Chapter Four: The Tenth Name Day
The bells of Dragonstone tolled at dawn, their iron throats echoing across sea and stone. From the cliffs came the cries of gulls, and from the caverns below the keep came the rumble of dragons, unsettled by the din and scent of smoke. It was a day of omens, for the twins had seen ten name days, and the King had decreed their celebration would be held not at King's Landing, but upon the ancient seat of House Targaryen itself.
Dragonstone had never looked so alive. The courtyards swelled with banners stitched in red and black, their dragons rippling in the sea wind. Lords and ladies from across the realm had come ashore in bright barges, their cloaks glittering with jewels, their words heavy with flattery. A great feast had been laid in the Stone Drum, and there were lists marked for the tourneys, as well as dancing and music planned beneath the torch-lit halls.
King Viserys looked ten years older than he had the day of his coronation, yet his smile that morning was warm as he greeted his guests, his queen beside him in Arryn blue. Aemma's beauty was still praised by singers, though her eyes lingered only on her children. For it was not her own name day, but theirs, and she watched them with a mother's pride and a woman's quiet worry.
The Twins
Rhaenyra came first into the hall, radiant in a gown of crimson silk edged with golden thread, her silver hair braided with sapphires from the Vale. She held her chin high, though her youth showed in the quickness of her smile and the restless tapping of her slippers. Her brother Rhaegar followed, clad in black and red, his cloak fastened with a brooch in the shape of a three-headed dragon. He walked as one older than his years, each step measured, his face serene, though within his eyes smoldered a knowing fire.
The lords bowed deeply. To them, the sight was a marvel — two heirs in equal splendor, two dragons blessed in the same hour. Yet it was not the girl they honored first, nor the boy. It was the crown upon their father's brow, for only his will bound their tongues to courtesy.
The Proclamation
When the first horns sounded and the hall fell to hush, Viserys rose from his seat, golden cloak falling around his shoulders. His voice carried clear:
"On this day, I name my son Rhaegar, Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the crown of the Seven Kingdoms. And I name my daughter Rhaenyra, to serve as cupbearer to her king, that she may learn the duties of rule and the weight of the realm."
A cheer thundered through the hall, though not every cheer was honest. Some voices rang loud, others thin. The Hightowers exchanged measured looks, the Baratheon lord lifted his brow, and the Lannisters whispered among themselves. Still, none dared defy the dragon's decree.
Rhaegar inclined his head in solemnity, speaking no word but letting the hall see his composure. Rhaenyra curtsied prettily, then rose to take her place at her father's side, bearing the golden cup. If she felt slighted by her brother's new title, she did not show it; her laughter rang when her uncle Daemon swept into the hall with his smirk and his shadow-black cloak, bearing a dagger of Valyrian steel as gift.
The Feast and Revels
Tables sagged beneath roasted boar, spiced fish, honeyed fowl, and casks of Dornish red. Jugglers performed, and minstrels played ballads of Aegon's Conquest, their harps echoing high against stone. At the high table, Aemma leaned close to Viserys, her hand resting on his arm, while Alicent Hightower, seated near the princess, spoke sweetly to Rhaenyra of books and songs. The girl answered with polite warmth, though her eyes strayed often to her brother.
Outside the hall, a tourney was staged in the yard. Knights in gleaming steel clashed lances for honor of the twins, many seeking favor from the boy who would one day be king, or the girl who bore the king's cup. Rhaegar watched with stillness, learning the measure of men. Rhaenyra clapped and laughed, her voice clear above the crowd. Daemon sat apart, his dark gaze never leaving his nephew and niece.
The Night
As dusk bled into night, torches flared along the walls of Dragonstone. From the caves came the bellow of Caraxes and the shriek of Syrax, answered by Aelorth's pale roar. The sound silenced the lords for a heartbeat, reminding all who feasted that the blood of the dragon did not rest in titles alone.
When the feast dwindled and the lords staggered to their beds, the king retired with his queen, and Rhaenyra poured the last cup of the night for her father. Rhaegar lingered by the window, watching the dark waves crash upon the rocks, his face unreadable. He had played his part well — dutiful son, solemn heir — but within his breast beat the heart of one who knew too much.
The night belonged to them, yet shadows moved already, whispers gathering like storm clouds. The twins had turned ten, and the realm had been made to bow. But Westeros remembered its dragons, and dragons, once loosed, could not be easily caged