Rhaenyra Targaryen (101 A.C., Seventh Moon)
Harrenhal
Rhaenyra's head was pressed gently against Syrax's snout, the golden scales of her dragon warm beneath her cheek. The courtyard of Harrenhal lay quiet in the early dusk, but her heart was not. She was losing so much; Visenya, Aemon, Alicent, and Gwayne were all leaving. Soon, she would be on Dragonstone with Laena and other ladies her mother had promised would be keeping her company, but it wasn't the same.
Neya was like a sister. And Aemon… Aemon was something else. She didn't quite know what he was, not truly, but he was someone she cared for deeply.
"Rhaenyra! There you are, I've been looking for you!"
A voice, full of warmth and relief, cut through her thoughts. She turned and saw Aemon approaching with a smile on his face, his silver-gold hair catching the fading sunlight.
Syrax gave a soft, affectionate cry, sensing the boy's presence.
"Aemon," Rhaenyra said with a smile.
"Hey," he said, slightly breathless. "I've been trying to find you. I want us to fly together one more time. Before you leave on the morrow."
Syrax nudged her forward with a low, rumbling hum.
"It seems my Yellow Lady has given me her blessing," Rhaenyra laughed softly.
"When I'm back, we'll fly together again. On our own dragons," Aemon promised.
Syrax was nearly ready for flight, but not yet. Not for real. Rhaenyra nodded and embraced him tightly.
"Come," Aemon said, taking her hand.
They walked together toward where the great shadow of Balerion rested beside Vhagar, the dragon of their grandfather. The two ancient beasts slumbered like mountains.
"Balerion suscitate (Balerion, wake up)," Aemon called gently as he approached. Calm, casual, unafraid, he laid a hand on the massive black snout.
Balerion rumbled, a deep sound like the cracking of stone, and raised his colossal head.
"Sȳz tubis, uēpa raqiros. Kesi sagon flying lēda Rhaenyra va mōrī jēda gō is. (Good day, old friend. We'll be flying with Rhaenyra one last time before she goes.)"
The Black Dread stretched with a groan of muscle and bone, tail curling out like a bridge for them to climb. The ropes were still too large for them to use, but Balerion knew how to help them mount. If they had finer riding gear, he might have lifted them with his teeth like kittens.
Aemon led the way, steadying Rhaenyra as they made their slow ascent.
At last, they were seated in the great saddle, Aemon strapping her in with practiced care.
"Ready?" he asked.
She nodded, heart pounding.
"Sōvēs." Aemon cried out excitedly.
With a single word, Balerion stirred to life. The dragon rose, lifting them into the air just by standing twenty feet above the earth without even unfurling his wings. Around them, the other dragons rumbled and shifted, displeased at the disturbance.
Then Balerion began to move. Each step was a small earthquake. As he neared the edge of the lake, he spread his vast wings. The air trembled. Leaves danced from the trees. The waters below rippled from the gale.
With a thunderous crack, the wings clapped once, and they were airborne.
The world fell away. Harrenhal beneath them was shrinking fast, its blackened towers piercing the sky like broken teeth. Below, the waters of God's Eye shimmered like hammered silver, scattered with tiny boats and the swirling patterns of birds taking flight at the sound of the dragon's roar. The Isle of Faces itself was a red spot in the glimmering waters.
Balerion soared eastward at first, gaining height. Rhaenyra gasped, clinging to Aemon as the wind rushed past them.
"Kessa dōrī keligon sentire mirabile." (It will never stop feeling amazing.) Aemon laughed, lifting his arms and letting the wind carry his voice.
"Ziry dōrī kessa." (It never will.) She hugged him tightly from behind.
They circled over the lake once, then turned back toward Harrenhal.
The wind was cold and clean. For a moment, nothing else mattered. Not Dragonstone, not the court, not the future. Only this flight and the boy she flew with.
Eventually, Balerion began his descent. The air thickened. The waters of the Gods Eye gleamed closer. Soon, they glided over the castle once more before Balerion angled his wings and dropped toward the field outside the keep.
The great dragon landed with a jarring thud, his talons sinking into the earth. Dust and loose grass spun around them.
As Balerion settled with a final rumble, they unstrapped themselves from the saddle. The leather creaked, and the warmth of the dragon's back gave way to the cooler evening air. Rhaenyra slid down first, landing lightly on the torn earth. Aemon followed close behind.
She turned at once and threw her arms around him. "Thank you for this, Aemon. You—and Balerion."
