Mid 100 AC
A week before Laenor's planned voyage to Braavos, the raven arrived at High Tide bearing its somber message. The black bird's wings cast fleeting shadows across the courtyard as it descended toward the maester's tower
Laenor was practicing his water manipulation at the hidden cove when Seasmoke suddenly raised his head, amber eyes tracking something unseen in the distance.
"What is it?" he asked aloud, letting the water construct he'd been forming collapse back into the sea with a splash.
The answer came not from Seasmoke but from a breathless servant who appeared at the top of the path, face flushed from running.
"Lord Laenor! Your mother requests your immediate presence in the great hall."
Something in the man's tone made Laenor's stomach tighten. He hurried up the path, Seasmoke watching his departure with unblinking eyes.
When he entered the great hall, the scene before him made him falter. His mother stood rigid by the hearth, a crumpled parchment in her trembling hand. Gael sat nearby, her face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Laena hovered uncertainly between them, her young face a mask of confusion.
"Mother?" Laenor asked, his voice sounding smaller than he intended.
Rhaenys turned, and the grief etched across her features told him everything before she spoke. "Queen Alysanne has passed into the arms of the gods," she said, her voice hollow yet controlled.
A tear slid down her cheek, quickly brushed away with an angry gesture. "We leave for King's Landing within the hour. Your father will stay here."
Laenor stood frozen, unsure how to respond. Queen Alysanne, his great grandmother by blood, was little more than a distant figure to him, known only through stories and the occasional gift sent on his nameday. He had met her only twice, both times when he was too young to form lasting memories.
"Should I... should I be sad?" Laena whispered beside him, voicing the very question that troubled his own heart.
Rhaenys's expression softened as she knelt before them both. "You feel what you feel, child. There is no shame in not knowing grief for someone you barely knew. But we go now to honour your great grandmother, who ruled wisely alongside the King for over fifty years."
Within the hour, they stood in the castle courtyard. Servants rushed about, securing travel packs to Meleys's harness as the massive crimson dragon shifted restlessly, sensing the urgency in her rider's movements.
"Will Seasmoke follow us?" Laenor asked, watching his silver dragon circle overhead.
"No," Rhaenys replied firmly. "One dragon arriving at the Red Keep during mourning is protocol. Two would be too much." She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "He will remain here for now."
The distance that would separate him from Seasmoke made Laenor's chest ache, but he nodded his understanding.
Meleys lowered her wing, allowing them to climb aboard. Gael went first, her movements mechanical as she settled into the harness. Laena followed, excitement momentarily overtaking her confusion as she secured herself. Laenor climbed up last, positioning himself behind his mother who took the forward position at Meleys's neck.
"Hold tight," Rhaenys commanded, and with a great downward thrust of crimson wings, they were airborne.
The journey to King's Landing took less than a day, Meleys's powerful wings carrying them swiftly over Blackwater Bay. As they approached the capital, Laenor caught his first glimpse of the Red Keep, its pale red stone walls rising atop Aegon's Hill like a crown upon the city's brow.
Below them, the sprawling expanse of King's Landing stretched in all directions, a maze of streets and buildings far larger than any settlement Laenor had ever seen. The smell reached them even at this height, a pungent mixture of salt water, smoke, sewage, and thousands upon thousands of humans packed tightly together.
"It stinks," Laena said bluntly, wrinkling her nose.
"Yes," Rhaenys agreed without turning. "That's the price of greatness, it seems."
Meleys began her descent toward the Red Keep, specifically toward the famous Dragonpit where several figures awaited their arrival. As they drew closer, Laenor recognized the distinctive white cloaks of the Kingsguard standing in formation.
With a final flourish of her wings that sent dust swirling across the yard, Meleys touched down. A dragon keeper rushed forward with a mounting block, but Rhaenys dismounted without assistance, helping Gael down first, then the children.
A tall man with silver-gold hair streaked with grey approached them, his purple eyes, so like Laenor's own, were red-rimmed from weeping. Prince Baelon, Laenor realized. His great-uncle and the heir to the Iron Throne.
"Niece," Baelon greeted Rhaenys, embracing her briefly. "Thank you for coming so quickly. He needs family now more than ever."
"How is he?" Rhaenys asked, her voice low.
"Broken," Baelon replied simply. "I've never seen him thus, not even when we lost Aemon."
Laenor watched the exchange with interest, noting how his mother's spine stiffened at the mention of Prince Aemon, her father, whose death had sparked the succession crisis that had seen her passed over in favor of Baelon.
Baelon's gaze dropped to Laenor and Laena. "These must be your children. Laenor and Laena."
"You have my mother's eyes," Baelon told Laenor, his voice catching slightly. "She would have been pleased to see you grown so tall."
Servants appeared to escort them to their chambers, but before they could depart, Baelon added, "The king has requested yours and Gael's presence, Rhaenys."
Rhaenys nodded, then turned to a steward. "See the children settled." She turned to them, "I will find you when I'm able."
