Ser Corlys Velaryon stood at the arched window of his solar, hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed the sprawling vista of Driftmark below. The afternoon sun caught the white stone of High Tide, making it gleam like a pearl set against the darker waters of Blackwater Bay. Ships bearing the seahorse of House Velaryon dotted the harbor, his ships, his fleet, the source of the wealth that had elevated his house beyond what his forebears could have imagined.
His own silver hair, pulled back in a loose knot, caught the same light, a reminder of the Valyrian blood that flowed through his veins, blood that had proven more potent than he had ever dared hope.
A gust of wind carried the salt-tang of the sea through the open window, and Corlys inhaled deeply, savoring the familiar scent that had been his constant companion since boyhood. At nine-and-thirty namedays, he had spent more of his life on water than land, and his body bore the evidence of those years. The looking glass that morning had shown him more grey threading through his beard, more lines etched around his eyes, not that he minded. Each wrinkle was a story, each scar a lesson learned.
The weight of those years felt suddenly insignificant against the miracle that had occurred within his castle walls not two days past.
First, a son. Then, a dragon.
The thought still struck him like a physical blow. His chest tightened with a pride so fierce it bordered on pain.
Laenor, named for the Velaryon ancestor which had founded Driftmark, had barely drawn breath for a full day before the egg had cracked, spilling forth a creature of legend, its scales gleaming wet in the firelight of the birthing chamber. The tiny beast had crawled directly to his son's cradle, curling beside the infant with a certainty that had silenced every witness.
"Gods," Corlys muttered, the word escaping on a breath. His calloused fingers drummed against the windowsill, a nervous habit formed through countless war councils and trade negotiations. But this was neither war nor trade. This was destiny asserting itself, reaching through centuries of Valyrian decline to touch House Velaryon.
Behind him, the solar remained silent save for the occasional pop from the hearth. Maps covered the massive oak table, sea charts marking trading routes that had made the Velaryons wealthy beyond measure. Ships and gold had been his dragons, Corlys had always thought. The beasts of Old Valyria were for the Targaryens, while he commanded the waves with vessels of timber and sail.
Now, everything had changed.
He turned from the window, pacing across the Myrish carpet. The dragon's hatching would reach King's Landing within a fortnight. The implications swirled in his mind like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. A Velaryon dragonrider would shift the delicate balance of power in ways even he, with all his political acumen, could not fully predict.
The memory of his son's tiny face, peaceful in sleep while a creature of myth curled protectively at his side, softened something in Corlys that had been hardened by decades at sea. He had weathered storms that would have drowned lesser men, navigated treacherous political waters with the same skill he navigated the Narrow Sea, but nothing had prepared him for the overwhelming surge of tenderness that threatened to buckle his knees whenever he entered the nursery.
Corlys paused before the hearth, watching flames lick at blackened stone. Fire and blood, the Targaryen words, not his. Yet now his son would command both.
"The Sea Snake's heir," he murmured, testing the weight of those words against what now seemed inevitable: "The Sea Snake's heir, dragon-blessed."
He reached for the goblet of Arbor gold on his desk, raising it in a solitary toast. To what exactly, he wasn't certain, to his son's future perhaps, or to the gods who had seen fit to bestow such a gift upon House Velaryon. Or perhaps it was simply to acknowledge that the path he had charted for his family had just veered into uncharted waters.
And if there was one thing Corlys Velaryon understood, it was how to navigate the unknown.
A soft knock at the solar door drew Corlys from his reverie. The door opened to reveal a servant.
"My lord," the servant said, his voice lowered with concern, "Lady Rhaenys requests your presence in the nursery. There appears to be some... disagreement with the maester."
Corlys set down his goblet with more force than intended. The third such summons in as many days. The dragon, small as it was, had become a point of contention among the household staff. None dared approach the cradle to tend to his son while the creature remained coiled there, its iridescent scales shifting from emerald to sapphire depending on how the light struck them.
"Very well," he said, straightening his doublet. "Though I suspect my lady wife has matters well in hand."
The walk to the nursery was brief, but Corlys could hear the raised voices before he turned the final corner. He recognized the clear, commanding tone of his wife echoing up the spiral staircase. Setting down his goblet, he strode toward the door, his footsteps quickening as the argument grew more heated.
My Lady," came the harried voice of Maester Gerion, "the creature must be examined. It's procedure dating back to—"
"I care nothing for your procedures," Rhaenys's voice cut through the maester's protests like Valyrian steel. "You will not separate them."