At the sound of his name, the old dragon gave a soft, gravelly growl. Not threatening, but acknowledging. Rhaenyra smiled and looked up at him with gratitude shining in her eyes.
They stepped back together, side by side, gazing up at the Black Dread as he folded his wings like a great cloak of shadow. Then she looked at Aemon again, her voice softer now.
"Don't forget us here."
He didn't hesitate to pull her into a hug. "Never, Nyra. You are my family," he said, brushing a lock of wind-tossed hair from her cheek. "And I love you."
Her breath caught, his words lingering in the air between them like the warmth of a fire. Then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her brow, tender, certain, and fleeting.
She closed her eyes and sank into his embrace, holding him tightly, unwilling to let go just yet. The wind rustled the grass around them, and the lake glimmered quietly beyond the trees.
A Few days later
Laena Velaryon (101 A.C., Seventh Moon)
Harrenhal
The past few moons had brought many changes. Not long ago, it had seemed there was a chance her mother might become the next Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and perhaps one day, Laena herself would follow. But the realm had chosen another path. Now, it would be her future goodbrother who would wear the Crown instead of her.
"Lord Stark, I wish to thank you for the support you showed me during the vote," her mother said to Lord Benjen, who was preparing to depart for Winterfell. "Your loyalty will not be forgotten."
"Princess, I only voted for what I believed was right," Benjen replied. "In the North, we judge on merit, not what lies between one's legs, and we will soon be bound by blood in the future. Still, the decision is made, and we are but one Kingdom." Benjen paused.
"Princess, I have no doubt we'll meet again when my nephew weds your daughter," he said as he offered Laena a smile. She blushed and returned the smile, glancing toward Aemon who was busy with his horse. He seemed to be explaining something to his sisters, showing them how everything worked.
"Indeed, we will, my lord. Have a safe journey," Rhaenys said as Benjen turned to go. Then she stepped away, leaving Laena still watching Aemon. She would miss him and Visenya too. Along with Alicent, Gwayne, and Rhaenyra, they had all become good friends.
"Mother, may I stay a little longer with Aemon and Visenya?" she asked quickly before her mother had gone too far.
"Go on," Rhaenys said with a small smile. "Spend some extra time with them while you still can."
"Thank you, Mother."
Laena didn't wait another moment. She lifted the hem of her gown and hurried across the courtyard where the dragons had once cast long shadows. The air still smelled faintly of smoke and horses. Aemon looked up from where he was tightening the saddle straps on his mare. Visenya was crouched beside him, her hands full of oats, trying to coax the horse into taking them. Arya stood nearby, tugging at the hem of her too-long cloak, eyes wide and bright with curiosity.
"Laena," Aemon said, brushing dust from his hands as she neared. "We already said our goodbyes."
"I know," she said, slightly breathless. "But I'm going to miss you all so much. It'll be a long while before we're together again."
"We'll miss you too," Visenya said, standing now. Her silver hair was half-tucked behind her ears, her eyes glimmering with sadness she was trying not to show. She clasped Laena's hand tightly.
Arya, not one to stay still, bounded forward and latched onto Laena's waist with a giggle. "But you're going to Dragonstone!" she chirped. "Maybe you'll find your dragon there!"
Laena looked down at her, surprised as always by how small Arya seemed—and yet how bold. She offered her a fond smile and brushed back a strand of Arya's silver-black hair. "Maybe I will," she said softly. "One day, I'll fly too."
She had been jealous at first when Arya bonded with Grey Ghost, but that feeling had faded. Now it was something else, a quiet yearning, a promise to herself. She could already imagine the wind rushing past her ears, the roar of wings, the freedom of the sky.
"You will," Aemon said firmly. He stepped forward and hugged her again, his arms tight around her shoulders. "You'll have a dragon, Laena. And one day, we'll fly together. Just like we used to dream."
Laena closed her eyes against his shoulder. He always knew the right thing to say. "And you'll write to me from the North, won't you? Tell me everything you see?"
He pulled back and nodded, his eyes earnest. "I'll write every detail. I promise. It's our future home, after all."
Without thinking, he leaned in and kissed her cheek. Laena's face turned warm, but she didn't look away.
Then Arya gasped theatrically. "Group hug!" she cried, spreading her arms and nearly stumbling over her boots in her excitement.
Laena laughed. "Come here, little dragon."
Visenya smiled and knelt down, drawing Arya into her arms. Aemon wrapped one arm around Laena and the other around his little sister, and the four of them clung to one another in the middle of the courtyard.
