Year 81 After the Conquest
Point of View: Alysanne Targaryen
The last warmth of the day faded over Blackwater Bay, painting the waters in shades of purple and gold. Alysanne Targaryen, known to her people as the Good Queen, sat heavily in a window seat facing the sea, feeling the weight of her forty-five years in every bone. The salty air brought her brief relief, banishing the ghost of nausea that had haunted her for weeks. On the rich carpets of the chamber, little Gael, her "Sweet Daughter" of almost one year, babbled to a cloth doll, ignorant of the world's tensions. At a distance, Princess Saera watched her younger sister with a look not of tenderness, but of pure analysis, as if studying a rare specimen.
Jaehaerys, her king and husband, was bent over a large table where maps of trade routes to Dorne were spread out. Beside him, as always, was the quiet figure of Septon Barth, the Hand of the King. The two whispered, their voices a constant murmur that was the soundtrack to governing the Seven Kingdoms.
"...the Dornish will insist on a symbolic tribute, even if they call it a 'gift of goodwill'," Barth said, his finger tracing a line on the parchment.
"As long as our ships can use the port of Sunspear, let them have their gift," Jaehaerys replied, his voice hoarse with weariness. "Peace has a price, and it is one I will gladly pay."
It was then that a wave of nausea, stronger than the previous ones, rose in Alysanne's throat. She brought her hand to her mouth, her knuckles white from pressing so hard. Her other hand, almost of its own volition, moved to her still-flat stomach. No, she thought with silent desperation. Not again. Not now.
"Jaehaerys." The word came out as a whisper, but it was enough.
The king looked up from the maps. He, who had known her for a lifetime, read the anguish on her face in an instant. The usual serenity of the Conciliator gave way to immediate concern. "Alysanne? Are you well?"
Barth also fell silent, his wise, perceptive eyes studying her.
"A dizziness, nothing more," she tried, forcing a weak smile. "The day's heat."
Jaehaerys was not convinced. With a quick gesture, he addressed the others in the room. "Saera, take your sister to her chambers. Barth, I ask you to stay."
Saera raised a perfect eyebrow, a slight smile of curiosity on her lips, but obeyed without question, picking up Gael with careless fluidity. When the heavy door closed behind them, the silence in the room became oppressive.
"It's more than dizziness, my love," said Jaehaerys, approaching and kneeling beside her, his hand covering hers, which still pressed against her stomach. His touch was firm, but Alysanne felt a slight tremor. "Tell me."
She swallowed dryly, gazing into her husband's eyes, those purple eyes that had seen so much history. The truth was a burden she could not carry alone. "Jaehaerys... it's the same feeling. The same as... nine times before." Her voice was a thread of silk. "I am pregnant."
The silence that followed was more eloquent than any scream. Jaehaerys's expression did not change drastically, but Alysanne saw the storm behind the calm: the shock, the worry, the glint of fear. Forty-five years. The childbed was a battlefield she knew well, and each passing year made it more hostile territory. The memories of small bodies wrapped in silk, of empty cradles, hung in the air between them.
Barth, who had kept a respectful distance, stepped forward. "Your Grace," he said, his voice incredibly calm, a balm for the tension. "This is... unexpected."
"It is madness, Barth," whispered Jaehaerys, without taking his eyes off Alysanne. "The risks... the archmaesters..."
"The archmaesters can list the dangers better than anyone," interrupted Alysanne, finding a spark of her usual strength. "But their books cannot change what the gods have decided." She looked at Barth. "What does your knowledge say, old friend? Beyond the dangers we all know?"
Barth approached, his hands intertwined in the sleeves of his robe. "The knowledge of the archmaesters deals with the body, Your Grace. My... curiosity... extends to other currents. A pregnancy at such an advanced age is rare, yes, and dangerous. But the blood of the dragon has never been a common thing." His eyes gleamed. "The nature of this pregnancy, from the start... has it been quiet? Different from the others?"
Alysanne thought of the mild nausea, the fatigue that was softer than she remembered. "Yes," she admitted. "Strangely quiet. Almost... serene."
"It could be a blessing," said Jaehaerys, but his voice carried no conviction.
"Or it could be a sign," Barth countered softly. "Valyrian fire does not go out like a common flame. Sometimes, in its twilight, it flares with a new and unpredictable intensity. This may be more than the birth of a child, Your Grace. It may be the birth of an omen."
Point of View: The Court's Whispers (Later That Night)
The news, as was inevitable, leaked from the royal chambers faster than the plague. In the muddy corridors of the Red Keep, in the courtyards and kitchens, the whispers began.
"Did you hear?" whispered a young maid to another as they folded sheets in an empty guest room. "The Queen... at her age! It's a miracle of the Seven."
"Miracle or curse?" grumbled a veteran guard, sharpening his sword by the fire. "Do you remember the last time? The little one who didn't cry... the one who left in silence. Darkness likes to repeat itself."
