hands moving toward the pommels of their swords.

A moment later, the doors to the chamber opened, and the sound of quick, armored footfalls followed. Aemon turned and saw Ser Jonothor and Ser Oswell enter and come to a stop just behind him. They were not relaxed. Their posture was as rigid and alert as Arthur’s and Gerold’s.

Ghost tensed immediately, a low growl built in his throat as he began to move in a slow circle around Aemon. Every pair of Kingsguard eyes turned toward him and their hands hovered inches from their blades.

Aemon’s mouth was dry. He turned back to his father, and found that Rhaegar had already stood up.

"I did not want it to come to this," the King said, his voice quiet and pained as he stepped away from the table. "But you left me no other choice." Arthur and Gerold flanked him instantly.

“I had hoped you would understand,” Rhaegar continued. “That your dreams would lead you to the same truths mine once did. You see the storm gathering on the edge of the world, the threat we will soon face, but you’re still going to break the only thing that will stop it.”

“This is madness.” Aemon muttered under his breath. His hand moved to his belt, but the familiar weight of his sword was absent. He hadn’t brought it.

Even armed, he knew the odds: four of the realm’s finest knights stood around him, and even Ghost by his side he understood that he had little to no chance of making a run for it.

Rhaegar’s eyes softened, but not with mercy. With inevitability. “Of course it is,” the King said.
“You love Rhaenys and she loves you.” The words fell from his lips. “You are bound to each other more deeply than most would ever understand. I see it and it pains me to have to force you apart once again.” He stepped closer, his voice lowering. “But if I must break that bond for the realm to survive, I will.”

Aemon stared at him, throat tight, chest heaving, but the words refused to come. He reached inward and tugged once more on the thread that bound him to Nyraxes, and this time the dragon responded instantly.

A pulse of heat surged through his mind, and somewhere behind the city walls, or the skies above, Nyraxes stirred. Ghost felt it too. The direwolf raised his head, eyes flicking toward Aemon, then back to the Kingsguard.

"So what now?" Aemon asked at last. "You won’t let me marry the woman I love but you won’t let me leave, either." He turned slowly, gaze drifting across the chamber. "And you have your Kingsguard ready to restrain me if need be. Are you truly so afraid of me?"

“Afraid? No,” he said. “Not of my son. But I fear what your path leads to. I fear that if you act on what you believe, you will drive a wedge between the three heads, and doom us all. The prophecy…”

“Fuck your prophecy,” Aemon snapped, cutting him off. “You saw something in your dreams, and you misread it. You latched onto shadows and made them your truth, and you’ve let those shadows rule our lives ever since we were born.”

Rhaegar’s expression barely changed. “You say I misinterpreted what I saw,” the King replied, “but your sister sees the same as I do.” His voice was firmer now. “Visenya dreams of the same things. She understands what must be done.”

Aemon’s jaw clenched. He looked away for a heartbeat, then back. “I wouldn’t place too much faith in what Visenya sees,” he said sharply. “Not when she’s been reporting her dreams to you since she was but a little girl. How many of your ‘truths’ have you fed to her dressed up as interpretation?”

Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed. Aemon didn’t need his father to speak to know what followed. The look on Rhaegar’s face had shifted to disappointment, and somehow, that stung more than rage.

“You want to talk about prophecy?” he asked, stepping forward. “You said Egg would be the one to bring the dragons back, but you were wrong.”

His gaze met his father's. “It was me. I went to Valyria. I found her. I bonded with her. I brought Nyraxes out. Not Egg, and still, you refuse to see it. That one truth alone shatters your prophecy.” Aemon’s voice dropped, quieter now. “But instead of rethinking it, you twist it. You reshape it to make it work again, to fit your truth.”

Rhaegar did not respond. For a long moment, silence claimed the chamber. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” Aemon snapped. “Aren’t you going to defend yourself?”

“There is no point,” Rhaegar said at last. “I have come to accept that you, my son, either do not understand what the dreams have shown you, or you simply refuse to. That is the tragedy.” His voice was calm, but there was a faint tremor of weariness in it. “You of all people… I thought you would see.”

Aemon opened his mouth, but stopped when he heard the soft scuff of movement. The Kingsguard were drawing closer. Ghost growled low and deep in his chest, pacing at Aemon’s side like a sentry awaiting the call to strike.

Aemon glanced between them, and for a moment, he wondered whether his father meant to throw him in the black cells under the Red Keep. Would he go that far?

Then Rhaegar spoke again. “I understand that you’re angry,” the King said softly. “I understand that after this, you will come to hate me. If things were different, I would let you leave. Let you go to Dragonstone or Summerhall or beyond the Narrow Sea, anywhere you pleased, so long as I never had to see the hatred in your eyes again.”

He turned then to look upon the Iron Throne.
“But I cannot afford that luxury. Not now. You are bonded to Nyraxes, and you alone have some understanding of how to hatch her eggs. When the time comes, you will help your siblings hatch the others. You must.”

Aemon’s heart sank at his words. “Your wedding will take place at week’s end,” Rhaegar continued, still gazing at the Throne. “I regret that it must be this way, truly I do.”

Then, at last, the King turned back to face him. “Daenerys is already aware that this was a possibility. I will speak to her tonight.” He paused. “And the Small Council was informed before you entered this room.”

Aemon’s blood ran cold. That’s why they had all looked at him so strangely. That’s why Oberyn’s eyes had burned like wildfire. That’s why the council chamber had gone silent the moment he stepped through the door.

They had all known.

“You have three days,” Rhaegar said, his voice quiet now. “Until then, you are to remain confined to your chambers”

He turned to Arthur. “Escort Prince Aemon to his rooms,” the King commanded. “Ensure he does not leave. He is not to receive any visitors and no correspondence is to go out unless I personally approve it.”

The four Kingsguard moved as one. Not a single word passed between them but still they stepped forward in perfect harmony. They closed in around Aemon and he did not resist for there was no point. Not here, not now.

Instead, he closed his eyes for half a breath and reached once more through the thread that bound him to Nyraxes.

He felt her.

She had already taken flight, he sensed the heat of her wings against the air, the stretch of her body gliding through clouds and wind. She was drawing closer to the capital, responding to his call. But at his urging, she slowed, circling somewhere beyond the city walls.

Wait, he told her through the bond. Wait for me. I will come to you, not the other way around.

There was no spoken language in the link they shared, only sensation, instinct, emotion. But she understood and she obeyed.

He was nearly at the door when his father’s voice stopped him. “Aemon.” The Kingsguard stopped, and so did he. Slowly, Aemon turned back, meeting his father’s gaze one last time.

Rhaegar stood alone before the Iron Throne, and he looked smaller than he had a moment ago. “I am truly sorry it had to be this way,” the King said quietly. “I know that one day, you will understand why I did what I did.” His voice cracked.

Aemon said nothing. There were too many words for any reply to make a difference. So he turned away and walked out, the heavy doors groaned shut behind them, and the throne room vanished.

The Iron Captain

The wind blew hard from the north as the Iron Victory entered the bay.

Victarion stood on the deck, his cloak snapping in the wind, salt spray clinging to his beard. Ahead, the shore of Old Wyk came into view through the mist. He remembered standing here once before, when Balon had called the captains and priests to his side and named himself King. Much blood had followed that proclamation.

Now Balon was dead, and part of Victarion still could not accept it. Less than a fortnight past he had broken bread with his elder brother. The wind had howled that night too, and Victarion had taken it as a sign, he just hadn’t known of what.

The Iron Fleet sailed behind him. Grief and Iron Vengeance closest at hand as they rounded the headland. Behind them came Iron Wind, Hardhand, Grey Ghost, and more besides. Their sails rippled in the dying light of the early evening. The sight of them filled Victarion with grim contentment.

Aeron’s summons had been terse. Balon had fallen from a bridge at Pyke, swept away by wind and storm. It had happened only days after Victarion had set sail.

The Damphair's raven had carried more however, and Aeron’s words were confirmed the moment the Iron Victory slipped past the bluff and into the sacred strand of Old Wyk.

Longships, dozens of them, drawn up along the beach below the shadow of Nagga’s Hill. Many bore the crests of lesser houses sworn to House Greyjoy. But it was not those ships Victarion saw first. It was the one that did not belong.

Even at anchor, the Silence looked cruel: sleek and predatory, her black sails folded like the wings of some monstrous gull. The hull was red as fresh spilled blood and oiled to a shine.

Victarion’s hand clenched at his side, just as it had the moment he read Euron’s name scratched across Aeron’s message. The same hand had crushed the parchment into pulp then, and it threatened to do the same to his leather glove now.

He had not felt anger like this in many years.

But he mastered it, as he must. Euron was still his brother, and there was no sin more cursed than kinslaying. He had sworn to Balon that he would not let his rage unmake him and he would keep that promise.

“Drop sail and signal the Iron Vengeance and Grey Ghost, they are to stand between the Silence and open water.”

The men jumped to obey. Ashore, watchers had already spied their sails, and cries echoed across the strand. But from the Silence, nothing. Victarion’s jaw tightened. Mutes, he reminded himself.

The Iron Victory let fall her anchor some twenty yards from shore, her timbers groaning as the chain rattled taut. Boats were swung down into the water, and Victarion gave orders.

The surf foamed about his boots when he set foot upon the sacred strand. Waiting for him was Aeron Damphair, hair wild and dripping, tangling in the sea wind. “Brother,” the Priest said, lifting his arms to the waves. “What is dead may never die.”

Victarion sank to one knee in the shallows.
“But rises again, harder and stronger.”

Aeron scooped a shell of seawater and poured it over Victarion’s brow. They prayed together, their voices lost in the hiss and roar of tide and wind.

When the prayers were done, he rose. “Where is our brother?” he asked, though the word tasted sour. There was no need to name him for there was only one brother left to them.

Aeron’s mouth twisted. “Around. He has come ashore with his mutes, godless men and monsters who mock the sea’s gift.”

Victarion’s hand closed to a fist again. He could all but feel the bone of Euron’s face under it, longed to smash his brother’s smile from his skull. But not here on holy sand. Not before Aeron, voice of the Drowned God.

I must not, he told himself again. I swore it to Balon.

A small crowd had gathered around them. They had come to see Victarion returned, and in their hard faces he read more than welcome.

He knew well why Aeron had summoned him back with such haste. The Crow’s Eye had been gone three years, exiled at Balon’s command, his crimes known to few. Now he had returned, and too soon after Balon’s fall for chance. Questions churned through every captain’s mind at the implication.

No man is more cursed than a kinslayer, Victarion reminded himself. The old law bound them as tight as iron, yet curses and laws had never stopped Euron Crow’s Eye.

The thought of Euron as their brother’s heir sickened him. Still, he was the eldest now. Eldest and bold enough to stake his claim. What choice did the captains have, with Balon’s line broken?

Victarion’s jaw clenched as his thoughts turned to Theon. The boy had been taken from them during the war, a hostage suckled on the milk of Winterfell. What did he know of salt and storm, of raiding and drowning, when all his life he had been spent in a stone hall in the greenlands? If Theon came back, he would return as a stranger. Worse, he might come leashed to the Iron Throne, a faithful hound for the Targaryen king, no different than their own father.

Quellon Greyjoy, Victarion remembered him well: a lord more leal to the dragons than to the Drowned God, eager to trim sails for the realm’s favor. And what had it earned him? Death at sea, while Balon rose in his place to cast off every chain Quellon had forged.

Would Theon do as Quellon did? Bend the knee, sell their salt-born birthright for southern coin and southern crowns? Victarion thought he would. The boy had not lived the iron life.

If I am to be Balon’s successor, Victarion mused, I would rule as Balon did.

The welcoming voices soon swelled into a roar, He knew what it meant. They sought to curry favor, to measure the Iron Captain’s mood before the storm broke. None among them loved the Crow’s Eye, Euron had been gone too long, and exile had carved a gulf between him and their people.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a figure apart from the rest. Asha stood with Qarl the Maid at her shoulder, the pair of them watching in silence. The sight of her made Victarion’s mouth twitch toward a smile.

“Asha,” he called, and she came forward through the press of captains.

Tall and lean, long of limb and sharper of eye than most men, she carried herself with a boldness rare in women of the Isles. Her dark hair streamed loose about her shoulders, salt-wind tousled. “Nuncle,” she greeted him. Though she had to rise on her toes, she kissed his cheek. “I am pleased to see you returned safely.”

Victarion did not answer aloud. Instead, he gestured for her to walk with him, leaving Aeron to his flock.

As they moved away from the crowd, he studied her with a warrior’s eye. Wild, headstrong, bold to the bone. After the war, Balon had raised her near as a son, treating her as he once did his elder boys who died in rebellion. Yet Balon was dead now, and the Old Way had never had a woman come before a man.

“I did not spy the Black Wind in the bay,” Victarion said once they reached the rocks beyond earshot.

“I anchored her on the other side,” Asha replied, voice cool. “I had no wish for her hull to lie beside the Silence.”

He could not argue with her sense. “When did he arrive?”

“At most a day after father fell.” Anger sharpened her tone, her jaw tight.

They spoke for a time, circling the matter as gulls circle a shoal. She was sharp-tongued, and it might have pleased him under different skies, but here it pricked like a dagger.

“The Crow’s Eye is your elder,” Asha said at last, her chin lifted. “The elder comes first, but I am Balon’s child. That makes me heir before either of you. Hear me, nuncle…”

Victarion cut her short with a rumble. “There are men who remember you as a girl, swimming naked in the surf at Pyke. Men laugh at such memories, and Balon has another living child.”

Her eyes darkened at that. “My brother,” she said, her voice taut with something between contempt and sorrow. “Theon is no son of the sea. He has been too long amongst the wolves. Father understood this, that is why he named me his heir.”

“A woman wants a husband, not to be her father’s heir.” Victarion said.

Asha arched a brow, lips twitching with a wry smile. “And a Lord Reaper should have a wife. To father heirs. Leave it to me, nuncle, I’ll find you a pretty one once I’ve claimed my place as Father’s heir.”

Victarion’s mouth twisted. “I’ve no luck with women.” The words came heavy. He could still hear Euron’s mocking laughter in his mind.

It was then Victarion noticed the quiet. The shouts and laughter from the strand had stilled. The gathered captains had parted like a tide, and among them stood new arrivals. Victarion’s gaze swept them once, then fixed on a single figure.

Three years gone, and he looked unchanged, as if exile and sea had only polished him. His skin was pale, and over one eye he wore a black leather patch. Yet the other shone with amusement. Victarion’s stomach turned at the sight of it.

Euron moved forward in armor that caught the light with a sheen, rippling as he walked. His lips, stained blue from whatever drink he favored in foreign seas, curled into a smirk that made Victarion’s hand long for an axe.

“Crow’s Eye,” Victarion spat.

“Brother mine,” Euron answered smoothly. “I had hoped for a kinder welcome. After all… I am your elder, and soon enough, your lord.” His smirk deepened. “Perhaps even your king.”

“The last time we crowned a king it led to bloodshed and ruin,” Victarion said. Euron’s bold proclamation had surprised him, though perhaps it should not have. “The rebellion cost us much.”

“Of course,” Euron replied easily, lips curling into a smile. “But it was not without its glories. When I burned the Lannister fleet, ah, what a sight that was. The harbor of Lannisport aflame. They’ll remember that for a hundred years.”

Victarion’s hand tightened into a fist. “I burned the fleet at Lannisport,” he snapped. It had been Euron's plan but the Iron Captain had been the one to see it through.

The Crow’s Eye only tilted his head, letting the slight slide past. His gaze slid to Asha. “Niece. I had hoped for a warmer welcome from you, at least. How fares your mother?”

Asha’s eyes flashed, her jaw tight. “Poorly. Someone made her a widow.”

The smirk widened, the blue lips parting to show white teeth. “So I’ve heard. Balon fell in a storm, did he not? Tell me who cast him down, and I shall give you vengeance.”

Victarion saw his niece’s hand drift toward the axe at her belt. “We all know who,” she said, her voice ringing sharp enough for the gathered captains to hear. “You vanished for three years, nuncle, and the day after my father falls, the Silence returns to our shores.”

Euron laughed, as though the accusation were a jest. “I was at sea when Balon fell. Ask my crew and they’ll confirm it.”

“Mutes,” Asha spat. “Aye, their tongues will wag most sweetly in your favor.”

The Crow’s Eye smiled wider. “Do I command the winds?” he asked, turning to the men at his back.

“No,” came the muttered response from many men.

“There you have it,” Euron said. “No man commands the winds. If they did, every captain here would sail the seas wherever he pleased.”

Victarion’s gaze flicked past him, hoping to find Aeron among the crowd. But the Damphair was gone, vanished like mist from the strand.

“Still,” Euron continued, drawing all eyes back to him, “though I command not the wind, I have gone where it blew me. I have seen more than any man here. I have brought back wonders from beyond the sunset seas.” He looked squarely at Victarion now. “Do you admire my armor, brother?”

Victarion said nothing, but the truth was that he had. The black scales gleamed like rippling water, beautiful and terrible both.

“Valyrian steel,” Euron announced, spreading his arms so the metal caught the fading light. The crowd stirred, muttering, for such a thing was beyond rare. Victarion thought it was Torwold Browntooth who whispered the words aloud, but he could not be sure.

Euron’s blue eye glittered. “A gift of the world’s far places. What say you, Asha? Do you fancy it? Perhaps you’d prefer a sword to match. Red Rain, say. Still in the hands of Lord Drumm, is it not? I think it would sit well at my hip when I take my place upon the Seastone Chair.”

“It is not yours to claim,” Asha growled through gritted teeth, her fingers tight around the haft of her axe.

“Isn’t it?” Euron’s tone was silk. “Balon’s sons are dead, and no daughter, no matter how bold, comes before a son in the line of succession. Or do you mean to put forward your only surviving brother? A boy stolen from us, fattened at a wolf’s table, raised in a greenlander hall?”

Silence met him, heavy as the sea itself. The captains glanced at one another.

“And here I stand,” Euron pressed, spreading his arms wide so the Valyrian steel of his armor gleamed black in the dying light. “Quellon’s eldest surviving son.”

“The greenlanders will not sit idle,” rumbled Ralf the Red Oarsman. “They’ll enforce the boy’s claim. Balon himself feared Theon lost to us, for the wolves would make him one of theirs.”

“Let them try,” barked Germund Botley, slamming a fist to his chest. “We’ll cast them back across the sea.”

“As if it fared well the last time,” scoffed Left-Hand Lucas Codd. “Rumor has it the Targaryen king’s son has returned and with him, a dragon.”

Murmurs rippled like a tide across the strand.

Asha’s voice cut sharp above them. “And what of it? The sea belongs to krakens. Let their beast prowl the sky.”

Ralf the Red sneered. “Did Balon fail to school you, girl? Did he not speak of Aegon the Conqueror? I worry for it would seem he only raised you to believe yourself a man.”

Asha’s eyes narrowed, and with a rasp of steel she drew her throwing axe, her knuckles white. “Your father made the same mistake.” she spat.

The crowd stirred restlessly, hands drifting to hilts.

“I’ll have no blood spilled here,” Victarion roared, his voice booming like a warhorn. At once the captains turned their eyes to him. “Euron, take your pets and be gone.”

The Crow’s Eye only smiled. “You saddened me, brother. I had hoped for a warmer welcome. Did you not hail Balon as lord when Quellon was gone?”

“Our brother was Quellon’s heir,” Victarion answered. “And there was no man to dispute him.” He said no more, though Euron’s knowing smirk was answer enough, as if he plucked the thought straight from his skull.

Euron gave him one last smirk before turning away, and one by one the captains drifted after him, the tide of men flowing in his wake until only Victarion and Asha remained on the strand.

Chapter Text

The Silver Princess

She had been in the library when the news reached her.

It had been a normal day so far, well, except for the fact that she had woken up much later than she usually did. Still, Senya had allowed herself that small luxury since her father had once again chosen not to have her be present at the small council meeting.

He hadn’t called for her to attend since the tourney, and she hadn’t quite understood why. Usually, when she was denied her duties as cupbearer to the King, it meant that something important was being discussed, and as it turned out, today was indeed one of those days.

The first piece of news she heard was that Dany’s betrothal to Quentyn had been broken. Senya hadn’t known what to think at first, though she found herself somewhat pleased by it. Quentyn was a good enough man, but he had always seemed uncomfortable around Dany, or at least that was what her aunt had told her.

Besides, with their family having a dragon again, it would have been foolish to allow another house, even one tied to them by blood, to have any possible claim to any future hatchlings. She liked most of her muña Elia’s kin, but some of them had always been wary of her, her siblings, and her birth mother.

Yet almost as soon as the news reached her, another followed that made her pause. Dany would instead wed Aemon, and the wedding was to take place in three days’ time.

That surprised her greatly, not so much because of the match itself but because of how soon it was to happen. She remembered the endless talks her father had endured when preparing for her own wedding, and Dany’s former one to Quentyn besides. Both were supposed to be held in two moons, and even then, it had taken no small effort to arrange everything. Her father had often called it a nightmare, and she could well believe it.

So for a wedding to be held in three days’ time, it made no sense. And though she couldn’t quite put a name to the feeling, the thought of it left her uneasy.

She had left the library soon after and made her way toward the throne room to find her father. Visenya hadn’t dreamt the night before, but the one she’d had before the tourney still lingered in her mind: Egg standing in darkness with hollow eyes, blood running down his chest; two dragons circling one another in the sky, and two great forces, one bearing the seven-pointed star, clashing below.

It had been unlike any dream she’d had before, and when she told her father, he’d been just as troubled.