As they followed a steward through the winding corridors of the Red Keep, Laenor felt as though they had entered another world. High Tide was magnificent in its way, but the Red Keep was built on a scale that dwarfed it utterly. Massive tapestries depicting dragons and battles lined the hallways, and everywhere he looked, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen glared down from banners and wall hangings.
"This is where our blood has ruled for generations," Laena whispered to him, her eyes wide with wonder despite the somber occasion. "Father told me that one day it could be Mother sitting on the Iron Throne."
Their chambers were spacious and well-appointed, located in Maegor's Holdfast, an honor that spoke to their royal blood despite the complicated politics surrounding their branch of the family. Large windows offered views of Blackwater Bay, and Laenor found himself drawn to them, searching the horizon as if he might glimpse Driftmark in the distance.
Through his bond with Seasmoke, he could feel the dragon's presence, distant but still connected. The separation was uncomfortable, like an itch he couldn't scratch, but manageable.
"Will we see the Iron Throne?" Laena asked, bouncing slightly on her bed.
"Perhaps," Laenor replied. "But this is not a time for sightseeing sister. We are here to mourn."
"But how can we mourn someone we barely knew?" Laena asked. It was the same question that had been troubling him since they received the news.
"I don't know," Laenor replied thoughtfully, "but we should be there for Mother and Gael."
A soft knock sounded at their chamber door. Laenor turned from the window, exchanging a curious glance with Laena before crossing the room to answer.
When he pulled open the heavy oak door, he found himself face to face with a slender woman he had never seen before. She was dressed in mourning black, her Valyrian heritage unmistakable in her silver-gold hair and striking violet eyes that reminded him so much of his own.
Behind her skirts peeked a tiny girl, no more than three namedays old, with the same Targaryen coloring and wide, curious eyes that darted between Laenor and Laena before quickly retreating back to the safety of her mother's gown.
"Hello, Laenor and Laena," the woman said, her voice gentle and melodious in a way that immediately put Laenor at ease. Despite her formal mourning attire, there was a warmth to her demeanor that softened the solemnity of the occasion.
"I am your aunt Aemma, and this is your cousin Rhaenyra."
Laenor's mind quickly sorted through his knowledge of the family tree. Aemma Targaryen, daughter of Prince Rodrik Arryn and Princess Daella Targaryen, and Prince Viserys's wife?
"Well met, Aunt," Laenor replied with formal politeness, giving a small bow as his father had taught him for greeting ladies of royal blood. Beside him, Laena echoed his greeting with considerably less grace but equal sincerity.
Laenor stood awkwardly, uncertain of the proper protocol. They were family, yet strangers, connected by blood but separated by the political tensions that had kept their branches of the family apart.
Before he could decide on the appropriate next step, Aemma stepped forward and wrapped her arms around both children in a warm embrace that smelled of lavender and cloves. The gesture caught Laenor by surprise, but there was something comforting about this unexpected aunt's affection that made him relax into the hug.
"You've both grown so much," she said, pulling back to look at them with genuine fondness. "Last I saw you, Laena, you were barely two namedays old." Her gaze shifted to Laenor, her eyes softening further. "And this is our first time meeting you, Laenor, though I've heard much about the young dragon lord of Driftmark."
Laenor felt his cheeks warm at the unexpected praise. Behind his aunt, the little girl, Rhaenyra, continued to peer at them with undisguised curiosity, though she kept one hand firmly clutched in the fabric of her mother's gown.
Aemma turned, placing a gentle hand on her daughter's silver-gold head. "Say hello to your cousins, Rhaenyra."
The little girl raised her small hand in a tentative wave before quickly ducking back behind her mother, her violet eyes still watching them intently from her hiding place.
"She's usually not so shy," Aemma explained with a fond smile. "But it's been a difficult time, and there are so many new faces around the Keep these days."
Laenor nodded in understanding. "It's nice to meet you, Rhaenyra," he said, crouching down slightly to be at the little girl's eye level. He offered her a gentle smile, the kind he had learned worked well with the younger children at High Tide.
The girl's lips quirked upward briefly before she buried her face against her mother's skirts.
Are you staying near us, Aunt Aemma?" Laena asked, seemingly recovering from her initial shyness. Her violet eyes darted toward the little cousin with growing interest.
"Just down the corridor," Aemma replied. "I thought perhaps you might join us for the evening meal? The great hall will be rather somber tonight, and I thought it might be more comfortable for the children to dine in private chambers."
Laenor felt a rush of gratitude toward this thoughtful aunt. The prospect of facing the entire court during a time of mourning had been weighing on him since their arrival.
"That would be most welcome," he said, unconsciously adopting the formal cadence his father used when accepting invitations.
"Excellent," Aemma smiled warmly, though the expression didn't quite reach her eyes. Grief lingered there, reminding Laenor of the reason for their gathering. "I'll send for you when the meal is ready. In the meantime, rest from your journey."
As she turned to leave, little Rhaenyra peeked back one more time, this time offering Laenor a tiny, conspiratorial smile that transformed her solemn little face. There was something in that smile, a flash of curiosity and intelligence, that suggested their shy cousin might have more spirit than her first impression revealed.