For a moment, it was just them, children caught between yesterday and tomorrow, hearts full of goodbyes and dreams too big for their years.
"I don't want it to be goodbye," Visenya whispered.
"It's not," Aemon said. "It's just 'until later.'"
Arya nodded solemnly as if understanding something far bigger than her four years should allow. "Until later," she echoed.
Viserys Targaryen (101 A.C. Eight Moon)
Dragonstone
Viserys Targaryen stood at the edge of the gangplank, the salt wind biting at his face as the ship rocked gently into the harbor. In the distance, Dragonstone's jagged silhouette loomed, a dark figure against the waning sun. The sky above was streaked with gold and ash, casting a faint glow over the island's black stone.
His cloak fluttered in the wind as he extended a hand to Aemma, helping her disembark. She was pale from the long voyage, her steps slow and cautious on the slick wood, but there was determination in her eyes. She would not complain, not now, not when they had finally come home.
Behind her, Rhaenyra followed, silent, her small form framed by the ship's railing. Her hair, like spun gold, shone in the dying light, and her violet eyes flicked from the castle to the sky above. A shadow passed over them, followed by a thunderous roar.
Viserys looked up.
Goynogar soared above them in a wide arc, his deep brown scales flecked with green and his cry echoing against the cliffs. Beside him, Syrax, smaller and more agile, cut through the sky with her yellow scales flashing, her wings slicing the air in tight spirals.
Viserys smiled at the dragons, then turned his gaze to his daughter, whose eyes lingered on the creatures above with a tinge of sadness.
"Soon enough, we'll all fly together in the sky," he said, offering a reassuring smile as he kissed her brow. "I know you miss your friends. Soon, Laena will join you, along with the other companions your mother arranged to be here. You'll have company and friends."
Rhaenyra nodded, though Viserys saw the doubt in her eyes as she walked toward the carriage with Ser Steffon.
"She'll be fine, Viserys. She just needs time to adjust," Aemma said softly. "Perhaps we can request Gael to visit. She's just had a new babe. I'm sure she'd like a break from Claw Isle."
Viserys considered it for a moment, then smiled. "Indeed, it might be good to see my aunt again. She always knows how to lighten the mood."
As they walked toward the carriage, Viserys's gaze wandered back to Dragonstone. This place was his now.
Not as a visiting prince but as an heir.
He had always believed he would wear the Crown in his later years, in his fifties, when his father's silver hair had turned white, and his face was lined with time. But that was not to be. His father was gone, and now he stood as the heir.
As for when he would rule, he didn't know. The past moons had caught up with his grandfather faster than Viserys had expected. The Old King still reigned, but his strength was fading, his mind dulled by grief and time. Perhaps in five years, or maybe one, the Seven Kingdoms will look towards Viserys.
'And when they do, will I be ready?' he thought as he stepped inside the carriage.
Corlys Velaryon (101 A.C., Eighth Moon)
Driftmark – High Tide – Hall of Nine
The Hall of Nine was his, every triumph, every voyage, every battle; each memory of his adventures were etched into its stone walls and the artifacts that lined its corridors. Yet as Corlys Velaryon sat before the hearth, the hall spoke not of glory. It reminded him of what had been lost and what still might be reclaimed.
Beside him, his wife Rhaenys, striking in beauty, regal in bearing, and strong in spirit, studied his face. A faint frown touched her brow before her soft voice broke the silence.
"Husband, what weighs so heavily on your mind?"
He sighed and leaned back in his chair, fingers absently running past her soft fingers. His gaze met hers, deep violet eyes filled with unspoken thoughts.
"Succession," he said, his voice low, as a wave of quiet anger edged his words. "Once again, you have been passed over, just as you were when your father died."
Rhaenys took his hands gently in her hands, the same hands he had longed for on every voyage across distant seas. "My grandfather chose Baelon, and the realm chose Viserys," she said softly. "My path to the throne is closed."
Corlys shook his head slowly. "I don't believe it's the end, not truly. There is still a chance for us to leave our mark on history. Our daughter is betrothed to the most powerful dragonlord alive. Both Viserys and Daemon have no sons. The princess remains unmarried. There is still a path. Our children still could gain us what we are owed."
Rhaenys gave a faint smile, one touched with both affection and caution. "Corlys," she said, "I know your heart. You seek a place in history to have your name spoken of for generations. You seek what is supposed to be yours. But the path you speak of is perilous. Ambition, unchecked, can lead to ruin. You will need to be restrained. I have always let you be your own man and followed you. Yet I want my children to be happy, and I will not put them at unnecessary risk."