Rhaegar had even wanted to forbid Aegon from riding in the tourney, fearing the dream to be an omen, but she had pleaded until he relented. Aegon loved tourney’s too much, and the thought of him crowning her had been too pleasing to give up.

In the end, fate had chosen differently as Aegon had fallen to Ser Garlan, and it was Aemon who’d won the final joust and crowned Rhaenys instead.

Their father had seemed displeased after, though Rhaenys had shone brighter than any queen, no doubt having her dream of being crowned as the Queen of love and beauty come true.

Aemon had been wise not to crown a lady of some house, yet now, knowing of his sudden betrothal to Dany, Senya couldn’t help but wonder why he hadn’t crowned their aunt instead. Perhaps he hadn’t known. Perhaps the match with Dany was something he and their father had only discussed after the tourney.

When she reached the throne room, she found Ser Arthur standing guard before the great doors. “Ser Arthur,” she greeted. “Is my father inside? I wish to speak with my father.”

The Sword of the Morning inclined his head. “I am sorry, Princess, but his Grace is not receiving anyone at the moment.”

“Anyone?” she asked, arching a brow.

He hesitated before adding, “Anyone… save for Princess Daenerys.”

That caught her off guard. “Dany?”

“She came earlier, and after speaking briefly with the King,” Ser Arthur said. “His Grace permitted her to visit Prince Aemon in his chambers.”

Senya frowned, surprise flickering across her face. So Dany had gone to see Aemon, no doubt to speak of their wedding. Still, it was unlike her father to shut himself away entirely. She glanced at the tall, silent doors behind him. “Has anyone else come to see him?”

The knight paused, and for a moment his eyes shifted as though weighing what to say. “The Queens also sought an audience,” he said finally. “But the King would not see them either.”

That surprised her more than anything. For her father to refuse both her muñas was no small thing. Whatever he was doing behind those doors must have been important, for when Rhaegar Targaryen chose not to see even his own family, it meant the realm itself was weighing heavily on his mind. And for the first time that day, Senya felt an uneasy chill run through her.

She didn’t linger long near the throne room doors. When her father wished to see her, he would seek her out himself, so Senya turned away from the throne room and made her way down the long corridor that led toward the royal family’s private quarters.

She wondered if any of her siblings were free, and perhaps she could spend the rest of the afternoon in their company, but the thought was quickly proven false.

Rhaenys’s chamber was locked, and no matter how many times she knocked or called her sister’s name, there was no answer. It was strange, Rhae was rarely one to shut herself away, but Senya decided not to dwell on it and moved on.

She didn’t bother looking for Aemon or Dany either, for she knew they were likely still speaking together. Yet when she passed near Aemon’s chambers, she found Ser Oswell, Ser Jonothor, and Ser Oakheart. They greeted her politely as she passed, but none offered an explanation for their presence, and she did not ask, but the question lingered in her mind. It was not common for three white cloaks to stand guard outside one door.

As for Aegon, one of the servants had told her he was in the city, tending to his duties as commander of the City Watch. Apparently, there had been some disturbance near the River Gate. The same servant had also mentioned that, before leaving, he had ordered the dungeons beneath the Red Keep to resume their “rat-catching,” whatever that meant.

When she reached one of the narrow windows overlooking the city, Senya paused and looked southward. There, beyond the walls and rooftops, she caught sight of a great silver shape gliding through the air. Nyraxes’s scales shimmered like moonlight as she wheeled above the river, her wings stirring the air with each beat.

Senya smiled, for it seemed Aemon had summoned his dragon and perhaps he meant to fly later. She hoped he might let her come along. The first time he’d taken her into the sky on Nyraxes’s back, she had felt weightless, free, as though the world itself had disappeared, and only the wind and the clouds still mattered.

Suddenly, she felt something wet and cold nudge against her hand, and when she looked down, Senya found herself staring into a pair of bright red eyes.

“Ghost,” she breathed, her surprise melting into laughter. The direwolf tilted his head slightly, as she reached down and scratched behind his ears. “What are you up to, hm?” she asked, though she knew full well she would get no answer.

She couldn’t help but wonder if Aemon was seeing her through the wolf’s eyes. Their Stark cousins had the gift, and Aemon’s bond with Ghost was proof enough that the blood of the North still ran strong in their veins. Senya had long suspected she shared that same gift, yet she had never managed to touch another’s mind as her brother did. It frustrated her, how could he and their cousins wield such power while she could not?

That thought gave her an idea. “Come,” she whispered while motioning for Ghost to follow.

The Citadel’s distrust of magic had long shaped the times that they wrote, and even in the royal library, tomes that spoke openly of the arcane were few and far between. Yet her father had always shown an interest in such things, and Senya knew where to look.

It took some time, but eventually she found what she sought: a weathered volume bound in leather. The title read ‘The Old Kings of Winter: The History of the North.’ She carried it to a corner table, sat down, and soon enough Ghost had settled at her feet.

Page after page were turned until she found what she was searching for: the tale of the Warg King.

It was said that in the Age of Heroes, long before the coming of the Andals, the Kings of Winter had warred against the Warg King, and when they had slain him, they took his daughters to wife, and through them the gift of skinchanging had entered the blood of House Stark.

She must have been reading for hours, for when she next looked up, the sun was already sinking behind the city’s spires, and before long, she was forced to light the candles scattered across the tables. Their small flames flickered weakly against the gathering dark, but it was a futile effort, for soon enough, a servant appeared at the door.

“Princess,” the girl said with a bow. “Their Graces request your presence for supper.”

Senya closed the book at once and rose to her feet. “Thank you,” she said, and Ghost, who had been dozing near her chair, stretched and padded after her as she made her way through the dim corridors toward the dining hall.

Ser Gerold stood watch outside. “Princess,” he greeted as he opened the door for her.

Inside, the air smelled of roasted lamb and spiced wine. Her muñas sat at the long table, speaking quietly with

“He told me everything,” she heard Dany say as the door closed behind her. “And gave me this.” She lifted a small, worn journal from the table. “He said it would explain everything, and that he… he has a plan that...” Her words trailers off when she noticed Senya’s arrival.

She offered a polite nod before taking the empty seat next to her aunt. “What is that?” Senya asked, gesturing toward the journal.

“This?” Dany turned the book slightly in her hands. “It’s Aemon’s journal from his time in Essos.” Her aunt said almost hesitating. “He gave it to me earlier, when we spoke.” Senya’s curiosity flared, but she didn’t ask to see it. Whatever was written inside, Aemon had meant it for Dany alone, as his betrothed.

Muña Elia’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Sweetling, did you manage to speak with your father today?”

Senya shook her head. “No, Ser Arthur said he wasn’t receiving anyone when I went to see him, but that was hours ago.” Her muña gave a nod, her mouth tightening before she reached for her cup.

“Are my siblings not joining us?” Senya asked after a moment, glancing at the empty chairs around the table. The question seemed innocent enough, yet both her muñas turned to her with the same surprised look. “I know Aegon is still in the city,” she continued quickly. “But I haven’t seen Aemon or Rhaenys all day, and I thought Daeron would be with you.”

Neither woman answered and Senya looked between them, frowning, trying to understand what she had said to make them stare at her that way.

“Senya, sweetling…” muña Lya began, her voice unsteady in a way Senya was not used to hearing. “Do you truly not know what’s happening?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, blinking in confusion. “I know Aemon is set to wed Dany. Oh, by the way, congratulations, Dany!” she added brightly, moving to give her aunt a hug, but Dany didn’t rise to meet her, and the brief, awkward embrace fell away as quickly as it began. “I imagine you’ll be much happier with Aemon than you would’ve been with Quentyn,” Senya said, smiling uncertainly as she returned to her seat, but the silence that followed was deafening.

Elia and Lyanna exchanged a long look, then Elia reached out, placing her hand over Lyanna’s before turning her gaze back to her daughter. “Sweetling,” she said softly, her tone so careful it made Senya’s stomach twist, “there is something we must explain to you.”

She took Senya’s hands gently in her own. “Something we and your father should have told you long ago, about Aemon, about Rhaenys… and about what is happening tonight.”

The Princess of Dorne

Rarely had Arianne seen so many things change so quickly, though in hindsight, she supposed she should have seen it coming.

After the tourney, she had all but abandoned any hope of luring Aemon to her bed. The moment he crowned Rhaenys, all the realm must have seen the truth of what the two siblings felt for each other. And it wasn't some sudden infatuation either, for the way the two had acted after the tourney told of a love that had always been there, only no longer hidden.

The realization had stung more than she cared to admit. She had thought herself close to Rhaenys, closer than even to Tyene, and yet, in all those years, Rhaenys had never spoken a word of her feelings for Aemon.

At first, Arianne had believed it was out of bitterness, for Aemon had once been betrothed to her, and it now seemed plain enough why he had vanished from Sunspear all those years ago. And yet even in those days Rhaenys had shown her no sign of resentment, so there must have been some other explanation for her cousin's silence.

She had been frustrated after the joust, and more so during the feast that followed. In any other circumstance, Arianne told herself she would have been happy for Rhaenys, and a part of her still was. Her cousin’s bond to the only dragonrider was a victory for Dorne as much as for House Targaryen, and she imagined her uncle must have felt the same, as would her father when word reached him.

Still, the wine had not sat well with her that night, and she had left the feast early, half drunk and half angry. On another night, she might have sought out some company to chase those feelings away, but whether by luck or some wisdom, she found none, for when morning came, she woke alone in her chambers.

The days that followed blurred together. She spent them scheming, but even with her cousins’ help, no plan took shape. It was not until Oberyn came into their chamber that afternoon that everything changed.

He told them that the King had decided to break Quentyn’s betrothal to Dany and instead have her wed Aemon in three days time. Arianne had simply stared at him, the words taking a moment to sink in.

With Quentyn no longer betrothed to the King's sister, her father had lost the excuse of a royal match to name him heir, and just the thought of it made Arianne smile.

Her uncle went on to explain what the King had offered in return.

A seat on the small council, favorable trade agreements to strengthen Dorne’s coffers and, most interestingly, new matches for herself, Quentyn, and even Trystane, should her father wish it.

At first, Arianne had almost laughed. It was all so neat, so carefully arranged. But her smile faded as the rest of Oberyn’s words settled in.

Aemon Targaryen was set to wed Dany in three days' time. Aemon, who was clearly in love with Rhaenys. Aemon, who commanded the only living dragon in the whole world.

Arianne frowned, the thought unsettling her. Why would the King do such a thing?

Everyone knew that Aegon had long been promised to wed both his sisters, it was the only match the King seemed to really care about. And while binding Aemon to Daenerys made sense if Rhaegar wished to keep Nyraxes, and the dragons that might come after her, within their bloodline, beyond that the reasoning seemed thin.

In truth, the King had weakened his own hand by wanting to wed three of his children to each other. Three royal children, and not one alliance forged beyond the family name. Her father, Arianne thought wryly, must have been pleased enough: more Martell blood on the throne, and likely had no reason to protest.

Still, she could not shake the feeling that the King had acted in haste. Maybe, when he saw Aemon crown Rhaenys at the tourney, panic took him, and this was his attempt to snuff out something he could not control.

The door to her guest chamber opened then, and in slipped Tyene with a smirk on her lips and a mischievous glint in her blue eyes.

Her cousin, it seemed, had been making rounds through the Red Keep, gathering whispers and rumors, something Arianne had not asked her to do, but was grateful all the same.

“You will not believe half the things I’ve heard,” the blond Sand Snake announced as she plopped down into the chair across from Arianne. The Princess arched an eyebrow and reached for the flagon of Dornish red, pouring her cousin a cup.

Tyene accepted the glass with a knowing smile and took a long, leisurely sip, clearly savoring both the wine and the irritation flickering across Arianne’s face as she delayed her tale. “Apparently,” she began at last, “our great King met with Aemon almost as soon as the small council was dismissed.”

Arianne’s brows drew together slightly. Oberyn had told her already that the council had ended the moment Aemon entered the throne room, so by now Rhaegar must have already spoken to his son and told him everything. “And?”

“No one knows exactly what passed between them,” Tyene said, “but not long after, the Prince was seen being escorted from the throne room by the Kingsguard and led to his chambers.” She took another sip, letting the words hang for a moment before finishing, “And the Kingsguard have remained there ever since. They haven’t moved, and neither has Aemon been seen leaving his rooms.”

So it would seem that the news of Aemon’s wedding had not gone down well with him, just as Arianne had expected. Yet even so, confining him to his chambers under Kingsguard watch seemed both too much and too little at the same time. Too much for a prince of the realm, too little for a man who commanded a dragon.

It would also explain why Nyraxes had been sighted circling near the city walls throughout the last hour or so. Maybe Aemon had called to her and by doing that had driven Rhaegar to lock him away. “What of Rhae?” Arianne asked after a pause.

“I haven’t seen her since yesterday evening,” Tyene replied, setting her glass down. “Though I can well imagine the news hasn’t sat well with our dear cousin.”

Arianne gave a nod, her thoughts turning over slowly. “And Aegon?”

“Haven’t seen him either,” Tyene said, brushing a golden curl behind her ear. “But I’ve heard a few things. He’s been busy at his post, or so they say. I hear he ordered the dungeons cleared of rats this afternoon, and sent a number of gold cloaks to the River Gate to handle some disturbance.”

If Aegon was in the city, then he likely hadn’t yet heard of his father’s announcement, for Arianne doubted the news had spread beyond the Keep’s walls yet. She wondered how he would take it when he did. There was no denying the bond between the brothers, but Rhaenys was his betrothed.

Blood and love rarely mix cleanly in that family, she thought.

She pushed the thought aside for now, focusing instead on a more pressing matter. “Have any of the great houses reacted yet?” she asked. Many of their lords were still in the capital, some within the Keep itself, others housed in apartments nearby, and word of the King’s decree would be spreading by now, whether through servants’ tongues or spies’ whispers.

“Not yet, as far as I can tell,” Tyene mused, tilting her head thoughtfully. “Rhaegar hasn’t received anyone since Aemon was escorted from the throne room, anyone but Daenerys, at least. I saw her go in earlier.” That made sense. Rhaegar would want to speak to his sister himself before word reached her from elsewhere.

Arianne leaned back, swirling the wine in her cup as her thoughts turned. She liked the young Princess well enough. Dany was sweet, earnest, but not a fool, life at court does usually teach you to see the bigger picture and to ask careful questions. Would she agree to such a hasty wedding, knowing that Aemon most certainly didn't want the match at all?

“Aunt Elia and Queen Lyanna have also been trying to see the King since the news broke,” Tyene said after a moment. “They’ve had no success so far.”

Arianne sighed and leaned back in her chair, lifting the glass to her lips. Whether Rhaegar realized it or not, he had done something dangerous. Confining Aemon might have seemed a way to stop any possible chaos, but it was just as likely to ignite it. Aemon had run once before, when his father tried to force him into a match he did not want, and that had been before the dragon. She doubted he would simply flee this time.

Still, she pushed aside the wider political dangers for now, and chose to focus on the effects all this would have on her family and Dorne at large.

Her father, she imagined, would have favored the match between Aemon and Rhaenys had he known of their love sooner. It would have kept Nyraxes and any future hatchlings within Targaryen hands while binding Aemon to Dorne through Rhaenys.

For a moment, she wondered if Doran might still try to steer events that way, but quickly dismissed the thought. Her father was a patient man and he built his plans like a spider spins a web. Rushing into the storm was Oberyn’s way, not his.

As for herself, the best outcome was if the wedding went ahead as planned. Painful though it must be for Rhaenys, it would strip away any royal claim her family still held in marriage. It would leave her father without his excuse. Quentyn might have his admirers, especially among the Yronwoods, but across Dorne it was she whom the people favored.

"What's on your mind, Ari?" Tyene asked suddenly, breaking the Princess from her thoughts. "You looked lost for a moment there," she added with a chuckle.

"Just thinking of what I’ll need to do now to strengthen my position," Arianne said, swirling the wine in her cup. "The King did mention that, if my father agrees, he’ll see new matches arranged for me and my brothers."

Tyene’s lips curved into a knowing smile. "Hmm, already imagining the man who might end up your husband, then? Someone from that long list of your old suitors, perhaps?"

Arianne smirked, there had been men before, but none had been the right choice. "I would much prefer to wed someone from Dorne," she said. "But if the need arises…" Tyene nodded, her expression softening as her teasing disappeared completely.

She had grown up knowing that one day she would wed aman of her father’s choosing. That was what princesses were meant to do, but Oberyn, of course, had always told her differently. He spoke of freedom and passion, of choosing one’s own path, but her uncle had been born second, and his daughters could live as they pleased.

The liberties her bastard cousins enjoyed under her uncle’s indulgent eye were not for Doran Martell’s trueborn daughter, and so Arianne had long accepted that one day she would wed where her father commanded.

There had been men, of course. Drey had wanted her, and his brother, Deziel, the Knight of Lemonwood, had as well. Gerold Dayne had warmed her bed more times than she cared to count, though marriage had never truly crossed her mind with him. Still, she had sometimes wondered what their children might look like: silver-haired and violet-eyed, like her Targaryen cousins.

Daemon Sand had come closest. He had even gone so far as to ask for her hand, but Daemon was bastard-born, and Doran Martell did not mean for his daughter to wed a Dornishman.

Her father had all but abandoned the idea of making new matches after Aemon’s flight and Quentyn’s betrothal to Daenerys. Yet now, it seemed, he might begin again.

“Willas Tyrell, mayhaps,” Tyene suddenly said. “Though you do remember how that ended last time?” Arianne couldn’t help but laugh at the memory of their ill-fated attempt to ride for Highgarden, caught halfway to Vaith by Oberyn and dragged back to Sunspear.

“He may be a cripple," Tyene continued, “and I hear the Tyrells still bear their grudge against us, but my father and Willas hold no bad blood between them, and I’ve only ever heard good things about him.”

“True enough,” Arianne allowed, swirling her wine. “But Willas will inherit Highgarden and the Reach. I mean to inherit Dorne.”

Tyene tilted her head. “Then perhaps his younger brother, the Gallant, he’s yet unwed.”

Arianne hummed, considering the thought, but her mind already had her answer. “A good match in name, mayhaps, but not in truth,” she said. “Lady Olenna is the true power of that house, not her son. She already has the Reach and half the Stormlands through her daughter’s marriage to Stannis Baratheon. Giving her Dorne as well would only feed the rose until it strangled the rest of us.” Though Arianne had never met the Queen of Thorns, her reputation had long preceded her, as Olenna Tyrell was said to be sharp as a blade and the true power behind House Tyrell.

She and Tyene spoke for a long while after that, though their talk soon drifted to lighter things. The wine helped with that, and before long they were laughing more than scheming, and by the time the last light of the sun disappeared over the horizon and the moon climbed into a black and cloudless sky, their cups were all but empty. They decided to end the night, though neither seemed eager to part.

It wasn’t often these days for Arianne to share her bed with Tyene, but tonight, for reasons she couldn’t quite name, she wanted her cousin close. Mayhaps it was the wine having its effect, or the small worry she still had over so many things suddenly changing due to the King's decree, but she asked her cousin to stay with her that night, and Tyene had given her a smile and a nod.

They were in the midst of preparing a bath when Tyene’s voice suddenly called her to the window.

When Arianne joined her, she saw Nyraxes, gliding across the night sky, her silver-white form gleaming against the darkness. The great she-dragon’s wings stretched wide, cutting through the sky as she soared eastward.

“She’s beautiful,” Tyene murmured, and Arianne found herself unable to disagree. Beautiful, and dangerous.

They lingered by the window for a while longer, watching until the dragon disappeared. Then they turned back to their bath. The water was warm and scented with Dornish oils, a small comfort in a keep that felt far too cold. Later, they curled together under the heavy silk sheets, far thicker than those in Sunspear, and let the faint heat of the water and wine draw them into sleep.

The White Lion

It was dark and cold, and the only sound besides their breathing was the faint drip of water falling from the ceiling to the stones below.

Rhaenys walked just behind him, her hand in his own, while Nyra moved ahead, leading the way. How she could see anything down here, Jaime could not guess, but he followed her all the same.

The Princess wore her riding leathers, perhaps the least eye-catching set of clothes she owned. The moon was likely high above the city by now, but they needed to remain unseen. The Red Keep had eyes in every corridor, and tongues would start wagging soon enough.

Aegon had explained the plan to him earlier that day, and Jaime had agreed without hesitation. He had known the King would act after the tourney, and whatever Rhaegar’s reasons, it seemed Aemon had guessed them as well, and had chosen to see Rhaenys safely out of King’s Landing.

They had moved quickly once the news of Aemon’s new betrothal spread. Too quickly, Jaime thought. The court still reeled from the announcement, but already the King’s decree had confined Aemon to his chambers, guarded by the rest of his sworn brothers until the wedding. It left a bitter taste in Jaime’s mouth.

They had slipped into one of the secret passageways, and if Jaime were to guess where they were now, he would say they were somewhere under the Red Keep’s dungeons.

He had expected to see guards in these lower levels, but there were none. Aegon had promised to clear the way as best he could, and it seemed the Crown Prince had kept his word.

How Nyra knew of this passage in the first place was another question entirely. Rhaenys and Aegon had both seemed unaware of its existence, yet this woman led them through the darkness like she had walked this path a thousand times before. Jaime wanted to ask, but now was not the time. He did not trust her, but Aemon did, and that was reason enough to follow.

He knew the stories. Maegor had ordered these tunnels built, then slain every mason who had worked on them to keep their secrets buried. Perhaps Aemon discovered this one himself, Jaime thought. Maybe he told Nyra where to find it, but he doubted that possibility almost as soon as he thought it.