"Don't say that!" hissed the first maid. "She is the Good Queen!"
"And he is the Conciliator," retorted the guard. "But not even a king can bargain with the Mother above. Forty-five years... it's asking too much of the gods."
In another corner, a younger squire commented to a colleague: "What do you think? Will it be a boy? Another prince for the dynasty?"
"If it survives," replied the other, with the cynicism of youth. "And if the Queen survives. The King will not be the same if she... well, you know."
The whispers were a tapestry of hope, fear, and superstition. The "strange tranquility" of the Queen's pregnancy, mentioned casually by a midwife to a cook, turned into stories of "supernatural radiance" and "complete absence of discomfort," fueling both devotion and dread.
Point of View: Jaehaerys I Targaryen (The Weight of the Crown)
The next day, Jaehaerys met with Aemon and Baelon, his heirs, in his solar. Aemon, the firstborn, had the serious face and dignified posture of a future king. Baelon, the Brave, radiated the impatient energy that had made him such a beloved warrior.
"Father," Aemon greeted, his voice laden with a filial concern that transcended politics. "How is Mother?"
"Surprisingly well," Jaehaerys replied, turning to look out the window. "Too well, according to some."
"That's what we heard," said Baelon, frowning. "And that's what worries us. We remember her other pregnancies, the suffering. This... quietness doesn't seem natural. It smells of omen."
Jaehaerys turned to face his sons. "And what kind of omen would that be, Baelon? One of glory or ruin?"
"With our blood, Father, it's always hard to tell," Aemon replied prudently. "But we are here. Whatever you need, whatever Mother needs."
The king nodded, an immense weight on his shoulders. Family was his greatest support and now his greatest vulnerability.
Later, during a private meal, Princess Saera addressed the matter with cutting candor. "Another little brother or sister, Father? At forty-five, Mother must be trying to set a record." She did not smile. "The realm will be watching. An heir from such an aged queen... will he be strong? Or will it be a sign that our line is weakening?"
"Saera!" Aemon reprimanded sternly.
"What? I only say what everyone is thinking," she shrugged, turning back to her food. "It's an interesting political move, regardless of the outcome."
Jaehaerys watched his daughter, feeling a pang of sadness. In her, he saw the pure Targaryen calculation, devoid of the warmth that bound him to Alysanne, Aemon, and Baelon.
Point of View: Alysanne Targaryen
The following months tested Alysanne's patience. Her pregnancy progressed with a smoothness that continued to astound the archmaesters. Where they expected complications, they found only health. Where they feared weakness, they found a serene queen.
One afternoon, while sewing with her ladies-in-waiting, one of them, Lady Redwyne, commented: "Your Grace, you are glowing. It is as if you carry the light of the sun itself."
Alysanne smiled, but inside she wondered. Is it a glow or a fire? She felt the baby move, not with the frantic kicks of yore, but with an almost deliberate calm, as if merely adjusting its position. It was disconcerting.
Aemon and Baelon visited her often, bringing news of the realm and the court, trying to distract her. Little Gael had begun to take her first steps, babbling indistinct words, oblivious to the importance of what was happening in her mother's womb. Alysanne clung to these small normalities like a lifeline.
When the first pains finally came, they were, like everything else in this pregnancy, an anomaly. They were not the ripping, stabbing pains that had torn her apart in the past, but a rhythmic, deep pressure, almost like a tide changing within her.
The news spread, and the Red Keep held its breath. This time, at Jaehaerys's insistence, Septon Barth was not excluded from the queen's chambers. The unusual nature of the process demanded his insight. He remained in a corner, a silent observer, his eyes recording every detail – Alysanne's strange calm, the midwives' perplexity, the sounds from outside.
"Breathe, Your Grace," instructed the head midwife, a woman with graying hair and experienced hands. "It's... it's progressing with incredible speed."
Alysanne obeyed, focusing on her breath. There was no usual screaming, no sweat of agony. There was only intense focus. Jaehaerys remained by her side, holding her hand, his face a mask of contained fear and admiration.
"It's... almost as if she's not feeling any pain, Your Grace," a younger midwife whispered to the head one.
"Quiet!" the older one scolded, but her own gaze betrayed the same confusion.
Barth watched, motionless. He was not just seeing a birth; he was seeing a phenomenon. And then, without the usual drama, almost in a surreal anticlimax, the baby was born. In silence.
The shrill cry that announced a new Targaryen never materialized. Instead, a profound silence filled the room, broken only by Alysanne's panting breath. The archmaester, his face as pale as marble, picked up the newborn, cleaned him with trembling hands, and wrapped him in blankets.
"Your Grace..." he said, his voice a thread of disbelief, handing the tiny bundle to Alysanne.