He nodded, her words settling over him like the tide. She was right. And yet...
"I do want that for them. I know Laena will be happy with Aemon. They are well-matched. As for Laenor, he is of salt and sea, like me; he needs to be able to move, not sit still, whether on a ship or in life. I believe they can both become what we need them to be, not just for my legacy but for yours as well. For us to be recognized for what we should have been. And I believe they will be happy along that path."
Rhaenys gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "I know my words won't change the course you've set," she said. "I know you love our children. All I ask is that you always place them first."
"I will," Corlys promised. "We are all on this path together, as a family. And Aemon… Aemon will be part of that family. I don't know why or how yet, but I feel it. Through him, somehow, our house will rise."
Otto Hightower (101 A.C. Eighth Moon)
Kingslanding - Tower of the Hand
Another letter finished. Then another. Letters upon letters.
Otto Hightower sat alone in the solar of the Tower of the Hand, the flickering candlelight catching the sheen of freshly sealed red wax. A raven would carry this one north to House Templeton. Another to House Wayn. Others to Houses Lychester, Crakehall, and even to the aging Lord Tully of Riverrun. Dozens more would follow, scattering like seeds across the realm.
He had begun this quiet campaign during his tenure as Master of Laws, missives wrapped in piety and principle. Appeals for donations. Proposals to strengthen the bond between the Crown and the Faith. A more faithful king, he argued, would be more inclined to set aside the profane customs of House Targaryen and their dragonlord ways.
He had promised these lords possible influence at court, advancement for their sons, and, above all, a king who would uphold Andal virtue. If their chosen candidate succeeded, the realm would move closer to the Seven and further from the sinful ways of Old Valyria.
That dream would never have been possible under Baelon. The man was Fire and Blood incarnate, and worse, his wife was a heathen of the ancient Stark line. No, Baelon had to go. He had been the last of Jaehaerys' sons raised directly learned under the old king's hand that could claim the throne. Vaegon had become a maester and, even better, had been shipped North. To wither and die.
Whispers at court told varied tales of Baelon's end. Some said sickness. Others spoke of a burst belly. Otto knew better. Men died in many ways, and not all left signs the maesters could name. It did not matter, Baelon was dead and gone and, more importantly, out of Otto's way.
With his death came new opportunities.
Prince Aemon had departed for the North, but it was not only him. The Princess Lyanna, long silent and distant, had journeyed there as well, bringing with her both of her daughters.
'Let them remain in that barren, frozen land,' Otto thought. They weren't a threat in the North, with their heathen ways. As he knew, if more of the Targaryen royal family believed in the shadow of the Old Gods, the true faith would have less sway in the realm.
He sealed another letter with practiced precision when a knock came at the door.
A moment later, his daughter entered. Otto's face softened into a small, measured smile.
"Ah, daughter," he said smoothly, "how fares His Grace?"
Alicent stepped closer, her expression composed yet touched with quiet concern. "He grows weaker, Father. He often mistakes me for one of his lost daughters. But he enjoys it when I read to him from the histories."
A faint smile played on her lips, and Otto did not miss it.
Alicent was already becoming a beauty, soft-featured, poised, and attentive. He saw in her not just charm but potential. The court had eyes, and she would turn them all in time. Her presence was already soothing to the king, her voice a comfort in his slow decline. And soon, Otto thought, it might be more.
"You have done well," he said, brushing her cheek with a rare gentleness. "Tell me at once if his condition changes, for better or worse. You play your role with grace, my dear. In time, you may rise even higher."
Alicent met his gaze, her eyes clear with understanding. She knew what he asked of her, what might be expected. She nodded, her expression solemn with purpose as she left the chamber.
Otto leaned back in his chair, folding his hands, his mind turning now to other pieces on the board. Viserys, if properly guided, could still be bent to his will. And Daemon—wild, unpredictable Daemon, could perhaps be turned into a useful blade, if not a loyal one.
There were whispers, after all, that the prince's marriage to Lady Rhea Royce had never been consummated. If Daemon could be drawn to their cause, or at the very least swayed, then perhaps a more fitting bride could be offered. A Hightower bride. His daughter.
Alicent, wife to the king's brother. A prince, second in line to the Iron Throne. And if Viserys proved too willful or to set in his Targaryen ways, then Daemon could become the next piece to secure.
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