A dim light broke through the blackness, revealing the outline of a narrow corridor ahead.

They pressed on in silence until they reached an iron gate barring their way. Nyra turned to him, one brow raised, and it took Jaime a moment to realize what she wanted. He let go of Rhaenys’s hand and reached for his belt, unclipping the key ring Aegon had given him.

The keys had surprised him at first. The Crown Prince had explained what they were for, and Jaime had wondered how he had come by them. But then, as Commander of the City Watch, Aegon often had cause to enter the dungeons under the Keep.

Nyra took the ring, immediately found the right key, and slid it into the lock. The gate groaned as it opened and she stepped through first, then turned back to hand him both the key and her hand. “The path ahead is dark, good Ser,” she said. “And full of old traps.” Jaime hesitated before taking her hand.

The passage beyond was worse than the last: narrower, colder, with walls slick from centuries of moisture. Their footsteps echoed off the stone and every so often, Nyra would murmur for them to slow or stop, guiding them around unseen perils only she seemed to know.

How does she know this path so well? Jaime wondered again. They came at last to a turnpike stair, spiraling down into the dark. The air grew colder still, and Jaime felt a shiver creep under his armor.

“What part of the dungeons is this?” Rhaenys asked quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

It startled him to hear her speak because she had been silent since they left her chambers. He glanced back, trying to read her face in the dimness, but saw nothing.

“Maegor had four levels of dungeons built under the Red Keep,” Nyra said as they descended. “The upper level holds the common cells. The second is reserved for highborn captives.” She slowed as they went deeper. “The third are the Black cells.”

Her tone grew quieter as the stair turned once more. “And below them all lies the fourth level. Once a man is taken down here, he never sees the sun again. Maegor had it built for torture.”

They reached the bottom of the steps, and she released his hand for the first time, moving forward a few steps.

Jaime felt his stomach turn. Torture chambers, Gods. He wondered whether this was where Maegor’s nephew had met his end. The thought made his blood run cold.

“Give me your hand again, Ser,” Nyra said quietly, extending hers toward him. “And make sure the Princess holds tight to yours as well. There are things in this place you do not want to see, and the dark will not hide them all.”

Jaime hesitated only for a moment before obeying. The stone under his boots felt slick, and the air reeked faintly of rust and something rotten. Behind him, Rhaenys’s fingers closed tightly around his.

Nyra quickened her pace as they moved on, her voice dropping to a whisper from time to time. “Careful here,” she murmured once. “The tunnel slopes downward now,” another time. Jaime followed her voice more than her shape, his hand never leaving Rhaenys’.

After a while, the tunnel widened into a small, low-ceilinged chamber. The stench hit him first, a mix of mold and something rotten. Shapes loomed in the dark along the walls and it took him only a heartbeat to guess what they were. Shackles, racks, hooks. Tools left behind by the torturers. He looked away quickly, best not to see. They passed through without a word, and soon enough the narrow tunnel closed in around them again.

He lost all sense of time after that. The dark swallowed everything until at last a glimmer of light appeared ahead. As they drew closer, he saw an arched doorway, sealed by yet another iron gate. He handed Nyra the gaoler’s keys once more.

Beyond lay a round chamber, and for the first time in what felt like hours, Jaime could see properly. His eyes stung as they adjusted. Five other doorways opened from the room, each barred by its own iron gate. Above, an opening in the ceiling let in a faint draft, and a series of iron rungs climbed the wall toward it.

A brazier in the shape of a dragon’s head stood to one side, and, to Jaime’s surprise, embers still glowed inside it. On the floor under their feet, a mosaic spread outward in the shape of a three-headed dragon wrought in red and black tile.

“Where are we?” Jaime heard himself ask.

“Just under the Tower of the Hand,” Nyra replied, as she moved to one of the doors and pressed her shoulder against it. For a moment it held, then gave way with a groan. “This leads out to the river,” she said. “You’ll be covered from above, so it will be difficult for anyone looking down to see you.”

A blast of wind swept through the chamber, as Jaime nodded absently, eyes on the open doorway. “The Tower of the Hand connected to the lowest level of the dungeons,” he murmured. He wondered if his father knew of this route to the cells and if he ever used it during his tenure as Hand of the King.

Rhaenys spoke then. “How do you know all of this?” She turned to face Nyra fully. “I have lived in this Keep my whole life, and I knew of no such passage. I doubt my family does either, and yet you do.”

Nyra only smiled, and for a heartbeat her mismatched eyes seemed to glow in the dim light. “All will be explained in due time, your Grace.” She said as Jaime glanced between them. He could see how tightly Rhaenys held her composure, how many questions she was biting back for later.

Jaime moved to Rhaenys and took her hand, giving her a nod before they stepped together toward the open doorway.

The moon hung high over the city, and by Jaime’s reckoning it was near midnight, though he was not sure. The ledge they stood on shot out from the cliff, narrow and half-hidden. From above, it would be invisible, and even from the river below, it would look like nothing more than a tangle of rock, a perfect hiding place if you knew it existed.

He stepped closer to the edge and peered down the cliff. The moonlight caught the glint of water below, where a small boat waited by the rocks and two figures stood beside it, their breath misting in the cold air.

One of the men turned, his gaze lifting toward them, and after a moment, he began the climb up the slope, boots scraping against stone. Jaime’s hand went to Brightroar out of habit, but then he caught the shimmer of gold on the man’s cloak and stilled. Their escort, he realized.

When the man pulled off his helm, Jaime blinked in surprise. Prince Aegon stood before them. “You took your time,” the prince said as he reached the ledge. “I thought you’d be here an hour ago.”

Nyra arched a brow. “What matters is that we are here,” she said. “Still, I didn’t expect you, Prince Aegon. I thought you’d send a few of your men.”

Aegon exhaled, a weary sound. “Given the hour and what’s at stake, I’d rather see it done myself.” His gaze swept briefly toward the river. “We’ve little margin for error tonight.”

Jaime glanced past him to the second man below, who was already pushing the boat back toward deeper water, readying for departure. “What now?” he asked.

The prince turned to him. “You board the boat,” he said. “We sail to the Mud Gate. Aemon told me Nyraxes would make a scene there, something loud enough to frighten the smallfolk, and I would use that as an excuse to seal the gate and clear the area.”

“Though I must admit,” Aegon said, glancing down toward the man by the boat, “I had hoped to see my brother with you.”

Rhaenys’s eyes dropped at that, and Jaime felt her hand go still in his. He gave it a small squeeze, trying to reassure her. “What then, valonqar?” she asked quietly. “You get us to the gate and after that?”

Aegon turned to face her fully. “Nyraxes will be waiting. Once Aemon escapes, you fly with her.” Seeing the uncertainty flicker across Jaime’s face, he added, “I don’t know where, he never said beyond that it was somewhere close, so perhaps Dragonstone.”

Jaime nodded and began helping Rhaenys down the ledge. The rocks were slick with spray, and her fingers trembled in his as she steadied herself. Aegon reached out as well, grasping his sister’s outstretched hand and guiding her to solid ground.

“What if Aemon doesn’t come?” Rhaenys asked suddenly. The question was soft but it carried, her voice thin against the wind.

“You fly regardless,” Nyra said, stepping forward from the shadows. Her tone was calm, sure in a way that unsettled Jaime. “The King will likely act and try to bring your wedding forward as well.” She looked at Rhaenys then, her mismatched eyes glinting. “Your brother would see you safe even if he won't be able to escape.”

Nyraxes was supposed to carry them away from the city, yet Jaime felt doubt creeping in. He had flown on Nyraxes many times before, but always with Aemon at his side. He recalled an old story from the time of the Dance of the Dragons, of how one of Rhaenyra’s sons tried to mount her dragon during the city riots to escape. The beast had not accepted him and the boy was said to have fallen to his death.

Then again, if Nyra and Aemon were to be believed, his bond with Nyraxes was unlike any other between dragon and rider. Aemon was a warg, and perhaps, through that bond, the she-dragon would know them as he did, Jaime as his sworn friend, and Rhaenys as the woman he loved.

“It took Nyraxes near two hours to fly from Dragonstone to the capital when Prince Aemon and I made the journey,” Nyra explained. “With neither of you trained for flight, it may take longer, but the night will hide your passage well enough.”

“You’re not coming with us?” Jaime asked, turning back to her.

Nyra smiled at him. “I doubt that the small boat Prince Aegon brought will fit all five of us,” she said. “Besides, our Prince still has need of me.”

She reached into her sleeve and drew out a necklace unlike any Jaime had ever seen. The chain was red gold and at its center hung a single stone that seemed to catch what little moonlight there was. At first glance it looked white, but when he leaned closer he saw the faint shimmer of color under its surface. A moonstone, he realized.

Nyra lifted it to her throat and closed the clasp, before bringing her fingers to the gem and whispering a word in a tongue Jaime did not know. The word echoed strangely through the air and twisted like a worm inside his ears.

Rhaenys must have heard it too for she turned toward the silver haired woman, and even Aegon raised his head.

The moonstone began to glow, faint at first, then bright enough to paint Nyra’s face in pale light. Wisps of brightness and shadow curled outward from it, weaving through the air like smoke.

And Jaime watched horrified, yet unable to look away, as Nyra’s form began to shift before his eyes.

Her silver hair seemed to darken in the moonlight, strand by strand, until it became blond, then dulled to brown, and finally to black. Her mismatched eyes shimmered, their colors fading and twisting until they became a single shade of deep brown.

The black dress she wore did not change, nor the gold earrings, nor the jeweled bracelets. But her face became something else entirely. Her features softened, the sharp beauty of the Valyria vanished, and in its place was a woman unremarkable, one you could pass in a crowded market and never remember. It was as if a stranger stood where Nyra had been only a moment ago.

The light of the moonstone pulsed once, twice, and then went out, and when she smiled, it was a smile that did not belong to Nyra.

Behind him, Rhaenys whispered, her voice trembling. “What… what in the gods’ names was that?”

Jaime tore his eyes from the woman and looked at the Princess, finding her indigo eyes as wide as his own. “What sorcery is this?” he heard the Prince demand.

“Call it what you will,” the woman said. Even her voice sounded different, but something in its cadence still betrayed her. “Glamour, illusion, seeming. They are all names for the same art.”

“Magic is waking again,” said the woman who was Nyra and yet no longer her. “With a living dragon in the world, and more soon to hatch, the air is thick with power once more. The world remembers what it was.”

The words chilled him more than the night wind. He took an involuntary step back, hand falling to Brightroar’s hilt. Glamour, his mind screamed. Blood magic.

Nyra’s gaze flicked toward him. “Go,” she said. “You must move quickly, they’ll have noticed the Princess missing by now. I’ll see that Aemon leaves the Keep.” Before he could reply, she turned away and vanished through the doorway. The iron hinges gave a groan before the door clanged shut behind her.

Jaime stood there a heartbeat too long, staring after her, his mouth half-open. Only when Aegon’s voice cut through the wind, “Move, Jaime!” did he stir.

He made his way down the ledge, helping Rhaenys onto the boat before wading in to push it free. Cold water rose to his knees, biting through the wool under his armor. The second Gold Cloak steadied the vessel while Jaime climbed aboard, taking hold of an oar.

He cast one last glance toward the ledge, then he set his back to it and began to row, the dark waters swallowing the noise of their passage.

Blood magic, his mind whispered again. If anyone could make sense of it, it would be Aemon. The Targaryens of old had dealt in such arts, or so the tales claimed, and perhaps his friend had learned something of them, from the scrolls or Nyra herself. He would have to ask him later for he doubted that the silver haired woman would give him a straight answer.

They rowed in silence for a time. Behind them, the Red Keep loomed high atop Aegon’s Hill, its towers shrinking against the night sky until they were no more than faint silhouettes. Ahead, the city walls rose, and the glimmer of torchlight marked the River Gate.

It was the nearest gate to the Keep, and Jaime saw the wisdom in Aemon’s choice. If pursuit came, Aegon could close it quickly under some pretext, buying them precious time.

Still, the thought unsettled him. The Mud Gate was also the most traveled after dusk, where dockhands and fishmongers crossed paths with guards and merchants alike, and a single whisper could reach the wrong ear. The smallfolk of King’s Landing had long tongues and sharper eyes than most lords gave them credit for.

The current quickened under them as they neared the banks, and Jaime glanced back once more toward the hill.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jaime caught a flash of white cutting through the dark sky, and it took him only a moment to realize what it was as Nyraxes swept over the river, before wheeling down and landing near the Mud Gate, the impact sent ripples racing across the water and a shudder through the shore.

Her scales shimmered silver-white under the moon, each one catching the light as though forged from glass. Even from this distance she was blinding, and Jaime found himself staring, unable to look away.

He recalled Nyra’s assurance that the dragon would hide their passage to Dragonstone, and almost laughed aloud. Hide them? Nyraxes glowed like snow against pitch darkness. Any guardsman with half his wits could spot her from the city walls.

The Quiet Prince

He hadn’t been able to fall asleep. The moon hung high above the city, and he had spent what felt like hours staring at the ceiling while Laena slept beside him, her body bare and warm against his.

She had been eager that night, whispering of a son they might have while she mounted him, her hair falling loose around her face. The thought had stirred him more than he’d admit. He had always wanted a son, a brother for Alyssa, close in age and the image had made him grip Laena’s hips tighter, made him want to give her what she asked for.

But the fire had faded once she drifted to sleep, leaving him alone in the dark with his thoughts.

Word had come earlier that afternoon of Dany’s betrothal to Quentyn being broken, and his little sister promised instead to Aemon. On the surface, it pleased him. A match within the family so no other house could get their hands on their blood, yet the more he thought on it, the less simple it seemed.

He had seen the way Aemon and Rhaenys had looked at one another during and after the tourney, and Viserys recognized that look for he no doubt had looked at Laena the same way in their youth.

It would have made sense, he thought, to wed Aemon to his sister. The Martells had never hidden their unease where his nephews and niece by Lyanna were concerned. A match with Rhaenys would have soothed old fears, tied Dornish loyalty more tightly to the crown, and eased the tensions that might have still lingered.

Such a union would have pleased him far more than Aemon’s brief and ill-fated betrothal to Arianne, yet Rhaegar chose to bind Aemon to Dany instead. Viserys could make little sense of his elder brother’s thought process beyond keeping their sister from wedding into the Martells.

He pushed the thoughts aside, the realm’s politics could wait for the morning. Beside him, Laena stirred in her sleep, as if to remind him that their bed was no place for those thoughts.
She nestled closer, one hand resting lightly upon his chest, her head finding the crook of his neck.

Yet sleep did not come. The Prince found himself once more staring at the ceiling, and after some time, he pushed himself up, resting his back against the headboard, and turned toward the window.

Laena’s hand slipped from his chest as she murmured something in her sleep. He reached to draw the sheets higher over her shoulder, then let his gaze wander.

The sky was ink-black, the moon hidden behind heavy clouds, and from where he sat he could see only the faint glimmer of its light. For a moment, he hoped to glimpse Nyraxes soaring above the city. The dragon had been restless, keeping to the skies beyond the city walls as though she sensed her rider’s turmoil.

What he could not understand was Rhaegar’s decision to confine Aemon to his chambers. It struck him as folly, the sort of act that bred rumors faster than wildfire spread. Though Viserys had long preferred to keep clear of court intrigues, leaving such matters to his elder brother, even he could see what whispers this would stir.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He would have to speak with Dany come morning, learn how she felt about all this.

He knew little of her time with Quentyn, only that neither he nor his muña had ever cared much for the match. Surely his little sister could not have imagined that a broken betrothal would end so quickly in another.

While at Dragonstone, when sleep eluded him, Viserys would often wander the castle’s halls or sit in the nursery until weariness found him. The sound of waves crashing against the rocks below had always calmed his thoughts. He thought of Alyssa, and how he had not spent as much time with her that day as he’d wished. Perhaps that would bring him rest.

He pushed the sheets aside and began to rise, but a warm hand found his chest. “Where… are you going?” Laena mumbled, her voice thick with sleep, her eyes still closed.

He smiled and brushed his fingers over hers. “To check on Alyssa. I’ll be back before long.”

Laena made a sound, something between a sigh and protest, and drew herself closer, pressing her bare chest against his side. “Stay,” she whispered, her breath warm on his neck.

A chuckle escaped him. “You’ll have me back soon enough.” He leaned down and kissed her, careful not to wake her fully. She had never liked to be stirred before dawn, not in their first moon of marriage, nor in any since. In those early days they had lingered abed long past sunrise, content in each other’s warmth, though it had often meant she woke up cross when disturbed.

Her hand lingered on his chest even as her breathing steadied again. For a moment, Viserys hesitated, watching her sleep, then he slowly pulled away, leaving her hand to fall back onto the bed.

He dressed quickly before casting one last glance towards his wife. She rolled on her other side and had her face buried in her own pillow. Viserys stared for a moment, then eased the door open and stepped into the corridor beyond.

The hall was dim, lit by only a few torches guttering in their sconces, and it took his eyes a moment to adjust, before he started to make his way down the hall toward the nursery. From somewhere beyond the walls came the sound of hurried footsteps, several sets of them, echoing faintly from a parallel corridor.

Servants, he supposed, though it was late for such activity. Perhaps some late errand for the kitchens or the queen’s household.

Lost in thought, he almost failed to notice the woman coming around the corner until they bumped into each other.

“Forgive me, your Grace,” she said quickly, dipping into a curtsey. Her voice sounded somewhat familiar, though Viserys didn't remember ever seeing this woman before. Perhaps one of the newer servants, one who had joined the household while he’d been away at Dragonstone.

“It’s no matter,” Viserys said, waving a hand to dismiss the apology. “Go on.” She inclined her head and hurried off in the direction of the royal apartments. One of the handmaids, most like, he thought, watching her go before turning back and continuing to walk.

Soon enough he reached the nursery and pushed the door open. The chamber was quiet save for the soft crackle of the hearth and the steady breathing of the child within.

A single maid was tending the fire, and at the sight of him she bowed her head and slipped away without a word, leaving him alone with his daughter.

Alyssa lay nestled in her cradle, her tiny hands curled close to her chest. A smile tugged at his lips as he looked upon her sleeping face, and the words Laena had whispered to him earlier that night drifted back to him then, thoughts of a son or another daughter, a sibling to Alyssa, close enough in age to grow up together.

It was a thought that warmed him. He wanted that for her, a companion in childhood, a bond forged early and held fast through the years.
He loved his own brother, gods knew, yet they were not half as close as Aegon and Aemon, for there had always been too many years between them. Rhaegar had already been a man grown by the time Viserys could even walk properly.

With Dany it had been different. He was eight years her elder, yes, but he had been there when she took her first steps, when she learned her first words.

He knew not how long he sat there, watching Alyssa sleep, but weariness still refused to come. There was something soothing in simply looking at her: the rise and fall of her tiny chest, the soft sound of her breathing.

It almost amused him, how different he had become over the years. In his youth, he had been restless, sharp-tongued, eager to prove himself. His muña would tell him that he hadn’t changed, only grown into who he was meant to be, and perhaps she had been right, or perhaps it was Laena who had tempered him. It made sense, then, that he had been drawn to her from the first moment he laid eyes on her.

Rhaegar had given his blessing to the match without hesitation. For all his brother’s obsession with deciding who his own children wed, he had never interfered with his siblings’ choices, at least, not until Aemon ran off and Dany was dragged into the mess.

A faint sound pulled him from his thoughts. Footsteps coming from just beyond the nursery door. Voices followed, hushed words too faint to make out. Viserys turned his head toward the door, listening, and for a moment he considered seeing what it was, but the whispers faded soon enough.

Servants, most like, he told himself. Even at this late hour, there was always work to be done in the Keep, more so now, with Rhaegar insisting that Aemon and Dany’s wedding take place before the week’s end. Less than three days away.

A foolish notion, he thought, shaking his head. But he was not the King, nor the Hand, beyond being Rhaegar’s younger brother, he held no real power in such matters.

He sat there a while longer before finally deciding to return to his chambers. Sleep still hadn’t come, but he had promised Laena he wouldn’t be long. Before leaving, he meant to find the maid who had been tending the nursery, yet when he opened the door and stepped into the corridor, she was nowhere in sight.

Wonderful, he thought. Now he would have to hunt down another servant to take her place. By the sounds he’d heard earlier, there ought to have been a few still about, though the corridor ahead lay empty.

He started back the way he’d come, and it wasn’t until he reached the royal apartments that he heard the faint murmur of voices. Rounding the corner, he came upon a small gathering outside his nephews’ and nieces’ chambers. Ser Jonothor and Ser Oakheart stood beside the open door of Aemon’s room. A handful of servants lingered nearby, their faces pale and uncertain.

Viserys slowed his step, surprise flickering across his face. “What’s going on here?” he asked, his voice carrying just enough authority to make them all turn.

Jonothor bowed quickly. “My Prince… it’s…” He hesitated. “It’s nothing. Nothing of concern.”

Viserys arched a brow. “Nothing? Clearly it’s something, else I doubt we’d have all this people standing about an open door in the dead of night.” He came to a stop beside the knight. “Has something happened to my nephew?”

Jonothor cast a glance toward Oakheart, who shifted uneasily. “Not… necessarily,” the older knight said, though there was little conviction in his voice.

Viserys let out a sigh and brushed past Jonothor, stepping into the chamber. Near the bed, a man lay sprawled on the floor, his white armor streaked with red. It took Viserys a moment to recognize him. Ser Oswell Whent. His face was slick with blood, and a maester knelt beside him, pressing a cloth to the wound.