She took her son, her heart beating with a force that almost suffocated her. And then, she saw. The baby's eyes were open. Fully open. They were not a common blue or purple. They were a deep, vibrant purple, almost luminescent, like polished amethysts under the sun of Valyria. And in the center of that purple light, the pupils were not round. They were vertical, black slits, just like a dragon's. The candlelight shimmered in them strangely, as if the eyes themselves emanated a soft glow. They fixed on her not with the blurry, unconscious gaze of a newborn, but with a strange, ancient, and penetrating awareness.
A shiver ran through the room. One of the midwives let out a muffled cry. Alysanne, however, felt no fear. She felt overwhelming wonder. "My little dragon," she whispered, gently touching the child's cheek. The baby, in turn, tilted his head, a minimal, deliberate movement, towards her touch.
In that moment of post-birth quiet, still wrapped in the supernatural silence that had fallen over the room, Alysanne looked up at Jaehaerys. Wonder and dread battled on the king's face, but upon seeing the serene determination in his wife's eyes, he nodded slowly, granting her the honor.
Alysanne's voice rose, clear and prophetic, cutting through the static air. It was not a shout, but a solemn declaration that echoed off the stone walls.
"His name,"she announced, holding the baby up for all in the room to witness, "shall be Aenar." She paused, and her silver eyes shone with an inner light. "For he was not merely born of the dragon; he is the very blood of the dragon made flesh. History will remember him as Aenar, the Dragonate."
No sooner had the words echoed in the room than the outside world seemed to respond.
First came the high-pitched, fear-filled shrieks of the younger dragons, like Syrax. A chorus of terror from the Dragonpit. Then rose a deeper sound, a low, respectful bellow from Vhagar, Baelon's great female. Other mature dragons joined in, their roars sounding like solemn salutes to an equal.
And then came a sound that made Barth himself shudder and make the sign of the starry skull. From the dark depths of the pits, where the great Balerion, the Black Dread, spent his last days in silence, a roar rose. It was not the cry of fury that had once ignited battlefields and toppled kingdoms. It was a deep, hoarse, incredibly ancient sound, like the grinding of a stone door closed for millennia. A sound that seemed like a recognition. A sigh from an ending era, greeting the beginning of another.
Jaehaerys looked at his wife and son, whose dragon eyes seemed to absorb the symphony of roars like expected music. The dread in the king's heart mingled with a solemn acceptance. The naming had not been a wish, but a recognition of a truth already manifest. The Dragonate had arrived.
Point of View: Jaehaerys I Targaryen (The Warning Arrives a Day Later)
The next morning, the atmosphere in the Red Keep was electric. Whispers about the prince with "dragon eyes" were already spreading to every corner. It was in this climate that an exhausted messenger, covered in the dust of a hasty journey by sea and land, was led into the King's presence in his solar, where Jaehaerys, Alysanne, and Barth were discussing the newborn's future.
"Your Grace!" the man stammered, kneeling and extending a scroll with the seal of Dragonstone. "News from the island! It's... it's about the eggs!"
"Speak," Jaehaerys ordered, his voice tense.
"On the night of the prince's birth, at the exact hour the moon reached its zenith... all of them, Your Grace! All the dragon eggs in the hatchery hatched at the same time!"
The silence that followed was absolute. Barth let out a slight sigh, his eyes closing for a moment as if in prayer or deep reflection. The synchronicity was haunting.
"And there's more," the messenger continued, his voice failing him from pure terror. "The Cannibal... the black monster of the mountain..."
Jaehaerys felt an icy chill run down his spine. The name of Dragonstone's most feared wild dragon was a shadow over the island.
"What did he do?" asked the king, almost not wanting to know.
"He did nothing wrong, Your Grace. Nothing. He climbed to the highest peak of the mountain, and since that hour he has not stopped. But it's not a roar of fury. It's... a song. A continuous, triumphant roar. As if he were... joyful. And I swear by the Gods, Your Grace, everyone on Dragonstone is more afraid of that joyful sound than of any other roar he has ever made."
Barth opened his eyes, and in them was a glint of terrifying understanding. "The fear of the young," he whispered, as if to himself. "The respect of the mature. The recognition of Balerion, the Ancient. And now... the joy of the Cannibal, the beast that obeys no one." He turned to Jaehaerys, his face grave. "Your Grace, this transcends an omen. This is an affirmation. The magic of the world screams his return. This is not a prince like the others."
Jaehaerys looked at Alysanne, who was holding the baby. The boy's luminous purple eyes, with their vertical pupils, seemed to observe everything with a supernatural calm. The dread the king felt was not for his son, but for the monumental destiny he carried. The Conciliator, who had ruled with law and reason, felt the ground of logic opening beneath his feet.
Little Gael, in the arms of a nurse, babbled something incomprehensible, pointing at her brother. Aenar, the Dragonate, seemed to hear, and for a brief moment, his slit eyes rested on his sister, and an expression that could be curiosity, or something much older, crossed his tiny face. The destiny of House Targaryen had changed forever, and its future was now enclosed in the dragon eyes of a newborn.