Corlys descended the stairs to find his wife, still pale from the birthing bed, standing in the corridor outside the nursery. her black hair unbound and falling around her shoulders, like a warrior's cloak, her nightrail hastily covered with a robe of sea-green silk. Despite her recent ordeal, she stood tall, one arm braced against the doorframe as though she were the last defense between their son and the world.
Before her, Maester Gerion shifted uncomfortably, clutching his chain of many metals. Behind him stood two servants bearing an ornate cage fashioned from silver wire.
"My lady," the maester tried again, "the dragon must be properly housed while it—"
"The dragon," Rhaenys said, each word precise and cold as ice, "is exactly where it belongs."
Corlys stepped forward, placing himself between his wife and the maester. Up close, he could see the fever-brightness in Rhaenys's eyes, the stubborn set of her jaw that reminded him so forcefully of both her Baratheon mother and Targaryen father.
"What seems to be the difficulty?" he asked, though he had already grasped the situation.
The maester bowed slightly. "Lord Velaryon, I was explaining to your lady wife that the dragonling should be placed in proper accommodations. A heated chamber has been prepared with volcanic stone from Dragonstone, as is customary for—"
"The Maester believes the beast carries disease," Rhaenys interrupted sharply.
Rhaenys turned, her violet eyes alight with indignation. "Tell your maester, husband, that what he proposes is impossible. The dragon chose Laenor. It has imprinted on him as surely as the moon pulls the tides."
"My lord," came the harried voice of Maester Gerion, "the creature must be examined. It's procedure dating back to—"
"I care nothing for your procedures," Rhaenys's voice cut through the maester's protests like Valyrian steel. "You will not separate them."
Corlys studied his wife's face. The birth had been difficult; he had feared for both mother and child during those long, harrowing hours. Yet here she stood, defiant and unyielding, a mother protecting not just her child but the magical bond that had formed in those first moments of life.
"My lord," Maester Gerion said, his tone careful, "there are protocols. The dragon must be fed specific meats, kept at particular temperatures. The nursery is no place for—"
Corlys nodded, placing a steadying hand at the small of her back. He could feel the slight tremor running through her body, exhaustion taking its toll despite her fierce will.
"The dragon stays," he said simply, though the words felt momentous as they left his lips. He was committing House Velaryon to a path from which there could be no return. "My wife speaks truly. The bond between rider and dragon forms at the moment of hatching. To separate them now would be..." He searched for the right word, one that might placate the servants while honoring the ancient traditions his wife held sacred.
"It would be unnatural," Rhaenys finished for him, her chin lifted in that imperious angle that reminded all who saw it of her Targaryen heritage. "My grandmother would have had anyone flogged who suggested parting a hatchling from its chosen rider."
"Come," he said gently, "let us look upon our son and his... companion.
Inside the nursery, a fire burned low in the grate, casting the chamber in amber light. The cradle stood near the hearth, a masterpiece of carved weirwood inlaid with mother-of-pearl that caught and reflected the firelight. Corlys approached slowly, Alyssa at his side.
There, nestled against the swaddled infant, lay the dragon. No larger than a cat, its scales gleamed like wet rubies in the firelight. As they watched, it shifted, unfurling a translucent wing across Laenor's tiny chest in a gesture that seemed unmistakably protective. The babe slept peacefully, one small fist curled near his face.
Corlys approached the cradle slowly. His son slept peacefully, tiny fingers curled into fists, while the dragon's eyes opened upon their arrival watched the adults with eyes like molten gold. It made a sound, not quite a growl, something more akin to the purr of a cat, when Corlys leaned closer.
"The dragon stays," Corlys repeated, his voice low but firm enough to carry to where Maester Gerion hovered in the doorway. "Make whatever arrangements are necessary to accommodate both my son and his dragon in this chamber."
The maester's chain clinked softly as he bowed in acquiescence. "As you wish, my lord. I shall consult the texts for precedent."
"Consult all you wish," Alyssa said, her eyes never leaving the cradle, "but some bonds transcend your dusty scrolls.
After the maester had withdrawn, Corlys turned to find Rhaenys studying him, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
"I thought I might have to fight you on this as well," she said quietly, reaching down to stroke the dragon's ridged back with one finger. The creature arched into her touch like a pleased cat. "Men can be so practical about matters that require faith."
"I am practical," Corlys admitted, watching as the dragon settled back against his son's side, its tail curling protectively around the infant's legs. "But I also know enough of history to recognize when the gods have placed a fork in our path."