“Gods,” Viserys muttered, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor, and moments later Barristan appeared, his expression grave. “The Princess is missing as well,” he said, his breath uneven. “As is Ser Jaime. He’s not at his post outside Princess Visenya’s chamber.”

“He wasn’t at the White Sword Tower either,” Ser Jonothor added grimly. Then, turning to Ser Arys, he said, “Inform His Grace.” The younger knight gave a nod and departed at once.

Viserys stood silent for a moment, piecing it all together. Aemon, Rhaenys, Jaime, all gone. He almost smiled despite himself.

“How is Ser Oswell?” he heard Jonothor ask behind him.

The maester didn’t look up from his work. “He’ll live,” he said, examining the knight’s eyes with the flickering light of a candle. “His nose is broken, and likely a few ribs as well, but nothing mortal. It seems he was given something, a draught perhaps, that dulled his senses. Whatever it was, it made him easy prey.”

It wasn’t long before Rhaegar arrived, walking down the corridor with Ser Arthur and Ser Arys at his side. The King was still dressed in the same black and crimson garments he’d worn that morning, his silver hair loose around his shoulders. It seemed clear he had not slept at all.

“Report,” he said curtly, his voice carrying down the hall.

Jonothor stepped forward. “Your Grace, Prince Aemon and Princess Rhaenys are missing, along with Ser Jaime.” The old knight explained. “Ser Oswell was found injured near the Prince’s bed. My guess is that the Prince overpowered him while making his escape.”

Rhaegar’s jaw tightened, but he gave a single nod. “See Ser Oswell taken to Grand Maester Marwyn,” he ordered. “Have him treated and kept under watch.”

Two servants moved quickly to obey, lifting the wounded knight from the floor and carrying him out past the gathered men. The King waited a few moments before turning on the Kingsguard.
“Would any of you care to explain yourselves?”

Ser Oakheart blinked, taken aback. “Your Grace?”

“I gave orders that no fewer than three Kingsguard stand watch at my son’s door at all hours,” Rhaegar said. “Yet as far as I can see, only one man was present.” His gaze swept over them, before it paused briefly on Viserys, as though weighing whether his brother too shared some measure of blame, then moved on. “Where were the rest of you?”

“Away,” came another voice from down the corridor. Viserys turned, and saw both Elia and Lyanna, walking side by side with Ser Gerold a few paces behind.

Rhaegar began to turn, his mouth already opening to speak, but he never got the chance. Lyanna’s hand slapped him across the face with a sharp crack that echoed off the stone walls.

“Finally crawled out of your throne room, dear husband?” she said. Beside her, Elia stood just as fierce, though her fury was quieter.

Viserys noticed the Kingsguard tense at once, hands drifting toward their sword hilts. The air in the corridor thickened.

Rhaegar’s hand came to his cheek, already reddening. He looked between his wives, anger dimming into something closer to disbelief. “What do you mean, away?” he asked, his voice lower now, the earlier command gone from it.

“Some with us,” Elia said coolly, folding her arms, “and others elsewhere. You truly are a fool, sweet husband, if you thought we would stand by and let you go through with this folly.”

The silence that followed was broken only by the echo of soft footsteps. From the shadows at the far end of the hall, a white shape emerged. Ghost padded forward and came to stand beside the two queens, his blood red eyes fixing on the King.

“What do you mean by elsewhere?” Rhaegar asked, his voice was quieter now, stripped of its earlier fury.

Lyanna tilted her head, the corner of her mouth curling into a wolfish smirk. “I thought the Kingsguard were responsible for guarding the entire royal family.” she said.

Elia stepped forward then. “Of course,” she said smoothly, “when Lyanna and I decided to take a walk in the godswood, it was only proper that we have someone with us. The Red Keep can be treacherous after dark.” Her words were calm, almost conversational, yet each one cut sharper than any blade. She paused just long enough to let the meaning sink in before adding, “I imagine that Dany felt the same after her little talk with Aemon, and perhaps your mother too preferred not to be left unguarded tonight.”

For a moment, the King could only stare at the two women before him. His mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came. When he finally found his voice, it trembled between disbelief and anger. “You… you had a hand in this?” he asked, though the answer was plain in their eyes.

“Of course we had,” Lyanna said, her tone calm but her fury barely leashed. “You left us no choice. If we’d stood by and let you go through with this madness, it would have torn our family apart, and left the realm worse off than before.”

Rhaegar’s gaze hardened, a faint flush rising in his cheeks. Viserys saw the shift in his brother’s stance, and thought, not for the first time, that he ought not be standing here for what was about to come.

Elia stepped forward. “Tell me, dear husband,” she said, “will you confine us now as well? Or are we going to talk this out like civilized people?”

Before Rhaegar could answer, Ser Jonothor cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Your Grace,” he said, “it’s unlikely the Prince and Princess left too long ago, and considering the circumstances they likely have gone to the dragon.” The old knight went on. ”Nyraxes has been circling near the River Gate since the afternoon, and Prince Aegon has had the gate and the square locked down since then.”

Rhaegar took a slow breath. “Take men with you,” he said, turning to Arthur. “Ride there at once.” The Sword of the Morning bowed and quickly moved away.

He watched the knight disappear around the corner and soon enough he heard his brother's voice again. “We will speak of this once Arthur returns.” As he quickly walked away.

Chapter Text

The Hollow Prince

He watched as Rhaenys wrapped her arms around their brother and whispered something that made Aemon give a small, reassuring nod before he leaned in to press a quick kiss to her lips.

Aegon hadn’t recognized him at first. It was no surprise since Nyra had worked the same magic on him that she had used on herself earlier that night. The woman herself was standing a few paces away, watching his siblings in silence, her strange moonstone necklace catching the light. Aegon couldn’t quite banish the memory of watching her face shift and blur, the image had rooted itself deep in his mind.

Aemon had something similar, a bracelet of silver, set with a smaller moonstone that glimmered with each movement of his wrist. His brother was dressed plainly now, in roughspun and leather, the armor left behind so as not to draw notice.

The River Gate had been sealed that afternoon under Aegon’s command, the excuse of Nyraxes circling the walls more than enough to clear the streets. But the pretense would not hold forever, by now, surely, the Keep would have noticed the absence of the King’s son and daughter.

Jaime stood nearby, one hand resting lightly on the pommel of Brightroar. Around them waited a ring of Gold Cloaks, no more than a dozen but these were men Aegon trusted, handpicked over months of reforms and purges.

Nyraxes loomed close as well, her vast wings half-furled as though ready to spring into the night. Her deep blue eyes fixed on Aemon, unblinking and unnervingly aware. Aegon had spent enough time in her presence to recognize the tension in her stillness, dragons mirrored their riders, and if the she-dragon was uneasy, then Aemon was too.

He followed her gaze and found Aemon speaking with Nyra. For someone who had just escaped confinement and whose time now dripped away with every heartbeat, Aemon looked strangely calm. Either he was more composed than Aegon gave him credit for, or the thing he was discussing with the silver-haired woman was too important to rush. Rhaenys had drifted closer to Jaime’s side, her eyes on their brother as well.

Soon enough, Aemon stepped away from the woman and crossed the walkway to his side. “Thank you,” Aemon said quietly. “For helping me with this whole mess.” He gave a short laugh, but it was hollow.

Aegon gave a quick nod. “You’d have done the same, if our places were reversed.” He glanced toward Nyraxes. “Where are you headed? And don’t tell me you plan on vanishing again.”

Aemon sighed. “Dragonstone,” he answered, and must have seen the flicker of concern in Aegon’s eyes, because he added, “We’ll only be gone a few days. Nyraxes can get us there in a few hours, and if anyone decides to come after us by ship… it’ll take them at least two days to cross the bay.”

Aegon nodded slowly, repeating the words in his mind like a vow. A few days. He could already imagine what those days would bring. “A few days,” he echoed.

Aemon shifted his weight. “I know I’m leaving you in a difficult place, brother.”

“I’ll manage,” Aegon said, then added, more to himself than to Aemon, “I have to.”

His brother looked at him for a long moment, as if weighing something unspoken. Then, finally, Aemon said, “You’ll need to speak with Dany.”

Aegon raised a brow, curiosity flickering across his face. “I gave her my journal,” Aemon continued, voice quieter now. “The one I’ve kept since Valyria. Ask her to let you read it. There are things in there I think you’ll find… worth knowing.”

The Crown Prince gave a nod, his thoughts turning to their aunt. Aemon had apparently explained everything to Dany. Even so, Aegon could only imagine what all of this must have felt like for her. “Is no one else going with you?” he asked after a moment.

“I doubt Nyraxes could carry anyone else along Rhae and me,” Aemon said, casting a glance at the silver-white dragon. “Might be I’ll need to design a new saddle.”

Aegon gave a nod, gaze drifting toward the looming shadow of the beast. So Jaime and Nyra would remain behind. They could follow by ship if need be, but the crossing to Dragonstone would take two days at best, and that was with favorable winds.

Jaime’s presence didn’t concern him, but Nyra… she was another matter entirely. After watching her appearance change earlier that night and then seeing her do something similar to his brother, Aegon would want nothing more than to be as far away from her as possible, but Aemon trusted her and she trusted him. That, for now, would have to be enough.

“Your Grace!” A shout cut through his thoughts.

Aegon turned as a Gold Cloak sprinted towards him. Torchlight caught the glint of steel at his side, and it took a moment before the Prince recognized the man as Ser Maynard.

The knight came to a stop a few paces away, catching his breath. “Riders,” he managed. “From the Red Keep.”

Aegon exchanged a look with Aemon, who had already turned, eyes narrowing as he gazed at the man. “Did you see who leads them?” Aegon asked, stepping forward.

Maynard shook his head. “No, but the one at their head wore a white cloak, I’d swear it.” He drew in a ragged breath. “Ten riders, maybe more. Could be twenty.”

Aegon clenched his jaw. He had hoped for more time, but his siblings' absence would never go unnoticed for long, and now his father had sent someone to reclaim what had slipped away.

He turned to Aemon, who had already moved to Rhaenys’s side, speaking softly as they approached Nyraxes. “Go, now!” Aegon’s voice cut through the courtyard. There was no time left to linger.

He turned back toward his siblings just in time to see Aemon already astride Nyraxes, reaching down to help Rhaenys into the saddle behind him. Together, they tightened the leather belts and secured the clasps that bound them to the dragon’s frame.

Aemon leaned forward, murmuring something against the curve of Nyraxes’ neck. The great she-dragon let out a low, throaty growl in answer, and she began to slowly turn, tail sweeping in a wide arc as she turned her massive body to face the Blackwater.

Aemon looked over his shoulder then, eyes finding his brother’s. “A few days!” he shouted.

Aegon nodded once. He could feel the weight of those words settle on his shoulders like a mantle. A few days. Let that be enough.

Nyraxes spread her wings. The silver-white membrane caught the faint glimmer of moonlight above, and for a moment, she looked almost ethereal.

She stepped forward, claws scraping sparks against the stone, and then leapt.

The wind that followed hit like a crashing wave. Aegon staggered back a step as his golden cloak snapped violently behind him, flaring like a banner caught in a storm. His hair whipped across his face, and nearby, several Gold Cloaks stumbled, one nearly knocked off his feet as the dragon’s wings sent dust, debris, and hot air spiraling across the courtyard.

Nyraxes climbed fast, wings beating with thunderous rhythm, tail lashing behind her as she soared into the night sky. Within seconds she was high above the river, a silver shape vanishing into the darkness.

Aegon stared at the sky for a few moments more, watching as the last glimmer of Nyraxes vanished beyond the clouds, before turning back towards his men.

“Form up,” he said, and the Gold Cloaks began to fall in line behind him. Only a few of the City Watch present truly knew why they were here, just the trusted handful he’d selected himself. For the rest, Nyraxes’s earlier stunt near the gate had served as a convenient enough excuse.

Jaime was at his side almost immediately, his hand resting on Brightroar’s pommel. Nyra followed a few steps behind, but Aegon tried to not pay her much mind

Together, they moved toward the gate, passing under the archway lit by a scatter of torchlight clinging to the walls. Beyond lay Fishmonger’s Square, now fully empty, the cobbled plaza having been cleared earlier that afternoon.

A few of the Gold Cloaks Aegon had stationed on this side of the gate turned to him with confused expressions, but he offered no explanation, only a nod as he and his companions walked through the empty square.

From somewhere down the Muddy Way, he could hear the distant thunder of hooves. Dozens, maybe more, galloping hard across stone roads. They were still far off, but the night was quiet, and the emptiness of the square made the sound travel sharp and clear.

He reached up and put on his helm, the blackened steel shaped like a snarling dragon, the eyes narrow and the mouth agape as if mid-roar. The weight of it settled around his head, as his fingers brushed the hilt of Blackfyre, and stayed there.

Moments later, the riders appeared through the dim haze of the torchlit road. Aegon counted twenty at most, armored and armed, the glint of steel catching firelight as hooves slowed to a trot. At their head rode a tall knight in white plate, a pale cloak trailing behind him, and it took Aegon barely a moment to recognize Ser Arthur.

Around him, his men stiffened, but the Crown Prince himself remained still, and beside him, Jaime looked no less composed.

The riders came to a stop some short distance away, and for a long moment, all was quiet. Then Arthur nudged his horse forward, just enough to meet Aegon’s eyes from atop the saddle.

“Prince Aegon,” the knight said, voice calm as ever.

“Ser Arthur,” Aegon replied with a nod. “A bit late for a night ride through the city, wouldn’t you say?” His tone was dry, more jape than anything else, though even he wasn’t sure why the words came so easily now.

Arthur’s lips twitched, the ghost of a smile there and gone. “I could say the same to you, your Grace.” He looked past Aegon, toward the night sky where no trace of wings remained. “We saw the dragon fly from the far side of the gate.” A pause. “You did not try to stop her.”

It wasn’t a question.

“I did not,” Aegon said simply. The knight gave no response for a long time. Then, at last, a quiet sigh escaped Arthur’s lips, and his eyes lowered to the ground.

What will you do now, good Ser? Aegon mused, watching him. He glanced toward Jaime, perhaps seeking some flicker of reassurance, but the Lannister’s face was carved from stone. His hand rested near Brightroar, and his gaze was fixed firmly on the mounted riders ahead.

“You are to return with us to the Red Keep, your Grace,” Ser Arthur said, his voice level. Then his eyes drifted to Aegon’s side. “You as well, Ser Jaime, and… Lady Nyra.”

Aegon gave a nod, not breaking eye contact. “Very well,” he said, before turning slightly to address the men behind him. “I would have a few of my own accompany us to the Keep.” His tone left no room for negotiation, and from the faint twitch of Arthur’s brow, the knight understood that clearly.

“Someone find Ser Jacelyn,” Aegon ordered, his voice carrying across the stone. “Have him brought back to the gate at once.” Then, after a brief pause, “And fetch Ser Alliser. He’s to command the Watch in my absence tonight.”

Several men nodded and peeled off into the darkened square, and soon after their company began its slow march toward the Red Keep. Aegon could feel Arthur’s gaze on him at times, quick glances cast from horseback when the knight thought he wouldn’t notice.

Their passage through the city did not go unseen. Lamps were lit in second-floor windows, doors cracked open and sleepy eyes peered from behind shutters. The sight of gold cloaks marching along two knights of the Kingsguard, with the Crown Prince amongst them, was enough to stir whispers in the alleys and set rumors flowing through the night.

What are you planning, dear father? Aegon thought as the Red Keep loomed ahead. Will you try to punish me for what I’ve done? For helping Aemon and Rhaenys escape?

He may try, the Prince mused, and a small smirk touched the corner of his mouth.

The gates of the Red Keep stood open when they arrived, with guards flanking either side of the entrance, their hands resting lightly on spears and sword-hilts. No one barred their path, and the company passed through without challenge.

Within the walls, the Keep was more alive than Aegon had expected. Torches burned in every sconce and voices echoed through the corridors. Servants moved between halls, and a handful of courtiers stood murmuring in clusters near the outer stairs.

As they moved deeper into the Red Keep, Aegon would signal with the barest nods or flicks of his fingers, instructing select Gold Cloaks to fall back one by one. A few posted near the inner halls. Another left by the courtyard gate. He didn’t expect a confrontation, but he would rather be overcautious than caught off guard and by the time they reached the royal wing, only a handful remained at his back.

The corridor leading to the throne room stretched before them like a tunnel, with torches casting shadows along the vaulted ceiling. Even from the far end, Aegon could hear raised voices echoing from within.

Standing outside the doors were Ser Barristan and Ser Oakheart, and neither knight spoke a word as they stepped forward and pushed open the heavy doors. No herald announced them, no titles were called.

Inside, the throne room glowed with low firelight, and all heat seemed to gather around the Iron Throne itself, looming behind Rhaegar like a monument of swords waiting to wound.

His father stood before it, his hands clasped behind his back, with Ser Gerold standing a few paces to his right. Both of his muñas were also standing before the Iron Throne, and Ghost was standing guard by their side, red eyes seemingly fixed on the King.

The moment the doors opened, the voices within the throne room fell silent, and all eyes turned toward the entry as Aegon stepped inside, with Jaime, Nyra, and Arthur following close behind.

The Prince came to a stop beside his mothers and gave them a brief glance. Both wore calm expressions, but it was easy to see the anger simmering just under the surface, especially in muña Lya’s case.

Jaime stopped just behind him, while Nyra lingered a step to his left. Arthur moved past them and took his place beside the King.

“Father,” Aegon said after a moment. Rhaegar did not answer right away. He only looked at his son, his expression caught somewhere between anger and sorrow.

“Aegon,” the King said at last, his voice devoid of any emotion. His gaze lingered on his son for a few moments before drifting past him to Jaime and Nyra standing behind.

Aegon’s hand found the hilt of Blackfyre almost unconsciously, his grip tightening until the leather creaked. He wasn’t sure why tension gripped him so suddenly, only that it did.

“Leave us,” Rhaegar said then, turning to face his wives. “I will speak with my son alone.”

“Like hell you will,” Muña Lya snapped. The fury in her tone made Ghost stir beside her, the direwolf’s white fur bristling as he bared his teeth, ready to spring at the faintest hint of danger. “You said we would speak of this once Arthur returned, and he’s here now. So speak, dear husband.”

“We will speak later,” Rhaegar replied flatly. His tone did not rise, but the finality in it left no space for argument. “After I am done speaking with Aegon.”

Lyanna looked ready to spit another retort, but Muña Elia laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. Her other hand went to her belly.

Elia leaned closer and whispered something to her, words too soft for Aegon to catch. Whatever they were, they worked. Lyanna’s shoulders tensed, then she exhaled through her nose in frustration before fixing the King with one last venomous glare. Without another word, she turned on her heel and strode from the chamber, Ghost padding silently at her side.

Rhaegar glanced toward Ser Gerold, who needed no spoken command. A nod from the King sent the Kingsguard following after the two queens. When the doors shut behind them, only Aegon, Jaime, Nyra, Arthur, and the King remained.

For a moment, no one spoke. The silence stretched, broken only by the low hiss of the torches and the faint rattle of the wind against the windows.

Then Rhaegar finally turned to him. “You are more of a fool than I thought,” he said quietly, though the words struck like a slap. His violet eyes were fixed on Aegon’s face. “But perhaps the fault lies with me as much as with you, for failing to see that you would aid your brother in his folly.”

Aegon’s jaw tightened. “Had you known, would you have locked me in my chambers as well?” he asked. “Or perhaps the scandal of imprisoning your heir would have been too much even for you, more so than confining Aemon.”

“Disobeying the King’s command,” Rhaegar said as he stepped down from the dais, as his gaze shifted to Jaime. “And you, Ser Jaime… I tasked you with guarding my youngest daughter, and instead, you aided in the escape of my son and my eldest. Should I remind you of your vows, Lannister?”

Aegon caught the flicker of tension in Jaime’s shoulders, but otherwise, he remained still. “There’s no need to remind Ser Jaime of anything,” the Prince said calmly, stepping forward. “As far as I can see, he has done nothing to deserve such a rebuke.”

Rhaegar’s head tilted, eyes narrowing. “Hasn’t he?”

“He hasn’t, and you know it.” Aegon’s voice was sharper now. “You put our entire family in a vulnerable position the moment you issued that decree. Do you really believe that the great houses wouldn’t try to seize it, if it had gone on for any longer? That they wouldn’t sense blood in the water and try to do something to gain more advantage? We did what we had to do to keep the situation from unraveling further. To prevent a greater scandal.”

He studied his father for a moment before speaking. “You once told me that a wise king must weigh the consequences of every decree.”

Rhaegar gave a nod.

“And yet I doubt you thought everything through when you ordered Aemon locked in his chambers and betrothed him to Dany.”

“I did think everything through,” the King said, anger seeping into his tone.

“Really?” Aegon raised a brow. “Because from what I saw, you didn’t. You locked away the only dragonrider alive and tried to force him into a marriage the entire realm knew he didn’t want. By doing that, you gave the great houses cause to stir. Did you honestly think they wouldn’t try to seize this opportunity?”

“There was no opportunity for them to use,” Rhaegar said flatly.

Aegon sighed, half in anger, half in disbelief. Was his father blind, or did he simply refuse to see? “Of course there was. You were forcing Aemon to wed someone who was not Rhaenys, and in doing so you were driving a wedge between yourself and him. Half the realm saw what happened at the tourney. Do you think the vultures wouldn't have started to circle, eager to twist our family against each other?”

The King didn't give him an answer and so the Prince went on. "And what do you think the smallfolk and the Lords will whisper when they learn that you were doing all this for the sake of some dream?”

Rhaegar turned to Arthur then. “Escort Ser Jaime and Lady Nyra out,” he said, his voice calm. The Sword of the Morning nodded before moving, and moments later, the doors closed behind them, leaving the King and the Crown Prince alone in the chamber.

After a few moments, Rhaegar’s gaze drifted downward. His voice was soft when he finally spoke. “Some dream, you say.”

“Aye, some dream,” Aegon shot back. “And no matter how much you believe in it, no lord will. They’ll think you mad, for they'll find no other way to explain what you’re doing.”

The word mad hung between them and Aegon knew it cut deep. Prophecy had haunted their line for centuries, and his father had been caught in it since his youth. He could not deny the truth of it either, their house had always had dreamers. Some had been visionaries, others… had burned kingdoms down around them.

Rhaegar’s eyes lifted again. “Is Visenya mad, then?” he asked quietly. “Is Aemon? They dream as well. Unlike me, their visions still come.” The last words were said with something close to sadness.

The question caught Aegon off guard. “As far as the realm will be concerned, it wasn’t Senya who locked Aemon in his chambers or tried to force this farce of a marriage through.”

“That marriage was necessary, how do you still not understand that?” Rhaegar’s voice cut through the air. “Do you think I took any joy in it? Breaking the bond between your brother and sister pained me as much as it does you, but it had to be done.”

“No, it didn’t,” Aegon snapped. “And you know it.” Beyond keeping Dany’s marriage inside the family, it offered them nothing. “You could’ve broken her betrothal without tying her to Aemon,” he went on. “But the moment you realized the love between him and Rhaenys still lived, you panicked. Because it threatened your precious prophecy.”

The word came out full of venom. He hated it. He hated that prophecy more than he hated anything else in the world.

He hated it because it had driven Aemon to flee years ago. He hated it because it left Rhaenys hollow-eyed for four long years, convinced their brother was lost and that she would be forced into a marriage she did not want. He hated it because he could do nothing about it.

“All I have ever done is prepare us for the future that is to come,” the King said. “Your siblings running away puts all of it in jeopardy.”

“You keep saying that,” Aegon shot back. “You always say that one day we’ll understand, but you only ever speak of the future and refuse to see what’s right in front of you. Tell me, father, what good is a future where our own family is divided? Because that’s what your actions are doing.”

Rhaegar didn’t answer, so Aegon went on. “All my life I’ve heard the same words,” he said quietly. “That I am the Prince That Was Promised, that I will lead the realm against the darkness to come, that I must wed both my sisters so the three heads of the dragon would be made one.”

He took a deep breath, steadying himself, though the anger burned hot in his chest. “And you know what's funny ? As a boy, I wanted to believe. Who wouldn’t want to be a hero from some song? But the older I grew, the clearer it became. That prophecy didn’t bind us together, it broke us apart. Aemon ran, and for four years we thought him dead and you can't even begin to understand what that did to Rhaenys, to our mothers… to all of us.”

“You think me a blind fool, Aegon?” Rhaegar asked. “Do you believe I do not know the pain this has caused? That I take some twisted pleasure in it?” The Prince did not answer, though he knew his silence betrayed his answer. “I hate this as much as you do,” Rhaegar went on. “As much as your siblings, as much as your mothers. But the cost of inaction is far too great.”

“What cost?” Aegon demanded. “You speak of some great danger from the far North, but where is it? Where is this threat you would break your family for? We have seen no proof that it even exists.”

Rhaegar sighed and turned his gaze toward the Iron Throne, and for a long moment he said nothing, and when he finally looked back at Aegon, there was something strange in his eyes. For a second, the Prince wondered if he had said something that had truly unsettled his father more than him helping Aemon and Rhae escape, but that wasn’t it.

“You think everything I’ve done comes from some dream I once had,” Rhaegar said at last. “But it didn't.” He paused, his gaze distant. “My granduncle Duncan was wed to Lady Jenny of Oldstones, as I imagine you know.”

Aegon nodded without thinking, though confusion flickered across his face. He had no idea why the conversation had taken this turn.

“She brought a woods witch to Aegon the Fifth’s court,” Rhaegar continued, voice quieter now. “That woman prophesied that the Prince that was Promised would be born from the line of my father and mother. That was why my grandfather had them wed.”

Aegon blinked, unsure how to respond. He had known that Jaehaerys had been the one to push for Aerys and Rhaella’s marriage, believing that his great-grandfather wished to restore the Valyrian ways his own father had not been too fond of.

“The Conqueror’s dream showed him the three heads that are one,” his father went on, his tone distant, almost reverent. “And when I spoke with Maester Aemon, he told me that his eldest brother had dreamed of the same.”

Aegon let out a sigh and rolled his eyes. To him, it all sounded the same as it always had, old tales dressed as truth. For all he knew, the Conqueror had simply crafted his dream to justify his conquest.

He said as much to his father, but Rhaegar only shook his head and sighed. “In the early years of his rule as Lord of Dragonstone, Aegon kept his gaze fixed on the East, like many of his ancestors did,” he said. “But then, suddenly, his eyes turned to Westeros.”

Aegon rolled his eyes. “Maybe the Conqueror was simply a smart man who realized Westeros was easier to take,” he countered. “He and his sisters were the only dragonriders in the world, don’t tell me someone with that kind of power wouldn’t want to carve out a kingdom of his own.”

Rhaegar looked at him as though he’d said something foolish, but Aegon didn’t stop. “And the three heads of the dragon that are one?” The Prince continued. “It’s the sigil of our house, the one he created to honor himself, his sisters, and their three dragons. Why does there need to be some hidden meaning behind it? Why must everything become a prophecy?”

Before Rhaegar could answer, voices echoed from beyond the chamber doors, making both the crown prince and the King turn, and for a moment there was naught but silence in the chamber.

“Whatever you’re about to say,” Aegon turned back to his father, “none of it matters now.” He took a step forward. “Aemon and Rhae are gone and I helped them escape. That prophecy you’ve clung to, it broke the moment Aemon returned with Nyraxes. You just refused to see it but maybe now you finally will.”

“You still don’t understand,” Rhaegar said softly, and there was disappointment in his voice.

“Aye,” Aegon snapped. “I don’t, and if I’m honest, I don’t care either.” He could feel the anger rising in his chest again. “That prophecy has ruled over me and my siblings since the day we were born, and I’m all too happy to be rid of it. If you’re angry that they chose love, the same way you once did… then be angry at me too. I helped them and I don’t regret it.” He raised his arms slightly, daring him. “So if you mean to punish someone, do it now.”

Rhaegar stared at him for a long moment, saying nothing. Then he let out a sigh and looked down. When he lifted his head again, he had put on what Aegon likes to call his Kingly face.

“You’ve shown me today that you value your siblings’ desires over your duty as the commander of the City Watch,” Rhaegar said, voice cold and measured. “There will be punishment for aiding Aemon and Rhaenys in their escape, make no mistake of it. But for now, Prince Aegon, I remove you from your position as Commander of the Gold Cloaks.”

Aegon had expected as much and showed no reaction. He simply reached up, pulled the golden cloak from his shoulders, and tossed it onto the floor without ceremony.

“You are not permitted to leave the Red Keep,” the King went on. “I will not confine you to your chambers, but you are barred from going into the city. A new commander will be chosen at the next council session. Until then, you are to be watched at all times by a sworn brother of the Kingsguard. Is that understood?”

“I understand,” Aegon said, his eyes never leaving his father.

“The punishments for your siblings will be decided soon,” Rhaegar continued. “Both of them disobeyed their king’s command and have placed my life’s work in jeopardy. As for Ser Jaime, he will face consequences as well. Though that matter will wait until I speak with him directly.”

Aegon didn’t answer, though inwardly he wondered what punishment his father thought he could truly give Jaime. Stripping him of the white cloak and exiling him was possible, but doing so would bring him into open conflict with Tywin, and Rhaegar wasn’t fool enough to provoke the Old Lion, especially not when the only dragon in the world had just flown beyond his reach.

Still, he seemed foolish enough to believe he could punish Aemon and Rhaenys.

“You are dismissed,” Rhaegar said. “You’ve disappointed me, Aegon. And know this, if you act against me again, your punishment will be greater. You are my heir and will succeed me one day… but you are also my son. Remember that.”

Aegon gave a bow, then turned without a word and made his way toward the chamber doors.

The Red Woman of Volantis

The ship rocked gently from side to side as it cut through the dark waters of the Summer Sea.

It was night beyond the timbers, though it was never dark inside her cabin. Two tallow candles burned on the narrow table beside the bulkhead, and another flickered near the bed.

The small iron brazier in the corner, set into the floor and bolted fast, glowed with a constant flame. It had not been allowed to die once since they left port. That was one of the first lessons taught to those who served the Lord of Light. Darkness must never be permitted to take root.

Kinvara closed her eyes and whispered a prayer, then opened them once more to face the brazier.

One more time, she told herself. She had to be certain. Many priests and priestesses had been brought down by false visions before, seeing what they wished to see and not what the Lord of Light revealed.

Show me your instrument, she thought, and the flames answered. Gold and scarlet danced together, coiling upward, shaping forms both solid and fragile. Strange and shifting things that blurred the line between beauty and horror, between truth and temptation.

She saw the city by the sea, streets engulfed in green and black fire, walls cracking as a dark tide swept over it all, swallowing domes and harbors, and the city crumbled under it.

Two bodies locked together in lust, writhing, rolling and clawing, but they were gone as quickly as they came, replaced by great winged shadows dancing across a violet sky.

The prince… I must reunite with him. She saw a many-headed dragon, surrounded by fire. The heads bit and hacked and clawed at one another, blood falling into the flames and making them rise higher.

A face took shape before her, one she did not know. Pale as a corpse, white as bone, with a single red eye staring directly at her.

The red priestess shuddered as the image vanished. The fire was inside her, filling her and transforming her. Shimmers of heat traced patterns on her skin, as insistent and careful as a lover’s hand, as strange voices called out to her.

Snow fell next, or perhaps it was ash. She saw men below, fighting amidst a storm, arrows burning as they arced through the dark. Forests burned, then froze. Dead things moved among the trees, silent and relentless, near some long-forgotten ruin. Many fires burned that night, but one by one they died, until only skulls remained.

Death, Kinvara thought. The skulls mean death.

The flames crackled and whispered, their light dimming to embers. A name came to her through the hiss, faint at first, then clearer, spoken by a thousand unseen tongues, the name of her Lord's champion. A face appeared within the fire. It came and went, its eyes shifting from violet to red as the skulls gathered once more around it.

She leaned back in the chair and let out a sigh, her eyes still fixed on the flames. Her body ached, hours had passed, though she could no longer say how many. Time slipped away easily when one stared into the fire. Soon, Kinvara rose and moved to the pitcher. Her throat was dry, and so she drank deeply, emptied the cup, and filled it again without a word.

Near the door stood one of the acolytes who had joined her on the voyage, a quiet boy with flame tattoos curling along his cheeks and brow. He said nothing, but his eyes lingered on the hearth. He wanted to know what she had seen.

She had seen much and more, she always did, but seeing was never simple. It was an art, and like all true arts, it demanded mastery, discipline, and sacrifice. R’hllor spoke in a tongue of ash and cinder and flickering light.

Kinvara had spent years learning to read that language, and she had paid the price. There were few in their order who could match her skill in the fire’s art, and fewer still she would name as equals.

Her gaze fell back to the fire again, as it danced before her, restless half-formed shapes. I pray for a glimpse of Azor Ahai, she thought, and the Lord shows me naught but shapes and shadows.

She took another sip, then set the cup aside and stretched, her muscles sore and stiff from the long hours seated. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, the fire had burned low, and the cabin sat in dimness.

“What hour is it?” she asked the boy.

“Almost dawn, an hour away at most,” the acolyte replied from near the door, his gaze not meeting hers.

Dawn, she thought. Another day is given to us, R’hllor be praised. She had spent the whole night in the chair, watching the flames, as she often did. Her bed remained untouched, just as it had since the first night she stepped aboard.

She feared to dream, for sleep was a little death, dreams and whisperings of the Other, who would drag them all into eternal night and darkness. Kinvara did still sleep, now and then. Brief moments, stolen out of necessity, but never for long. One day, she prayed, I shall sleep no more. One day I will be free of dreams.

The acolyte laid a few fresh logs into the brazier, and the flames leapt up at again, chasing the shadows back into the corners of the room, devouring all her unwanted dreams.

The dark goes away… for a little while, Kinvara thought, a faint smile touching her lips.

She crossed the cabin and pushed open the shudders. Outside, the eastern sky was beginning to pale, though some stars still clung to the black sky above. Kinvara could already hear voices coming from the deck. It would seem that the captain was already awake, barking orders left and right.

“Priestess, do you wish to break your fast?” the boy asked.

Food. Yes, she supposed she should eat. Most days she forgot, for R’hllor sustained her, his fire gave her all the strength her body required, but such things were best kept from mortal men.

She had already seen the looks the captain and crew gave her after she had not eaten anything for the first three days at sea. Kinvara needed none of that now.

In truth, the long communion with the flames had left her tired, though not hungry. Her thoughts still lingered in the fire, turning over the visions she had seen, trying to make sense of what the Lord had chosen to reveal.

“I will have tea,” she said at last. “Some fresh bread, and a few boiled eggs.” She paused. “And if the captain is free, ask that he join me.” The acolyte bowed his head and hurried from the cabin, closing the door behind him.

Once alone, she moved to the small mirror fixed to the cabin wall and gave herself a quick look. Her dark red dress was slightly wrinkled, but not enough to bother her, and her black hair was in place. The ruby set in her dark gold choker gave a soft glow when her finger brushed against it, as Kinvara’s thoughts drifted back to Volantis,and to the short time she had spent with her Lord’s chosen.

Aemon Targaryen.

A man among men, unlike any she had met in all her years. Smart, capable, measured, and yet, an unbeliever. That part had unsettled her, though the power within him had been unmistakable. His life-fires had burned so hot, so strong, that Kinvara had felt it from afar, as if their Lord’s gaze had turned with him.

The prince needed guidance, Benerro had thought so as well and agreed that someone must be sent to Westeros. At first, the High Priest had wished to send his right hand, Moqorro, but Kinvara had seen the truth in the flames.

It had to be her.

It took time to convince him. Moqorro was the Flame of Truth’s right hand, but she was his left hand, and had been at his side just as long, perhaps longer, and after days of prayer and long hours before the fire, Benerro relented.

Still, Kinvara suspected it had not been her words alone that changed his mind. Before her departure, the High Priest had confessed unease. He had felt some danger coming from the Triarchs, though he had not explained to her what that danger was.

They had found her a ship, one willing to take her toward the Westerosi capital, where their Prince had gone. Benerro had warned her that it would not reach King’s Landing, but that did not matter, for she would meet Aemon Targaryen all the same.

Later, she saw what he meant in the flames. The ship broken near some small islands, smoke rising from the deck, men fighting in the shallows, and above them all, the dragon, her wings stretched wide, flame pouring from the sky.

Her Lord’s champion would find her, that much was certain.

Her gaze drifted from the mirror to the small chest resting near the far wall of the cabin. It held everything she needed: the powders, the dusts, the tools of her calling. All that she would require while away from Volantis, and with her Prince.

Knocking came from the other side of the cabin door. “Priestess Kinvara,” came a voice. “The captain is here to see you.”

“Send him in,” she said, moving back to the chair.

The door opened, and one of the Fiery Hand stepped aside to let the man enter. Benerro had sent five of them with her, along with a handful of acolytes.

Sarello Marran, captain of the Black Gull, was not a handsome man. A sharp widow’s peak over close-set brown eyes, above hollow cheeks, with a thin mustache above a mouth full of broken teeth.

“Priestess Kinvara,” he said, dipping his head. “I was told you had need of me.” His eyes moved over her as he spoke, slow and shameless, and a faint glint sparked in them.

He fears me, Kinvara thought. And he lusts after me. It did not matter, for she feared nothing. The Lord of Light guarded her, body and soul.

This one was an unbeliever as well, his god was coin, and the sea his altar, but she cared little for that. His purpose was to get her where she would reunite with Prince Aemon.

“Yes,” Kinvara said, letting her smile grow warm. “Please, take a seat. I’d like to speak with you.”

The captain stepped forward and lowered himself into the chair across from her. “I am, as always, at your service,” he said with a mock bow. She heard the lie in his voice easily enough. “What can I do for you?”

“You have sailed across Westeros before, have you not?” she asked.

He nodded. “Aye, more than once. From Sunspear to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea,” he said, puffing up slightly.

Kinvara leaned back in her seat, studying him. “I know little of the realm beyond the Narrow Sea, and I was hoping you could help me with a few places.”

“Of course,” Sarello replied, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk.

She returned it with a smile of her own. “A city by the sea. High walls, pale stone, I think. Does that sound familiar?”

The captain tilted his head, thinking. “Could be a few. White Harbor comes to mind. Oldtown maybe, though she’s more grey than pale, and rich with towers. Gulltown too, though I haven’t been there in years. Hard to say without more.”

Kinvara thought back to the vision, but nothing else stood out. The towers had crumbled, the fires had burned, and all that remained was the sea swallowing stone.

She shook her head.

“Then I’m afraid I can’t give you a straight answer,” the captain said, as the door opened again and the acolyte stepped inside, carrying the tray.

Good, Kinvara thought. The captain was here and when he saw her eat, it would put the crew’s minds at ease.

The tea, eggs, and bread were placed neatly on the small table. With a nod from her, the acolyte bowed and left, as she took one of the eggs and bit into it. The taste was off, overboiled most likely, but she swallowed it without pause, and she didn’t miss the way Sarello’s gaze lingered as she chewed.

A moment later Kinvara poured herself a cup of tea. “How long until we reach King’s Landing?” she asked.

“A fortnight, at most,” the captain said. “That’s if we get headwinds.” He scratched his chin. “Once we clear the Stepstones, we’ll make better time. Should be only a few days after that.”

“The Stepstones?” Kinvara asked, though she already knew the answer. The broken islands, she thought.

“Aye,” Sarello said. “There’s no other way to reach the capital by sea. We’ll pass south of the chain, near Grey Gallows, then cut north past Bloodstone. Not the fastest course, but safer.” He leaned back slightly. “The narrow straits between the islands are said to be crawling with pirates again. Some from Lys, some from the other cities nearby. If we skirt the southern edge, we’ll avoid the worst of it, adding a day or two to our journey, nothing more.”

Kinvara nodded slowly, as the pieces began to fall into place, and her Lord's will became clearer in her mind.

They spoke for a while longer, with Sarello telling her of Westeros in more detail than any book ever had. He spoke of the seas and coasts, of the bustling ports and the Seven Kingdoms. He told her of the Wall, of the frozen land beyond it, where her Lord’s enemy stirred.

She listened closely, asking about the great houses and then she asked about the prince’s kin. Kinvara knew the names, but little else.

“King Rhaegar’s a fine ruler as far as I care,” Sarello said, shrugging. “Well, better than that mad fucker his father was.” He chuckled and drank more tea. “Never met any of the royals, though I imagine they’re not so different from the Triarchs, in some ways. Silks and secrets, all the same.”

Kinvara said nothing but the image rose in her mind again. The many-headed dragon, each head biting and clawing at the others, all the while fire was rising around them.

He told her all he knew of the royal family, of the great houses, of the Rebellion that had shaken the realm the year her prince was born.
The captain spoke freely, and she let him, listening more than she spoke. When he finally stood and left to return to the deck, the sky outside had begun to shift. The hours had passed without her noticing.

Kinvara remained seated, alone with her thoughts and the flames. She finished the tea, but the last egg went untouched and so did the bread. With Sarello gone, there was no longer any reason to pretend.

The rest of the day passed in a blur and Kinvara didn’t leave her cabin until evening, when the time for prayers came. It was dusk when they lit the nightfire, a great iron brazier set amidships, and gathered around it as the sea darkened around them.

“We thank you for your sun, which keeps us warm,” Kinvara prayed, her voice steady. “We thank you for your stars, which watch over us as we sail this cold, black sea.” The five warriors of the Fiery Hand and the acolytes answered in unison, chanting in the tongue of Old Volantis. The flames crackled in response, sparks rising into the wind.

She didn’t need to look to know the crew was watching. From the railings, from the shadows. Some out of curiosity, others with fear.

“Lord of Light,” she went on, “bless your servant Kinvara, and light her way to your champion. Defend your faithful Benerro, grant him courage, wisdom, and fill his heart with fire.”

The others echoed her words.

“Light our path and protect us from your foes,” they chanted. “For the night is dark and full of terrors.”

The prayers ended soon after, and everyone began to drift back to their duties. The deck quieted, and only Kinvara lingered by the brazier, watching the flames a little longer.

She heard the footsteps before she saw him. Captain Sarello stepped around to the other side of the fire and stretched out his hands toward the heat.

She didn’t look at him at first. Her thoughts were still with the prayer, with the vision she hadn’t spoken aloud, but after a moment, she looked up. “Captain Sarello,” Kinvara said. “Have you come to pray with me?” she asked knowing well enough what answer he would give.

He barked out a laugh, showing his broken teeth again. “Pray? I’m no godly man, Priestess. Haven’t spoken a word to any god in years, and I don’t think they ever listened when I did.”

Kinvara smirked. Had you prayed to R’hllor, she thought, you would have been heard.

“But I am curious,” Sarello went on. “About the flames. About what they show you.” His eyes gleamed a little now, not mocking but curious. “To see the future, that’s a powerful thing, isn’t it? If it’s true.”

She studied him a moment longer, then smiled.
“As I’ve said before, captain,” Kinvara said, her voice calm, “I see much and more.” Then she turned from the fire and left him there in the dark, returning to her cabin without another word.