As they stood by the cradle, the soft padding of footsteps announced another presence. A woman shuffled into the nursery, her eyes fixed firmly on the stone floor, hands clasped tightly before her. Corlys recognized her as the wet nurse they had engaged from the mainland, a woman with a good reputation and experience serving noble houses.
"My lord, my lady," she murmured, her voice barely carrying across the room. "I must speak plainly. I cannot... that is to say..." She swallowed visibly, a tremor running through her shoulders. "The babe needs feeding, but I cannot approach while that creature remains so close. It watches me, my lord. Its eyes follow my movements. I fear it might..." The words died in her throat.
Rhaenys's posture stiffened, the momentary softness evaporating like morning mist beneath a harsh sun. Corlys felt the tension radiating from her body where his hand still rested at the small of her back.
"You were hired to feed my son," Rhaenys said, her voice dangerously quiet. "That is your sole purpose in this household."
The wet nurse lifted her gaze briefly, then lowered it again when she caught sight of the dragon. "Begging your pardon, my lady, but no mention was made of... dragons. I've my own children to think of. If the beast were to strike—
Rhaenys moved toward the cradle, her steps deliberate, her shoulders set with the same determination Corlys had witnessed when she mounted Meleys for the first time. The memory of his wife astride the Red Queen, crimson scales aflame in the sunlight, flashed through his mind.
"I will feed him myself then," Rhaenys declared, her voice brooking no argument. "You are dismissed."
The wet nurse's eyes widened. "But my lady, you are still recovering. The maester said—"
"I care not what the maester said." Rhaenys settled into a chair near the hearth, adjusting her robe. "I carried this child. I birthed him. I will nourish him as well."
"You are dismissed," Corlys said, not unkindly. He reached for a small pouch of silver at his belt. "For your trouble and discretion."
The woman hesitated only a moment before accepting the coins with trembling fingers, then backed from the room with her eyes downcast.
Alone with his wife and son, Corlys watched as Rhaenys settled into the carved weirwood chair beside the cradle. She loosened the laces of her gown with practiced fingers, the movement unhurried, dignified even in this most primal of acts.
"You're certain?" he asked, though he knew better than to truly question her once her mind was set.
Rhaenys smiled, a rare softening of her features that never failed to remind him why he had fallen in love with this dragon-blooded woman. "The dragon must learn to know me as it knows him. What better way than this? Blood of my blood, milk of my body."
She lifted their son from the cradle, cradling him with one arm while using her free hand to guide him to her breast. The dragon, initially alert at the movement, settled back down, watching with those unnerving golden eyes.
Corlys found himself holding his breath as the creature observed the nursing. Would it permit even this intrusion upon its bond with Laenor? The answer came when the dragon stretched its long neck forward, not in threat but curiosity, its scaled head tilting as it studied the connection between mother and child.
"See?" Rhaenys whispered, though whether to Corlys or the dragon, he couldn't be certain. "We are one family, bound by more than blood now."
The intimacy of the moment struck Corlys with unexpected force. How many times had he stood on the deck of the Sea Snake, salt spray in his face, feeling the vastness of the world spread before him? Yet none of those discoveries compared to this, his wife nursing their son while a creature of legend looked on, all within the stone walls that generations of Velaryons had called home.
"What will you name it?" he asked, moving closer to study the shifting colors of the dragon's scales.
Rhaenys shook her head. "That is not for us to decide. The naming belongs to Laenor, when he is old enough to speak his first words." Her fingers brushed against the babe's cheek as he suckled.
The dragon made that strange purring sound again, stretching its wings briefly before folding them back against its body. It seemed almost to nod in agreement with Rhaenys's assessment.
Corlys sank into a chair opposite his wife, suddenly aware of the weight of the moment pressing upon him. This was no mere pet, no exotic animal acquired from distant shores to display his wealth and worldliness. This was power incarnate, fire made flesh, and it had chosen his son as its rider.
"We will need to inform the king," he said, his mind already calculating the political implications. "And make arrangements for its care as it grows. Dragons do not remain small for long."
"Nor do boys," Rhaenys replied, her gaze fixed on Laenor's face. "They will grow together, learn together." She looked up then, her violet eyes meeting his. "And we must be prepared for what that means."
What remained unspoken between them hung in the air like sea mist, the power this would bring House Velaryon, the envy it would inspire, the danger it might attract. Yet in this moment of quiet intimacy, such concerns seemed distant as the shores of Asshai.
For now, it was enough to watch his wife nurse their son while a dragon kept vigil, the three of them bathed in the golden afternoon light of Driftmark.
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