She returned to her cabin and washed in the small tub of hot water. When she was done, she dried herself and changed into a fresh set of robes.

As always, she checked the hidden pockets stitched into the sleeves, making sure each powder was in its place. Some to color the flames, others to make them rise. Each had its use.

When everything was as it should be, she sat down and her gaze found the fire. She smiled as the heat touched her cheeks, then Kinvara leaned forward, eyes fixed on the shifting flames.

The Pearl Princess

The journal lay in her lap and Dany slowly turned another page.

She had read most of what was written, though it had only left her with more questions than answers. Aemon hadn’t written it like a proper book, and really like a proper diary either. One page spoke of some ancient scroll he had translated, the next was filled with fragments from a dream, lines crossed out and rewritten, as if he hadn’t known what to make of it all.

"More tea, Princess?" the serving girl asked, lifting the now empty teapot.

"Yes, please. Some more spiced tea." The girl bowed her head and left without another word.

It was still early in the day. The sun hadn’t yet reached the high windows and the chamber remained cool. She had heard the news already that Aemon and Rhae had fled the city during the night, and Dany was happy for them, she truly was, but them running off left Dany herself in a very strange position.

She turned the page over and was met with even more lines crossed out, meaning this page was where Aemon must have tried to interpret another dream again.

Some words could still be made out. Fourteen… something, that part was crossed out. An army marching into it and a great dragon at the host’s head. She read through the parts that remained, but none of it made any sense to her.

The next page was much the same, filled with scribbles and thoughts, but the one after was about dragons and so Dany chose to read through it.

Most of what was written there seemed to be Aemon’s thoughts on the dragons of the Freehold. He had written that maybe not all of them had been used for war. Some, he imagined, were bred for other purposes like show, labor, and other things.

Dany didn’t know what to make of it. In all the stories she had ever heard, every dragon her house had owned had been used for battle, or had died before they ever fought one. The idea that they might have once been used for something else seemed strange.

But dragons were said to be extremely intelligent, and so perhaps it was possible, she thought.

At the bottom of the page Aemon had written about how dragons might have originated from Asshai, and something about some old great empire and how he would need to look into that, but on the next page there was written a different matter entirely.

Dany knew of the legends, the ones that claimed the first dragons had come from the Shadow Lands and that it was the Asshai’i who had tamed them first, but beyond the stories, there was no proof of any of it.

She sighed and was about to flip through a few more pages when the door to the chamber opened. Dany looked up, expecting the serving girl to return with the tea, but she was instead met with Nyra, of all people. “Princess,” the woman said with a smile. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

A part of Dany wanted to send her away, but when she spoke, different words came out. “Not at all, my lady. What can I do for you?”

The silver-haired woman closed the door behind her, crossed the room without hesitation and sat down in the chair beside Dany’s, her mismatched eyes never leaving hers.

“Prince Aemon told me that he left you his journal,” she explained, “and asked me to help you if you had any questions about what was written in it.”

Dany raised an eyebrow at her words. When her nephew had given her the journal, he had told her that no one else had truly gone through it.

“You know what’s written in here?” She asked, lifting the book slightly.

Nyra’s smile deepened. “More or less. I’ve read it many times,” she said, and before Dany could ask anything more, the woman added, “He may have told you no one’s read it through, and in some ways, that’s true. I haven’t read everything, but he spoke with me often about the things he was writing.”

Dany nodded absently. She was still uneasy around her. Aemon had said that he trusted Nyra, but for some reason, Dany couldn’t bring herself to feel the same. The woman had never given her cause for doubt and yet, the feeling remained.

“Is something the matter?” The woman’s voice broke Dany out of her thoughts and made her realize that she had been staring at the wall for some time.

She shook her head in response, but Nyra still went on. “Is this… possibly related to your nephew running off?”

Dany almost sighed and rolled her eyes at the words. She didn’t want to speak about that to anyone, much less to Nyra, but the words brought the thoughts back to her mind all the same.

She had known something was off. After the tourney, after speaking with Aemon and Nyra yesterday morning, and even more so when the news came that her betrothal to Quentyn had been broken, and a new one to Aemon was arranged almost immediately, with her nephew confined to his chambers soon after.

Rhaegar had summoned her to the throne room and explained most of it to her, but not everything, and it had taken her some time to convince him to allow her to go see Aemon, and it had been her nephew who had told her everything.

About the prophecy that her eldest brother believed in, about what had pushed Rhaegar to do the things he did. About his love for Rhaenys, and why he had run off all those years ago. She had understood him, after what had felt like hours of speaking, and her nephew had trusted her enough to give her his journal, the one no one besides him, and apparently Nyra, had ever gone through.

“Hm, Asshai,” Nyra said as she leaned over to look at the page that Dany had stopped on. “Did you know that your nephew had planned to make a journey to the Shadow Lands?”

That surprised the Princess. “He had?”

“Yes, a few moons after our return from Valyria,” Nyra explained. “We had only just begun to decipher the scrolls about dragons, and he had gotten it into his head that Asshai would hold more answers because of the legends, and the knowledge said to be gathered there, but unfortunately, we never made the journey. The fever that nearly took him still left its marks, and even with Nyraxes, the voyage would have taken longer than we could manage.”

The Shadow Lands were said to lie at the edge of the known world, beyond even the lands of Yi Ti, so Dany understood his reasoning. “But why Asshai of all places? Surely the Free Cities would have had just as much knowledge about dragons.”

Nyra shook her head. “True enough, but Asshai is older than any of the Free Cities. Some say it was built before Valyria ever rose. Many of the old tales of dragons came from there, and from there, too, came the followers of R’hllor and the prophecy of Azor Ahai.”

Azor Ahai.

That sounded familiar. Dany was sure she had read it before, perhaps even in this very journal.

“Of course, the Faith of the Red God has by now spread all over Essos, and the largest temple is now located in Volantis and…” Nyra went on, but Dany wasn’t listening because she was still trying to remember where she had seen that name.

She must have drifted off again, because Nyra gently nudged her shoulder and gave her a curious look. Dany cleared her throat and gave a small shake of her head before speaking. “The name. Azor Ahai. I’ve seen it before… I think it might be in here somewhere.”

“Ah, Azor Ahai,” Nyra said, and there was a cat-like smile on her lips now, with a strange glint in her mismatched eyes, as though she had expected Dany to catch on to that name.

“Prince Aemon wrote a great deal about that,” she added, turning the pages of the journal. “It should be just a few pages…” She stopped near the middle of the journal and tapped her fingers on the parchment. “There.”

True enough, the page was full of those names, and Dany read them. Azor Ahai, Hyrkoon the Hero, Eldric Shadowchaser, Yin Tar, and many, many more.

Aemon had written of old legends and heroes almost like a maester would, though most of the names were unfamiliar to her, but she did not miss the words near the bottom of the page ‘three heads of the dragon’ written plainly, with several question marks drawn around it.

“So many legends,” she said quietly as she looked over the page.

“So many indeed,” Nyra replied, making Dany glance up at her. The older woman smiled at her look of surprise. “And yet they all tell the same tale, Princess. Azor Ahai, Hyrkoon, Yin Tar, they are different names for the same being.”

Dany blinked at that. “You have similar ones here in Westeros,” Nyra went on. “The Last Hero, The Prince That Was Promised. Different faces of the same thing.”

That name she knew, Aemon had spoken of it before giving her the journal. “The Prince That Was Promised,” she said. “Aemon was interested in these stories?”

“More than you think, your Grace,” Nyra said. “I imagine it began not long after he fled Dorne. He already knew a few of the tales when I met him, but after Valyria, his interest grew. Especially once the scrolls began to mention Asshai. As I said, that city remembers things others have forgotten.”

The serving girl came back then with a new pot of tea and placed it down on the table, before quickly excusing herself to go fetch a second cup for Nyra.

Dany, meanwhile, kept reading the page, and as she did, she began to remember the conversation she had with Aemon. About Rhaegar’s prophecy and her nephew saying there were many different versions and interpretations of it across the world.

“This prophecy of Azor Ahai,” she asked after some time. “Did it come from Asshai?” For some reason, Dany had grown quite interested.

“Somewhat,” Nyra said. “The man himself was said to have lived thousands of years ago, but around five thousand years ago, a book was discovered in Asshai. It said that Azor Ahai would be reborn as the champion of R’hllor, after a long summer, when cold darkness falls over the world.”

A long summer, Dany mused. This had been the longest summer in recorded history. She pushed the thought aside. It was just an old story, nothing more. Aemon had likely looked into it because it had something to do with dragons, or perhaps to prove Rhaegar wrong in his beliefs. That had to be it.

“You know a lot about Asshai, my lady,” Dany murmured, more to herself than to Nyra, though still loud enough for her to hear.

“How could I not?” the woman replied easily. “I have traveled there before.” That made Dany look up at her in surprise. “Oh, don’t be so shocked, your Grace, I’ve been all over Essos. When one wishes to learn, they often end up in places they never thought to see.” There was a faint glint in her mismatched eyes as she spoke.

Dany blinked, her mind turning over the thought. Essos was vast and to have seen it all would take many, many years. “But… you’re so young,” she said before she could stop herself.

Nyra gave a laugh. “I’ve been blessed with a face that doesn’t show its years,” she said. “I’m older than I look, Princess, much older. But I’ve learned to be grateful for how I appear. It makes life simpler.”

Dany hesitated, curiosity slipping past her manners. “How… how old?” she managed to ask.

Nyra’s smile deepened. “My, my, Princess,” she said lightly. “It isn’t polite to ask a woman her age, even if the one asking is a woman as well.” Heat rose to Dany’s cheeks and she looked down quickly, pretending to busy herself with the journal before her.

The serving girl came back again with a second cup, and once she left, Nyra poured herself some tea. Dany took the chance to stir the conversation in a different direction.

She had read through everything that Aemon had written about the different prophecies, but there was nothing about the three heads of the dragon, the one Rhaegar believed in.

After thinking it over for some time, she decided to ask. “Your nephew was always interested in understanding it,” Nyra said. “Many prophecies speak of a trinity of some kind, Azor Ahai, Nissa Nissa, and Lightbringer, for instance, but nowhere is there mention of anything close to what King Rhaegar believes.”

Dany nodded slowly. “But did he come up with anything of his own?”

“Not exactly,” Nyra said, setting her cup down. “But he did have a few thoughts. The three-headed dragon is your house’s sigil, made by Aegon the Conqueror to honor himself, his two sisters, and their dragons. Prince Aemon thought that perhaps it was tied to the dream that Aegon was said to have had before the Conquest.”

“Aegon’s dream,” Dany murmured.

“Yes,” Nyra said with a nod. “Your brother seems to believe that his own interpretation of the prophecy is the only true one, so Aemon tried to look elsewhere. He came to think that perhaps the three heads that are one referred to the idea behind your sigil, three conquerors united, bound together, becoming one.”

Dany’s gaze fell to the journal again. Was that what Rhaegar had believed too? Was that why he wanted Aegon to wed Rhae and Senya, to bind them together and make them one?

“Of course,” Nyra went on, a knowing smile on her lips, “Aemon stopped trying to make sense of it after a while. He decided that without proof, it was only guesswork. He might have been wrong, or he might have been right.” Her mismatched eyes caught the light, and for a brief moment, Dany couldn’t tell whether Nyra was amused, or if she knew more than she let on.

They spoke more. Much more.

Dany asked questions about Essos and about the things Aemon had written, of cities and ruins, of beliefs and gods, of prophecies when a page about it came up. Nyra answered all of them, though Dany suspected she didn’t say everything she knew. There was no way to prove it, but the feeling lingered all the same.

They spoke of salt and smoke, and bleeding stars. Of empires long dead, but no matter where the conversation drifted, it always returned to dragons. Dany didn’t mind.

When the sun was high and the tea long gone cold, Dany finally asked about Aemon and Rhaenys. Nyra had known that she had the journal, so she must have seen Aemon after Dany's conversation with him, maybe she even helped him escape.

“The prince,” Nyra sighed. “He didn’t only ask me to come to you because of the journal.”

Dany raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to go on. “He was worried about you, your Grace,” Nyra said. “He believed that with him gone, and your betrothal, short-lived as it was, broken, there would be others trying to claim your attention, and not all of them with good intent.”

“That won’t happen,” Dany said, certain of it.

“I see that now too, after speaking with you,” Nyra said. “You’re a rare thing, and much wiser than most give you credit for. But can you blame him, Princess? He ran off in the dead of night, and he knew it would cause a rift between him and the King. He only wanted to keep his family safe.”

No, she couldn’t blame him for that. Dany looked down at the page again, her fingers brushing the ink. When she glanced back up, Nyra was staring out the window, watching a small flock of crows fly past, a smile on her lips.

“I say we get out of these chambers for a while,” the older woman said. “Walk the grounds, your Grace. The sun’s at its height and the Red Keep’s gardens are rather beautiful this time of day. And perhaps we’ll come across your youngest niece. I hear the two of you are quite fond of each other.”

Senya, Dany had almost forgotten. She hadn’t seen her since yesterday, when Elia and Lyanna had explained everything to the girl. Visenya had looked confused, worried, but she hadn’t spoken to her much during supper as Elia and Lya had taken her away soon after.

Her eyes fell to the journal one last time. There was a trail of ink near the bottom of the page, faint, uneven and it almost looked like a bleeding star. She closed the book and rose to her feet. “Let’s go, my Lady,” she said with a smile. “I find I quite enjoy having conversations with you.”

Chapter Text

The Dornish Queen

It was close to midday when Elia finally woke up, the sunlight spilling through the open window and with it came the cold air of the Blackwater, making the Queen shiver and pull the sheets closer to herself. Lyanna was sleeping beside her, curled up as if she were a child, her dark hair a tangle across the pillow. She looked as tired as Elia felt after the night they’d had.

Rhaegar had refused to see either of them after speaking with Aegon, and that had only made the two Queens angrier than they already were, and their fury had only grown when they saw their son came out of the Throne room and explained what had passed between him and his father.

As punishment, Rhaegar had stripped Aegon of his command of the City Watch and told him he was not to leave the Keep. He had also said that he would see to it that Jaime was punished as well, along with Aemon and Rhae themselves, though how he planned to punish their children now was beyond Elia.

They had sent Egg to bed after, their boy had clearly needed it after everything, and they had waited outside the Throne Room until Rhaegar finally emerged. He had looked as pale and hollow as Aegon had, and it was clear the talk between them had not been an easy one. Not that it mattered, he still owed them answers.

But he had refused to speak, no matter how much they pressed, and he’d been spared from their anger only by the arrival of Ser Arthur and Ser Gerold. Even then Lyanna had been ready to fight her way through them if Elia hadn’t stopped her, telling her wife that they would speak with Rhaegar come morning, for surely he couldn’t hide from them forever.

Speaking of Lyanna, she moved closer now, her arm slipping around Elia’s waist and drawing her back into the bed. It made Elia smile, if only for a moment, before her mouth suddenly went dry and something heavy and hollow settled in her chest.

A moment later she was up, throwing the sheets aside and rushing for the chamber pot, barely making it before her stomach gave out.

She retched hard, and the sound of it seemed to wake Lyanna, since Elia could have sworn she heard her wife call out her name, but it was difficult to focus on anything beyond the pounding in her head and the bitter taste in her mouth.

When it finally passed, she slumped against the wall, drawing her knees up to her chest as her body shook uncontrollably. She felt both hot and cold all at once, her skin clammy, her nightgown clinging to her back with sweat. The dryness in her mouth only worsened, and for a moment she feared she might be sick again.

“Elia!?”

All too suddenly Lyanna was beside her, kneeling on the cold floor and pulling her into her arms. “By the gods, you’re burning.” Her hand pressed against Elia’s brow, and the touch felt both comforting and unbearable at the same time. Elia tried to speak, but the words refused to come. Her head spun too much, her vision swam, and the world itself seemed to tilt around her.

It was so bad that she didn’t even notice Lyanna move away until she heard a door open somewhere far off, followed by the sound of her wife’s voice ordering someone to fetch the maester.

Elia could barely keep her eyes open. Her nightgown clung to her skin like a second layer, and she shivered though her body still burned.

Then Lyanna was back, her hair disheveled and eyes wide with worry,as she knelt again, one hand cupping Elia’s cheek. “It’s going to be all right,” she said quickly. “Marwyn will be here soon.”

Elia met her gaze with tired eyes, seeing the fear there as plain as daylight. “It’s just some fever,” Lyanna whispered after a moment, as if she was trying to convince herself, but Elia knew it was no fever, and had Lyanna not been so worried she would have seen it too.

Marwyn had confirmed it when he arrived. The Grandmaester looked her over quickly, his eyes taking in the pallor of her skin, the flush on her cheeks, the faint swelling and tenderness of her breasts, before he instructed the servants to help her to his chambers.

Once there, he examined her carefully. He noted the darkening of her already dusky nipples, the subtle fullness of her breasts, the way her stomach twitched slightly under his touch, and how she reacted when he pressed lightly on her abdomen. He asked her to taste a bit of vinegar mixed with crushed garlic, watching as her stomach roiled against it, and each test confirmed what Elia had already known.

“You’re with a child, your Grace,” Marwyn said, though there was no surprise in his voice.

“What?” Lyanna asked, startled, looking between Elia and the Grandmaester. “How… How long?”

Marwyn rested his hand gently on Elia’s belly. “A moon or two at most. Your belly is not yet swollen, though given your frailness, your Grace, it will become noticeable soon.”

Two moons at most, Elia thought, so a moon before Aemon returned to Dragonstone. The two years Lyanna had spent at Winterfell, the time she herself had divided between King’s Landing and Sunspear… She and Rhaegar had not coupled often, but every once in a while, they would end up curled up under the sheets.

“How?” Lyanna asked, taking Elia’s hand in hers. “I… I thought you… after Aegon…”

Elia gave a hollow smile. “It wasn’t that I couldn’t, I could. It was that after Aegon, they warned me another pregnancy could…” She did not speak the last words, but it was unnecessary. Lyanna looked away, and Marwyn himself lowered his gaze.

How ironic, she thought. A child would be born to them, another member of their family, and yet there was almost no happiness in the chamber.

“Your Grace,” the Grandmaester said a few moments later, his voice low and careful. “I had thought that, with your frailness, the time for you to conceive would have passed long ago.” Elia knew that. Most women could not bear children after forty, and with her delicate health, Marwyn had warned her that her years of fertility would end far sooner.

Her moonblood had grown inconsistent over the past years, weaker and more irregular, yet there was a child growing inside her now. Slowly, her hands rose, to her belly, as the full weight of this finally started to set in.

A babe. Aegon had been born to her eight-and-ten years ago, Rhae two years earlier, and though Aemon, Visenya, and Daeron were as much her children, none had sprung from her womb in nearly two decades.

“My Queen,” Marwyn spoke again. “As I’m sure you understand, this is a most precarious situation. Considering your age and your frailty, even a small amount of stress or strain could have grave consequences.”

Both she and Lyanna looked at him, puzzled, and the maester only inclined his head, his dark eyes steady. Of course he would know, Elia thought. By now the whole capital surely whispered of Aemon and Rhaenys’ flight, and the court would not be blind to the strain it had caused.

“What kind of consequences?” Lyanna asked, her fingers tightening around Elia’s as she held her hand in both of hers.

“From minor discomforts to… the babe being stillborn, and her Grace herself succumbing sooner than the child is born,” Marwyn said without any flourish in his voice. “This wouldn’t have been too great a problem under normal circumstances, but considering Queen Elia’s frailness, her age, and how difficult her previous two pregnancies had been, I remain concerned about this all the same.”

The Grandmaester left the chamber soon after, saying he would remind the servants which foods were best avoided in Elia’s meals, leaving the Queens alone. “How are you feeling?” her wife asked sometime later, their arms still linked as they sat beside one another.

“Well enough,” Elia said, offering a smile, but from the look in Lyanna’s eyes it was clear her wife saw right through it. In truth, Elia was worried, and it took everything she had not to show it. A part of her wanted to be happy, to cherish the small life growing inside her, but another part wanted nothing more than to cling to her wife and weep.

Lyanna shifted closer, drawing Elia into her arms. “I don’t know what to think,” she whispered. “What to feel. Am I supposed to be happy that we’ll have another child… or afraid of what it might do to you?”

Elia didn’t miss the slight tremor in her wife’s voice and so she lifted a hand and cupped Lyanna’s cheek gently. “Don’t you worry,” she said softly, though the words felt hollow the moment they left her lips. “I was able to bear both Egg and Rhae and come through well enough.” She tried to smile again. “And Marwyn is far more skilled than Pycelle ever was. After all, he helped you deliver both Senya and Daeron.”

Lyanna was about to say something when the door to the chamber suddenly burst open, and in came Rhaegar looking tired and disheveled, still wearing the same clothes he had on yesterday, meaning he likely hadn’t gone to bed at all.

She felt her wife’s hand tighten over her own, and Elia didn’t need to look up to know the expression on her face.

“I came here as soon as they told me,” their husband said, the anger and disappointment he had shown when he refused to speak to them before was now gone. “Is… is it true?”

The King moved forward, but Lyanna quickly stood up, her hands curling into fists as she glared at him. “So now you grace us with your presence,” she said mockingly, though her voice was full of venom.

Rhaegar immediately stopped in his steps and looked up, surprised, before his expression softened into one of understanding, a sigh escaping his lips. “Lya, not now, please.”

“Then when?” Elia spoke before she could stop herself, making both of them turn to her. “Tell me, husband, had they not told you that I was sick when I woke, would you have come to see us at all?”

Rhaegar looked at both of them, and Elia could have sworn she saw pleading in her husband’s eyes. “I know that you are both cross with me,” he finally spoke. “But I ask you not to bring that up now. I came here not as a king, but as a husband who was told his wife was so sick she could barely stand, and as a father who just learned that he might have another child.”

Elia exchanged a look with her wife, and it was almost as if they had held an entire silent conversation, and an idea came to her then. Rhaegar had come to them now, but he wouldn’t have done so had she not been brought here in such haste. Perhaps they could have their talk because of it.

“Fine,” she sighed and motioned to the seat on her other side. “Come and sit, dear husband.”

Rhaegar did as she said and sat down quickly, his gaze never leaving her. “So… is it true?” he asked again.

“That I’m pregnant?” she asked in return, not waiting for him to speak. “Yes, it’s true.”

The look on Rhaegar’s face was what Elia imagined hers and Lya’s must have been when they had first heard the news, and the thought almost made her smile, almost.

“I…” their husband began. “I… I am…”

“Both worried and happy,” Elia finished for him before he could find the words. “Yes, apparently that’s everyone’s reaction to me being with child.”

The King didn’t answer, his lips pressing together as if he wasn’t sure what to say, and it was Lyanna who spoke instead. “Marwyn said that any stress or strain could cause problems,” she told him. “Considering our beloved wife’s health and age, I’m sure you understand what that means.”

Smart, Elia thought, hiding the faintest curve of her lips. What her wife was doing was clever, pressing down on Rhaegar’s conscience before their talk could even begin. Perhaps now it would be easier.

“I understand,” Rhaegar said at last, looking at Lya before turning his gaze back to her, and a smile appeared on his lips then. “I’m happy, truly. I hadn’t thought that after Daeron we would ever have another child, but it seems there will be one more addition to our family.”

Despite herself, Elia smiled at his words. She remembered how happy they all had been when Visenya was born, and later when Daeron came into the world. Aegon and Rhaenys had brought happiness too, but they had not met Lyanna then, and Aemon had been born during the Rebellion, and there had been no celebration, no songs sung for him, no doves let loose above the castle walls.

They will celebrate this one, she thought as her hand came once more to rest over her belly. They will rejoice… or they will mourn the child and me both.

“Well,” Lyanna’s voice broke her out of her thoughts, and when Elia looked up, she saw the mischievous smirk forming on her wife’s lips. “Since you’re here now, dear husband, I imagine you’ll be able to help Elia get rid of one matter that has been causing her quite a bit of stress since yesterday.”

Rhaegar looked at Lyanna for a long moment, his eyes narrowing slightly, before letting out a sigh and giving a nod. “Yes,” he murmured. “I imagine with the pregnancy it would be better to speak of it now.”

“Wonderful,” Elia said, adjusting herself against the cushions and folding her hands neatly over her lap. “Aegon told us quite a bit of what you spoke of with him, though I imagine our sweet boy was rather angry and emotional at the time. So, I would very much like to hear it from you as well.”

“Aye,” Lyanna added. “Egg told us you stripped him of his command over the City Watch, and that you also plan to punish Jaime, along with Aemon and Rhaenys.”

“Yes, I did,” Rhaegar said, his tone even, though his gaze flickered between them. “Aegon helped Aemon and Rhae escape, and he used his position as Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks to do it. I had to strip him of that command, otherwise people might start getting ideas in their heads.”

Elia understood his reasoning, though she disliked it all the same. Aegon had served well, better than most commanders before him, and the Gold Cloaks had grown disciplined under his lead. Yet, she could not deny that Rhaegar’s words made sense. Appearances mattered in King’s Landing, more than truth itself ever did.

“And Jaime?” she asked.

Rhaegar looked at her then, hesitation clear in his eyes. It was no secret in their family that Elia had always been fond of Jaime. During the Rebellion, he had been her closest friend, and it had been Elia herself who asked him to look after Lyanna and Aemon after the war, and it was no wonder that the young prince and the knight had grown close.

“Elia,” Rhaegar said gently. “He has to be punished. I gave him a direct order to guard Senya, and instead he helped our children escape and from what I’ve heard, half the city saw him do it. It is not a good look when a knight of the Kingsguard defies his king.”

She nodded slowly, though her gaze fell to her hands. He was right again, but that didn’t mean she liked it. Lyanna’s expression had softened, weariness and anger warring behind her dark eyes.

How Rhaegar planned to punish Jaime without angering both Tywin and the people of the capital was beyond her. The city loved Jaime Lannister, especially since the truth of Aerys’s wildfire plot had somehow become publicly known.

“How about you leave Elia and I to speak with Jaime?” Lyanna suddenly asked, making both Elia and Rhaegar look at her. “I’m sure he’d be more comfortable explaining himself to us rather than to you.” The look she gave her husband was not one to be argued with.

Rhaegar hesitated for a moment, his violet eyes darting between the two women before lowering to the floor. “Yes… I imagine that would be for the best.”

“Wonderful,” the she-wolf said, her tone leaving little room for discussion. “Now, you say you want to punish Jaime, and you’ve already seen fit to strip Egg of his command for helping Aemon and Rhae… but what of Nyra? She came into the Throne Room with them, didn’t she? I imagine she had a hand in it as well.”

Rhaegar’s jaw tensed, and his gaze hardened with thought. “I can’t do much about Nyra,” he admitted after a moment. “She isn’t one of our subjects, and she’s not sworn to our house. Whatever she’s done, she’s done as a foreigner, and taking action against her might cause more trouble than it’s worth.”

Elia frowned, though she kept silent as her husband went on. “Aemon said that she's from Volantis,” Rhaegar continued, his tone quieter now, thoughtful. “But when I asked Jon to look into her background he found nothing, and you know how the Free Cities are, Volantis least of all will take kindly to having one of their own punished by us.” The thought that their Master of Whisperers had uncovered nothing about this silver-haired woman troubled her, though she pushed those thoughts aside for now.

“And what about Aemon and Rhae?” Lyanna asked, her voice tightening once more as she crossed her arms. “Aegon said you planned to somehow punish them.” She crossed her arms.

Elia didn’t miss the way Rhaegar’s gaze faltered, his eyes refusing to meet Lyanna’s. “I… I planned to, yes.”

The anger she had buried since yesterday began to stir again inside Elia, but she contained it. Aemon and Rhaenys were safe now, beyond Rhaegar’s reach, on Dragonstone, likely already wed. The thought made her lips curve into a smirk. For all his songs and talk of prophecy, her husband could not see when a battle was already lost, and he still clawed at control even as it slipped through his fingers.

“And how exactly do you plan to do that?” she asked.

For a moment, Rhaegar looked almost uncertain or maybe aware that whatever words he chose next could only make things worse. His eyes darted between them, his jaw tightening, and for a long moment, the room fell quiet but for the crackle of the hearth.

"I imagine it would be for the best if we don't speak of this now," Rhaegar finally said, and Elia had to fight the urge to roll her eyes at him. His tone was the same one he always used when he wanted to end a discussion without really ending it. "I know you disagree with me on this," he went on, "and as Lya herself reminded me, stress would do you no good."

It was no true answer, yet it was answer enough. He planned something, Elia could see it as clearly as if he’d said it aloud.

She needn’t be a greenseer to know that Aemon and Rhae would soon be wed, if they weren’t already, and Aegon had told them that his brother had promised to return within a few days. Rhaegar surely knew this too, and if she guessed right, he meant to denounce their union when the word reached him.

"Rhaegar," she said softly, forcing her voice to be gentle when all she wanted was to shout. "Please tell me you won’t act against our children. I beg you, for my sake and that of our babe." She reached out and laid her hand upon his.

He looked down at her hand for a long moment before lifting his gaze first to her, then to Lyanna, and unlike Elia, her wife was giving him no softness at all.

"I... I can’t make that promise, Elia," he said at last, and suddenly he wouldn’t meet her eyes. "As much as I would wish to tell you what you want to hear, I can’t... not now."

Anger rose in her chest, though not as fast as it did in Lyanna. "For gods’ sake, Rhaegar," the she-wolf bit out. "It’s over, they’re beyond your reach now. You can’t drag them back, and you shouldn’t even try. Let them live their lives and be done with it." Rhaegar’s gaze snapped to hers, and the two locked in a silent contest of wills.

"She’s right, my love," Elia said quietly, letting her voice turn soft, weary and vulnerable. That tone had often worked on him before, and indeed, his shoulders seemed to ease slightly, though his eyes still burned with that stubborn glint she had come to know too well. "Confining Aemon to his chambers was folly enough," she continued, "but forcing that betrothal between him and Dany? That was worse, especially after what the realm saw at the tourney. If you move against them now, you won’t just divide this family, you’ll divide the realm."

"It won’t come to that," Rhaegar insisted.

"Of course it will," Lyanna shot back before Elia could. "The whole realm will know of what’s happened by now. A King arranges a sudden betrothal for his son, confines that same son to his chambers when he protests, and then that son flees the capital with the King’s eldest daughter, with the help of the heir himself." Her words came fast. "That alone would be scandalous enough, but our Aemon also happens to be the only dragonrider in the world.”

Rhaegar didn’t say anything for a few moments, almost as if he were trying to decide if he should speak at all. “Lya, if you would just…”

“No, not another word!” Her wife cut him off sharply. “You’ve been King for seven-and-ten years, where is your sense of statecraft? Can you not see what will happen if you act against Aemon and Rhae now?” Lyanna’s voice rose, her eyes flashing as she glared at him.

As always, it fell to Elia to try and be the bridge between them, even if she was just as angry with Rhaegar as Lyanna was. She reached out, taking both their hands in hers. “My love,” she said, looking at Rhaegar, her voice softening. “You look tired. You have bags under your eyes, have you slept at all?” The question caught them both off guard.

The King looked at her with weary eyes, as if unsure what she was doing.

“You should rest,” Elia continued gently. “You’re wearing the same clothes as yesterday, so I believe you haven’t slept at all.”

It was then that Lyanna seemed to realize what Elia was doing. After a moment, she joined in, her tone calmer and far more composed than before. “Elia speaks wisely. Go and get some sleep, sweet husband, for the lack of it has clearly made you think some rather foolish things.”

Rhaegar’s gaze shifted from one to the other. “I have a council meeting to attend,” he tried to protest.

“I’m sure your small council will manage one meeting without you,” Lyanna said, rolling her eyes. “Go and rest, Rhaegar. Think about what we’ve said, and if I find out that you haven’t slept, I’ll drag you to bed myself.”

The King didn’t seem to want to leave, but when Elia gently pulled her hand from his and brought it to her belly, giving him a small, almost shy smile, Rhaegar finally seemed to cave in. He left soon after, saying nothing more, and leaving his two Queens alone.

“I’m worried,” Elia said after a few moments of silence. She knew Rhaegar well, and her husband could be stubborn when he wanted to be. Not as much as Lyanna, perhaps, but close. And when it came to his prophecy… he could be impossible to reason with. But this, what he was doing, what he planned to do, this was going too far.

“You shouldn’t be,” Lyanna said, bringing a hand to Elia’s belly. “It’s not good for you… or the babe.”

She smiled at her wife. “Don’t fret over me just yet. I’ll be fine.” The words tasted bitter in her mouth, but she said them all the same. “I just can’t stop thinking about what our husband might do.”

Lyanna gave a nod. “As much as I agree with you, I doubt there’s much we can do to change his mind.”

“His mind, no,” Elia said. “But we can prepare, in case he does try something.” That made Lyanna pause, and the slight confusion in her eyes almost made Elia laugh. “We’re both Queens, Lya,” she said. “And while we may not have the same power as Rhaegar does, it doesn’t mean we’re powerless.”

Lyanna still looked unconvinced, and so Elia pressed on. “Throughout the history of our House, there have been Queens who have guided, and Queens who have held the realm together when their husbands could not. When the King walks toward folly, it often falls to the Queen to see that he doesn’t take the realm with him.”

Elia had spent her whole life learning to move through the court. And while Lyanna had grown into her role, had learned from both her and from Rhaella, there were still things she didn’t quite see yet.

“I know that we have power, Elia,” her wife said after a moment. “But how exactly do you plan to prepare, if something does come to pass?”

Elia smiled at her and slowly rose from the bed, her hand reaching out to take Lyanna’s and steady herself.

“First,” she said, “we break the wonderful news to the rest of our family and put their minds at ease.” Her tone was light, but there was purpose behind the words. “Once that’s done, we speak with Jaime.”

Lyanna raised a brow at that, but Elia went on before she could ask. “I think I might have an idea of what sort of punishment Rhaegar can give our dear Kingsguard,” the elder Queen said.

The Silent Princess

A small brazier had been brought and lit before them, the red and gold flames rising and lapping into the dark, slightly pushing the chill away. It was dark, with the moon shining high up in the sky, its white glow the only thing in the endless black sea above them.

They stood ashore, the castle looming not too far behind, with Nyraxes and the castellan of Dragonstone, old Alard Celtigar, being the only souls close by. The great she-dragon watched them with surprising interest in those deep blue eyes of hers, her head tilted slightly and her wings tucked in close to her sides, while Celtigar stood stiff as ever, looking as if he would rather be anywhere else but here.

There were others as well, standing on the hill behind them. Rhaenys could see their shapes even if she couldn’t quite make them out, and if she were fully honest, she didn’t care much if they watched or not.

When she had been younger, Rhaenys had always imagined her wedding would go a certain way. She would be wed in the Great Sept of Baelor, under the eyes of the Seven, with the whole realm there to witness the union. Every lord, every lady, every knight and bannerman, all gathered to watch her be given away.

Afterward, there would be a feast unlike any Westeros had seen, with singers from Lys, dancers from Volantis, roasted aurochs and wine flowing until morning. And when the time came for the bedding, her husband would refuse it, then scoop her up in his arms and carry her through the halls of the Red Keep.

Over the years, the shapes in those dreams had become clearer, and the most important one of all had always been the man she would marry. Aemon. Even in her earliest fancies, it had been him standing beside her. Even when he had been far away in the East, lost to her for four long years, even when she had been promised to Aegon and Senya, still it was Aemon's face she saw in her mind’s eye when she imagined her wedding.

Originally, they hadn’t planned to have a Valyrian ceremony. Aemon had only mentioned it in passing, but she had liked the idea immediately. It felt right, after all they were on Dragonstone, and her brother was a dragonrider. Their ancestors had wed this way, long before they ever converted to the Faith, and so Rhaenys had asked if they could have one too, and Aemon had agreed.

It wasn’t a full one, though. There were many things required for a proper Valyrian wedding, the ceremonial attire for one. There were some dresses in the castle’s stores, but none fit her properly, so instead she wore a simple, sleeveless gown of dark red, one that was slightly tight across her shoulders and waist but still fine enough for the night.

Aemon hadn’t found much either, and so he wore a red and black tunic that bore their house’s three-headed dragon over the heart.

Now, Rhaenys watched as her brother pulled out a piece of dragonglass, almost dagger-like in its shape. Aemon gave her a small, reassuring smile before stepping closer. His hand came up to her cheek, and for a moment she forgot the cold wind coming off the sea. Then he brought the dragonglass to her lips.

He met her gaze and didn’t look away, not even as he drew the blade down slowly. The cut was light, but she still winced at the sting and at the taste of her own blood on her tongue. Aemon’s expression softened, and when he took the blade away, his hand lingered on her cheek for a moment longer than it needed to. Then, without a word, he brought his fingers to her lips, coating them in her blood before lifting them to her brow.

He had explained to her that they would each draw a mark, an old Valyrian glyph. He would draw fire upon her brow, and she would give him blood in return.

A moment later, he stepped away, still smiling at her as if she were the most precious thing in the whole world, and thought her lip hurt from the cut, but she smiled in return before taking the dragonglass from his hand.

Unlike Aemon, her hands trembled slightly as she brought it to his lips, and when her fingers brushed his cheek, she left them there, partly for steadiness, partly because she couldn’t bring herself to let go. Her brother looked calm, almost serene, those violet eyes holding that same soft glint they always did when he looked at her. It made her feel so very warm inside.

She did as he had done before, the dragonglass gliding lightly against his lip. Blood welled up and trickled down his chin, and she caught it on her fingers before bringing her hand to his brow, drawing the glyph as he had done for her. The mark she made wasn’t clean, but it would do.

They lingered together like that for a moment longer, before Aemon took the blade from her hands. He turned it in his palm once, the dark dragonglass catching the light of the brazier, and then pressed it to his skin without a word. Slowly, he began to make the cut, and blood welled up around the wound, spilling through his fingers and falling onto the grass below. The cut was somewhat wide, though not too deep, and her brother barely even flinched.

A moment later, he looked at her again, a small smile tugging at his lips, before handing her the blade. She took it carefully, her fingers brushing his, and then did the same. The dragonglass bit into her skin with a sharp sting that made her wince again, but she didn’t stop until it was done. Her blood came quickly, warm against her hand, and she found herself watching it trail down her fingers, gleaming red in the brazier’s glow.

Their cut hands met then, the blood from both wounds mingling together, dripping slowly down their wrists. A moment later, Celtigar stepped forward and began to wrap the binding cloth around their hands, tying it as tightly as he could without causing too much discomfort to either her or Aemon.

“Hen lantoti ānogar, va sȳdroty vāedroma,” the old man began, his High Valyrian rough and clipped, spoken with a thick accent unlike the way Aemon or Nyra spoke it. “Mēro perzot gīhoti, elēdroma iārza sīr.”

Blood of two, joined as one, Rhaenys thought, and the words brought a small smile to her lips as she looked up at Aemon again. That’s what they were now, husband and wife, bound until the end of their days, and even then, she wasn’t sure death would be enough.

She didn’t know how long they stood like that, hands still bound, their blood drying beneath the cloth, but at some point, Celtigar returned and held out the cup to her. Rhae took it without a word and drank. The taste was thick and strange, sweet at first, then bitter, and not unlike the taste of her own blood that still lingered faintly on her tongue.

Rhaenys handed the cup to Aemon, “Izulī ampa perzī,” and he drank it down. “Prūmī lanti sēteksi.”

He set the cup aside, and so they spoke their vows once more. “Ānogar naejot ānogar, perzys naejot perzys.”

They said the words in union, their gazes locked, mouths moving together. “Qēlossāa se zaldrīzoti iōragon ozūndesi naejot īlva nādrī. Ilipti ūndekke ūbrenkon, se ūndekke āeksion, mēre sīr.”

Once the words had been spoken, Rhaenys faintly heard Celtigar say something again, but the words didn’t reach her. All her focus was on Aemon, her baby brother and her husband now. She brought a hand up to his cheek without thinking, and he looked at her with that same stupid grin of his that she loved so much.

Then he leaned in, and all other thoughts left her.

His lips pressed to hers, and Rhae closed her eyes, letting herself fall into the feeling. They had kissed many times before, but this felt different, maybe it was because they were wed now, husband and wife, bound together now.

Her hand slid to the back of his head, pulling him closer, and she had to rise on her toes just to meet him properly. Their mouths moved together, and when their tongues met, she tasted blood again. Was hers again or his? Maybe it was both, mixed together now, one.

They kissed for what felt like an eternity, and when they finally pulled apart, breathless, his arms were still around her waist, and her fingers were still tangled in his hair.

Everything after that was a blur.

She remembered Aemon scooping her up into his arms and carrying her back toward the castle, while her fingers were tangled in his hair, pulling him down to kiss her again and again, never letting him stray far.

The walk from the shore to their chambers was little more than a haze of mouths and tongues, his lips brushing hers, his tongue swiping across her cut lower lip, demanding entry, and Rhaenys was all too glad to grant it. She met him eagerly, her tongue tangling with his in a dance that left her head spinning, moaning into his mouth, only for those moans to be swallowed by his kiss.

Somehow, they managed to reach their chambers. Aemon barely got the door open with her still nestled in his arms, and she was forced to kiss and bite at his neck when he looked away to make sure that it was locked.

The moment his eyes were back on her, she kissed him, hard, and then they tumbled onto the bed, with Rhae giggling as he kissed her mouth, then her neck, before his lips found her pulse point making her moan louder than she meant to, likely loud enough for half the Keep to hear.

Her hands had already begun working the buttons of his tunic, when Aemon found the straps of her gown. He kissed and licked and bit his way across her neck and shoulders, leaving behind marks, and each one drew another gasp from her lips, and every sound she made only seemed to drive him further, making it all the harder for Rhae to keep focus on the buttons of his tunic.

Still, she managed the last one, and only then did he pull away. The sudden loss of contact almost made her whimper, but all he did was take the tunic off and toss it aside, allowing her to admire his bare and muscled chest for a few moments, before he was back on her again.

Her hands roamed his bare back as Aemon kept working at her gown, his fingers steadier than hers had ever been. Out of the corner of her eye, Rhaenys caught a flicker of their shadows on the wall, cast in gold and red by the hearth.

They were locked together, moving as one, their limbs twisting and pulling, their bodies close. A dance of dragons in truth, she mused, but the thought vanished the moment the last strap gave way, and her gown slipped from her shoulders, leaving her in naught but her smallclothes.

When they had been younger, it was she who had always led in their relationship, young as they were with no proper understanding of how to deal with their feelings. Aemon had been quieter then, much softer and unsure of himself, but that was gone now.

Rhaenys was no expert in the art of lovemaking, for she was still a maid, and beyond what her septas and cousins had told her, she knew very little of such things. But Aemon… Aemon was no maid. Not with the way he touched her, or the way he kissed, like he’d done it before.

If he had been as untouched as she was, then surely he would have fumbled, would have hesitated, but he hadn’t, not once.

The thought stung. He had been gone for years, half a world away, in cities full of courtesans and women who would part their legs for men like him, but only one name came to her mind now. The name of the woman who had apparently been with him since the first time he had gone to Volantis.

That silver-haired wench had been by his side for years, and from the moment he returned Rhaenys had seen how close they were, how easily Nyra touched him, how Aemon always let her. There could be no other answer, it had to be her. While Rhaenys had waited here, he had…

But the anger was gone before it could take root, as Aemon cupped one of her breasts and his mouth closed around the nipple, making the world fall away, as her head fell back and a loud cry escaped her lips. Instinctively, her own hand rose to the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair as she pulled him closer. Her thoughts blurred, lost in the pleasurable haze that seemed to wrap around her mind like smoke.

Was this what Arianne spoke of? A pleasure unlike any other? It had sounded like folly then, the kind of thing young girls whispered about, but now… Gods.

Aemon’s free hand rose to cup her other breast, as his mouth continued its wonderfully pleasurable work. He lavished her left breast with small bites and licks, and when he finally pulled away to turn his attention to the right, Rhaenys barely had time to catch her breath before he latched on, and her world went dark again.

Her head fell back against the furs, a breathless moan rising in her throat. "Aemon..." His name slipped from her lips like a prayer. But her brother gave no answer, and the warmth that had been pulling in her belly since the moment he carried her from the shore now began to burn as hot as wildfire.

Rhaenys did not know how long that beautiful pleasure lasted. The feeling of time had slipped away from her entirely, but when her mind finally cleared, Aemon was no longer above her. He stood beside the bed now, smiling down at her as he unfastened his belt. The leather slipped from his hands and was tossed aside, followed by his breeches a moment later.

This time, he climbed onto the bed slowly, smiling all the way until he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her lips. “I love you, Rhae,” he whispered, and though she had heard those words more times than she could count, they still made her heart stop.

He kissed her jaw, then her cheek, before his teeth gently found her earlobe. “I love your smell,” her baby brother said, his breath warm against her skin. “I love your hair, your mouth, and the way you kiss me.”

His hands moved to her waist, steadying her.
“I love your body,” he murmured, lips brushing hers again. “I love everything there is to you.”

She opened her mouth to answer, but he kissed her lips before Rhae could speak, and her words melted away into his. Then he moved lower, his mouth finding the hollow of her throat, and the kiss he left there made her moan aloud. “Aemon...” Her voice came out hoarse and low, unrecognizable to her own ears.

He kissed the valley between her breasts, then went lower, down to her belly, until he came to where her soaked smallclothes clung, and Aemon looked up at her then, his violet eyes filled with a silent plea.

She gave him the answer without a word, and with gentle hands, he pulled the wet fabric down her thighs and tossed it aside, and Rhaenys shivered as the cool air brushed her wet sex.

Before long, Aemon was kissing the insides of her thighs, making Rhaenys moan and shift on the bed, her legs opening wider in an invitation, and he took her up on the offer, burying his head fully between her legs, kissing and licking her nether lips, and the feeling of her baby brother doing that felt more wonderful than anything else.

As Aemon devoured her, his pace changed from slow at first, then fast, until Rhaenys was squirming under his touch. She couldn’t have pulled away even if she wished to, not only because her brother, and now husband, held her firmly by the thighs, but also because she would have been a fool to waste such pleasure.

The bedding under her must have surely been soaked through by now, since she herself felt wetter than ever, and soon enough Aemon pulled away, taking his own smallclothes off, throwing them to the side. Rhaenys didn't get much time to fully understand what had just happened when Aemon cupped her cheek with one hand, while the other lined himself up with her entrance, as all the while he smiled down at her. "Rhae?" He asked the question without needing to say the words, and she gave him the answer by cupping his cheek in return, and giving him a smile, both reassuring and yet also slightly worried.

She was sopping wet when he entered her. “Aemon!” Rhae cried out in both pain and ecstasy, as her husband speared into her. He kissed her breasts and sucked her nipples, and all of it was so overwhelming to her, making her moan and scream, as she fully lost control over her body.

Aemon's hips crushed into her own, and just like her, loud moans and groans escaped his lips. “Sister.” He seemed to have struggled getting the word out, lost as he was in all of this.

The Princess knew not how long it all lasted, only that at some point the feeling that had been growing in her belly became too much. She screamed her brother's name and the whole world became white again, with nothing else mattering. Only her husband above her, his hands holding her hips, his mouth and tongue and the feeling of Aemon being inside her.

Tears had welled up in her eyes, as her baby brother continued on, before he too all but screamed her name and spent his seed inside her womb.

Afterwards, they lay tangled together, with Rhaenys resting on top of her husband’s chest. Her limbs were sore, her thighs hurt like a bitch, and she was almost certain there was blood somewhere on the sheets, but she didn’t care about any of that.

I am wedded and bedded now, the Princess thought with a smile. Not quite the way she had imagined it when she was younger, but in the end, it was done all the same, bound to her baby brother.

One of her hands rested on his cheek, the other near his shoulder, where she’d left more than a few scratch marks. Rhae didn’t remember doing it, not clearly, but they looked amusing now next to the older scars he had gotten during his battles in Essos. Just like those battles, she had marked him now too.

Aemon’s hands moved lazily over her body, as if he couldn’t decide where to settle. One was close to her waist, while the other had come to a stop at her backside, where he’d started to absently massage one of her sore cheeks.

She nuzzled her head into the crook of his neck, and in response Aemon’s hands came to her waist, pulling her even closer against him.

“Rhae,” he mumbled after a moment, his voice low and rough with sleep, sounding just as tired as she felt. Then he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her neck, soft and warm.

The Princess tried to say something in return, but no words came out. Her thoughts had already started to blur, and the tiredness was pulling her down fast. Her eyes, already half-lidded, began to close fully, and she didn’t try to stop them. Instead, she let herself sink deeper into the warmth of Aemon’s body under her, choosing to revel in the comfort of it just for a little while longer.

The Lord of Griffins

"Will the King not be joining us?" Monford asked as he took his place beside Randyll Tarly.

"As I’m sure you’re all aware by now," said Marwyn, leaning forward with his fingers tented over the table's edge, "Queen Elia is with child. The King went to see her before I arrived here, and I suspect he chose to remain with his wife for a while longer. I trust we can all understand that."

There were nods around the table, though some were clearly more performative than genuine.

Jon Connington sat straighter in his chair. He understood why Rhaegar had remained behind. The King had done the same for Lyanna when she had first begun carrying Visenya and then again with Daeron.

Elia’s pregnancy was unexpected, miraculous even. Most had believed her womb closed after Prince Aegon, and whispers of her frailty had lingered for years. A third child, perhaps a final one, if the Gods were kind.

Elia of Dorne was kind-hearted and quick-witted, and while Jon had never believed she was worthy of Rhaegar, he could not deny she had borne the crown with grace and dignity.

"If his Grace will not be joining us," Tywin Lannister said flatly, "then I suggest we begin."

"Yes, we should," Lord Arryn echoed, seated beside the empty chair reserved for the King. "I imagine we have quite a lot to go through."

Tywin cleared his throat. "First order of business. The realm must be informed of the Queen’s condition."

"I have already begun drafting the missive," Marwyn replied, producing a rolled parchment from the sleeve of his robe and placing it carefully on the table.

"See it sent before nightfall," Jon Arryn said. "Rumors will carry the news to the smallfolk, but the great lords should hear it from us. Most are still in the capital after the tourney, best they learn of it here."

"It may be wise," added Connington, "to emphasize that the Queen is strong in health, and that the child is expected safely. We do not want the Realm to fear the worst."

Tywin gave him a glance but said nothing, while Marwyn dipped his head. "I shall make the necessary revisions. The ravens will fly before dusk.”

“Mayhaps a celebration should be announced in honor of the Queen being with child,” Mace offered. “It would do the realm good to see the royal family united, especially after… yesterday’s events.”

Leave it to the fat Lord of Highgarden to speak of feasts the moment something of note occurred. Yet even Connington had to admit that after what had happened yesterday, a show of unity might not be such a poor notion. The problem, of course, was that two members of the royal family were gods knew where.

“We might’ve done that,” Lord Tywin said, his voice clipped. “But the Crown’s coffers are still strained. The two royal weddings were always going to be costly affairs, but it was the tourney in honor of Prince Aemon’s return that drove spending into excess.” His eyes flicked toward the Fat Flower. “I advised against such extravagance then, and I advise prudence now.”

“You forget, my Lord Lannister,” Monford cut in smoothly, leaning back in his chair with arms crossed, “those weddings may not come to pass at all. The betrothal between Princess Daenerys and Prince Quentyn has been broken, and the wedding meant to bind her to Prince Aemon at week's end surely won't happen now.”

His tone was mild, but Jon could sense the brine beneath it. “And last I checked,” the Velaryon continued, “one of Prince Aegon’s betrothed’s took flight with Prince Aemon.”

Tywin did not flinch. “Of course,” he said, as though correcting a page who’d misspoken. “But the expenditures for those unions had already begun. Prince Aegon’s wedding was set to be a grand affair, and much of it has been paid for in advance. Canceling now only wastes coin we cannot recover.”

A pause followed “And as for Prince Aemon’s wedding,” he added, steepling his fingers, “though it was announced hastily, I had already redirected funds initially intended for the Martell match. That arrangement had been negotiated with Sunspear for years, and its collapse was no cheap thing.” A murmur of reluctant assent passed through the table.

It was Lord Arryn who spoke next. “Speaking of our wayward prince and princess… is there any word?”

All eyes turned toward the Lord of Griffin’s Roost. “None yet,” he answered. “But Nyraxes was seen flying east, out of the River Gate. Given her heading, Dragonstone remains the first likely destination. If they are there, I’ll know before nightfall.”

The lords gave Jon shallow nods in response, though it was plain as day that the answer did not satisfy them.

Too slow, Connington thought bitterly. Had it been Varys seated in his place, the Spider would’ve known where Aemon and Rhaenys had fled within an hour, but the eunuch was long gone, vanished after the Rebellion with his secrets and his little birds.

“Lord Monford raised the question of the weddings earlier,” Mace said as he took a sip of his wine. “And I believe we should speak of them. While there is little doubt that the betrothal between Princess Daenerys and Prince Aemon is… no longer viable, we also must contend with the matter of Princess Rhaenys fleeing the capital with her brother.”

There it was. Always angling for a rose to bloom in the crown, Jon thought bitterly, watching the Lord of Highgarden closely. The glint in Mace’s eyes was unmistakable. The man smelled opportunity like a hound scents a roasting pig.

Connington’s gaze moved to Tywin seated stone-faced at the opposite side of the table. The Old Lion said nothing, but Jon knew he too was listening carefully. Mace might be foolish enough to say what he wanted aloud, but Tywin Lannister never needed to speak his ambitions.

“The King has not spoken to any of us regarding Prince Aegon’s future,” Lord Arryn said evenly. “But Princess Visenya remains in the city. Until his Grace says otherwise, we are to assume the Crown Prince is still betrothed to at least one of his sisters.”

No one seemed satisfied with Lord Arryn’s answer, but none spoke against it. “I would suggest we move on,” the Hand said, folding his hands atop the polished table. “As important as yesterday’s events are, we lack the full scope of them, and the King’s own presence. Without either, no proper decisions can be made, so let us turn to other matters.”

“Before that, my Lord Hand,” Grand Maester Marwyn spoke, his deep voice cutting through the lull, “we still have the question of the reparations promised to Prince Doran.”

“The Grand Maester speaks wisely,” Lord Tarly noted. “His Grace did say that Prince Oberyn would be granted a place on the small council.”

“Alas, the King made no mention of what position the Red Viper would take,” Tywin said coolly, rifling through the parchments laid before him. “And I imagine the Prince is likely spending time with the Queen now, and as for the improved trade terms promised to Sunspear,” Tywin continued, “I’ll have the stewards begin drafting proposals. I can present a proper list of tariffs and port rights by the next council meeting.”

“That will suffice,” the Hand said, nodding to him. “Until King Rhaegar makes an official declaration regarding Prince Oberyn’s appointment, the current members of the small council will remain unchanged.”

A murmur of agreement circled the table, some more reluctant than others. Jon said nothing, but his eyes moved to Mace Tyrell. They all know who Rhaegar wanted to replace.

If it had been up to him, the Lord of Highgarden would never have been seated on the council to begin with, but Rhaegar had needed the Reach after the Rebellion. Jon understood the logic, but that didn’t mean he liked it. The Reach already had Tarly on the council, and that was more than enough.

“Word from the North?” The question pulled Connington from his thoughts, and he looked up just in time to see Marwyn hand a parchment across the table to Lord Arryn.

“Yes,” the Grandmaester said. “Lord Stark has replied to our summons. He has departed Winterfell with three of his children, as well as the Greyjoy boy. They are en route to White Harbor and should take ship from there within the week.”

The Greyjoys, he had nearly forgotten about them.

“Good,” said Tywin, folding his hands. “As I’ve said before, once the boy arrives, it will fall to us to ensure he understands what is expected of him when he returns to the Iron Isles. We would also be wise to use this opportunity in order to bind the Ironborn more tightly to the rest of the realm.”

“Through marriage?” Mace asked, already perking up.

The Old Lion nodded. “That would be the most prudent path.”

“I’ll draw up a list of possible matches,” Lord Arryn said. “You are all free to offer suggestions.”

And so they did. For the next few minutes, names were tossed across the table like coppers in a tavern, daughters of minor lords from the Mander, nieces of aging Westerlands bannermen, even a bastard girl from the Vale was floated, though quickly dismissed.

The Reach, the North, and the Westerlands were mentioned most of all, and rightly so. Those were the lands that had bled the most under Ironborn raids over the past two generations. If Theon Greyjoy was to be tied to the realm, it should be through a house that had cause to keep him on a leash.

“I’ll have a letter sent to Pyke,” Lord Arryn said once the flurry of names had stopped. “We’ll inform them that Theon is on his way to reclaim his place as heir.”

“Do we have any word from the isles themselves?” Monford asked, glancing at Connington.

“Nothing of note so far,” Jon said. “Though it does trouble me that we haven’t received any word from the Ironborn asking after Balon’s heir.”

“They’ve been quiet ever since their foolish rebellion,” Mace chimed in. “Mayhaps they simply don’t want to remind the realm that they still exist.”

“Or,” Monford said with a more measured tone, “perhaps they assume we’ll give the boy back in time. After all, Theon was taken not only to guarantee Balon’s good behavior, but also to raise the boy among us.”

Connington's thoughts drifted to the Rebellion, not the one Robert had waged, but the one Balon had sparked a few years later. Foolish as it had been, at least the man had been clever enough in choosing his timing.

It had come only a few years after Aerys had fallen, and the realm had not yet been fully united. Not in the way it was now, at least.

The North had bent the knee and was bound to the Crown through Lyanna, but Jon had always known that Lord Stark and his younger brother still mourned their father and other brother. That kind of grief didn't fade just because the war had ended. Rhaegar had been wise to leave them alone for a time, and they had only fully returned to the fold when Aemon and Aegon had been fostered at Winterfell.

The Stormlands were not much better off then, as were the Riverlands. Connington had always held the opinion that Rhaegar had not punished the Tullys hard enough. While he understood the Starks, and even Jon Arryn, and to a much lesser degree Robert himself, in why they fought, Hoster Tully had simply seen an opportunity to bind two more of the kingdoms to his blood through children. He had no cause to do so other than ambition, and he should have been punished much harsher than what Rhaegar gave him.

Jon was pulled from his thoughts when he heard Lord Arryn clear his throat. “There remains the matter of the City Watch,” the Lord Hand said. “As I’m sure all of you recall, Prince Aegon had voiced concerns over the possibility of corruption seeping back into the Gold Cloaks, particularly as many of his men had begun frequenting brothels again.”

“Yes, I believe the Prince was worried about one specific establishment l in particular,” Monford added, fingers tapping idly against the table. “The Blue Pearl, if memory serves.”

“Correct,” Randyll said with a nod. “Though more important than the establishment itself was the man who owns it. Petyr Baelish was the name he mentioned.”

“Indeed,” Lord Arryn confirmed. “As Commander of the City Watch, the Prince had asked me to arrange a meeting with Petyr, given that I’m familiar with the men. The meeting was arranged… but with Prince Aegon no longer commanding the Watch, it remains to be seen what comes of it.”

“The matter of Baelish can wait,” Tywin said. “But leaving the City Watch without a Commander for long will not do. Not with half the realm still gathered in the capital.”

“I would agree with Lord Tywin,” Connington said, folding his arms. “Do we have anyone in mind to replace Prince Aegon, at least for the time being?”

“A few names have been proposed,” Lord Arryn replied, reaching for a parchment near his seat.

They went back and forth on the names for a few minutes, with Tywin pushed for one of the current captains to take up Prince Aegon’s post, a seasoned man, he claimed, already familiar with the workings of the Watch. Jon had little doubt the man was tied to House Lannister in some fashion, whether through coin or kinship.

Mace put forth the name of some Reach knight no one at the table had heard of, a hedge-born second son dressed in green and gold whose only qualification seemed to be his ties to Highgarden. Randyll, at least, made more sense, arguing that the next Commander should be a man with experience not only in battle, but in discipline and leadership.

In the end, they settled on nothing.

“We will present these names to the King,” the Hand said. “Until his Grace decides, the captains of the Watch will have to share the burden between them. And one more thing before we adjourn,” the Hand said, his gaze flicking toward the Velaryon. “Lord Monford, if you will.”

The Lord of Driftmark gave a nod, his expression shifting as he straightened in his seat. “A missive reached Lord Stannis from Storm’s End two days past,” he began. “A Stormlander trading vessel, flying his banner, was set upon near the Stepstones. The ship limped back to the Weeping Town, badly damaged. According to the captain, he lost three other vessels in the attack.”

That drew the table’s full attention. “Pirates?” Mace asked, leaning forward slightly.

“Who else?” Connington said flatly. “We’ve known that it was only a matter of time before one of our ships was going to get hit. Seems that day has come.”

“Has Lord Stannis given his thoughts on the matter?” Tywin asked, eyes narrowing slightly as he turned to Monford.

“He has,” the Velaryon confirmed with a nod. “He requests leave to assemble a squadron of Stormlander ships and scour the Stepstones clean, at his own expense for now. All he asks is that the campaign be recognized as being in royal service and, should it be discovered that one or more of the Free Cities are involved, that the Royal Fleet be ready to assist if needed.”

“If Lord Stannis wishes to bleed his coffers chasing pirates, I see no reason to forbid him,” Tywin said. “The Crown, however, cannot afford a full war in the Stepstones, not now. But an expedition led and funded by the Stormlands is another matter entirely.”

“If memory serves,” Marwyn said, glancing around the table, “we were already discussing the possibility of sending a force to the Stepstones before the tourney.”

“We were,” Tywin confirmed, folding his hands atop the table. “But the circumstances were different then. The royal weddings hadn’t unraveled, and we had a dragon on our side. That is no longer the case.”

“It is the capital’s shipping, and that of the Stormlands and the Reach, that will suffer most,” Randyll said more firmly. “If Lord Stannis is willing to wipe out these pirates, we should back him.”

“With whose coin, Lord Tarly?” Tywin asked, his gaze cold and measured. “Yours? Or Stannis’s?”

“Mayhaps there will be no need for that,” Mace said with a self-satisfied smile. “Lord Stannis is my good-brother, through my sister Janna. And in the same way, he’s tied to Lord Paxter as well. Mayhaps my other good-brother would be willing to lend him aid.”

How often Jon forgot that Stannis was bound to the Tyrells. He doubted the man himself had ever wanted it, and even more, doubted he enjoyed being reminded of it. Still, it had been one of the few things Mace had managed to wring from that long, fruitless siege at Storm’s End. Connington had always suspected that the idea had come not from the Lord of Highgarden himself, but from the Queen of Thorns.

“And leave Arbor’s wine unescorted?” Monford japed, glancing toward Mace with a crooked smile. “I imagine Lord Paxter won’t be thrilled at the thought of us lending his ships to Storm’s End.”

Mace had no reply for that.

“Lord Tywin speaks wisely,” Lord Arryn said. “We will not commit the royal fleet to this campaign, not unless the King decides otherwise. However, we will not forbid Lord Stannis from defending his own routes, so long as he keeps us informed of his progress. Only if the situation grows unmanageable will the matter be brought before the King.”

The meeting had ended not long after, and one by one the lords had gone their separate ways to tend to their own work.

Hours later, when the sun had all but gone down, Jon found himself alone in his chambers, seated behind his desk, a small flame flickering beside him as he went over the reports his agents had brought in.

His network was good, but he would have given much and more to have what Varys once had. The web the Spider had spun in the days of the Mad King had been vast, stretching from the Red Keep to Essos, and with it Jon might have served better, might have found answers faster. Might have spared himself the weight of those looks Rhaegar sometimes gave him when the information he needed wasn’t there.

They were never cruel, those looks. Never harsh. Just disappointed, and somehow that always stung worse.

He would have been lost had it not been for Rhaegar. After the Bells, Aerys had banished him, cast him out, stripped of title and purpose. Jon had been sure he would die somewhere in the East and he likely would have if not for his Prince. Rhaegar had called him back. Had given him a place, a reason to draw breath again.

The door creaked open, and Jon lifted his head to see one of his agents standing at the threshold. “My Lord,” the man said, before producing a folded parchment from his sleeve and placing it on the table. Connington nodded, and the man left without another word.

He reached for the parchment, broke the seal, and unrolled it, his eyes scanned the words, and slowly a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Dragonstone. Aemon and Rhaenys were there, just as he had suspected. He exhaled, and leaned back in his chair.

Rhaegar would be pleased.