Once the door closed behind them, Laena flopped dramatically onto her bed. "Another cousin! Do you think she has a dragon yet?"
"She's far too young," Laenor replied, though he couldn't help wondering if the little princess had shown any signs of dragon dreams or other Targaryen gifts. "But she seems sweet."
"Sweet but boring," Laena declared with the brutal honesty of a child. "I was hoping for someone who could play proper games."
"She's only three, Laena. Give her time." Laenor moved back to the window, his thoughts turning once more to Seasmoke. The distance between them felt like a physical ache now, a hollow space beneath his ribs that couldn't be filled. Through their bond, he sent a pulse of reassurance, hoping it would reach across the bay to where his silver friend awaited.
The sunset painted King's Landing in hues of gold and crimson, colors that reminded Laenor of dragonfire. As darkness fell over the city, he wondered what other surprises this royal visit would bring. The arrival of Aunt Aemma and little Rhaenyra had been unexpected but welcome, a small bright spot in the shadow of mourning that had brought them to the capital.
Perhaps there was more to discover here than just grief and formal ceremonies. Perhaps there were family connections worth forging, even amidst the complex web of Targaryen politics.
Laenor turned from the window, watching as Laena arranged her favorite dragon figurines on the bedside table. Tomorrow morning would bring the formalities of mourning, but tonight, they had found an unexpected haven in the kindness of an aunt they barely knew.
"I wonder what other relatives we'll meet," he mused aloud, settling onto his own bed. "There must be dozens of Targaryens in the Red Keep right now."
"As long as they're not all as shy as little Rhaenyra," Laena replied with a dramatic sigh. "Though I suppose I could teach her about dragons. Every proper Targaryen should know their dragons, even the little ones."
Laenor smiled at his sister's pronouncement. Even here, in the heart of Targaryen power during a time of royal mourning, Laena remained steadfastly herself, dragon-obsessed and utterly confident.
x__________________________x
Laenor woke with a start, his mother's gentle hand on his shoulder pulling him from dreams of flying over Blackwater Bay with Seasmoke.
"It's time," Rhaenys whispered, her face grave in the dim light of the single candle she carried. "Dress quickly. Wear the black mourning clothes I laid out last night."
The chamber was still dark, the windows revealing nothing but the inky blackness of pre-dawn. Laenor rubbed his eyes, the heaviness of interrupted sleep making his limbs feel leaden as he slipped from beneath the warm covers. Across the room, he could see Laena being roused in similar fashion, her silver-gold hair a tangled mess as she sat up with a grumpy expression.
"Why must we rise so early?" Laena mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.
"The funeral pyre," Rhaenys replied softly. "King Jaehaerys wishes to bid farewell to his queen as the sun rises."
Those words drove the remaining fog of sleep from Laenor's mind. He dressed quickly in the somber black garments, the fabric finer than anything he usually wore at Driftmark. As he fastened the silver clasps shaped like dragons, he felt a strange solemnity settle over him. Death was no stranger to him, not in his memories of another life, nor in this one, but there was something different about participating in the funeral of a queen.
Once dressed, they followed their mother through the silent corridors of the Red Keep. Their footsteps echoed against the stone floors, the only sound in the sleeping castle besides the occasional cough or shuffle of a guard changing position. The air grew colder as they made their way down through the castle and out into the streets of King's Landing.
The walk to the Dragonpit took them up Rhaenys's Hill in the pre-dawn darkness. Laenor could feel the weight of the occasion pressing down on him with each step. His mother's face was drawn, a mask of controlled grief, her eyes fixed ahead as she led them along the cobblestone streets. The few citizens they passed bowed their heads respectfully, some making the seven-pointed star across their chests.
The massive dome of the Dragonpit loomed before them, silhouetted against the first hints of gray light touching the eastern horizon. Guards in Targaryen black and red stood at attention at the entrance, their faces solemn as they recognized Rhaenys and stepped aside to allow them passage.
Inside, the cavernous space felt both imposing and intimate. The enormous dome, designed to house dragons, now enclosed a gathering of black-clad figures standing in a wide circle around a wooden platform in the center. Torches flickered along the walls, casting long shadows that danced across the stone floor.
Laenor's gaze was immediately drawn to the central pyre where Queen Alysanne lay. Even from a distance, he could see that she had been arranged with care, dressed in royal finery with a silver circlet upon her brow. Her hands were folded peacefully over her chest, her long silver hair brushed and arranged to frame her face. Had it not been for the unnatural stillness, she might have been merely resting.
At the head of the onlookers stood a figure who commanded attention despite his stillness. Tall and regal even in his advanced age, with a long white beard that reached nearly to his waist, King Jaehaerys the First of His Name stood motionless, his eyes never leaving his wife's face. The weight of over five decades of shared life and rule seemed to bow his shoulders, though his back remained straight with the dignity of his station.
Beside the king stood Baelon, his face a study in controlled grief as he kept a protective stance near his father. On the king's other side, Gael wept silently, tears streaming unchecked down her pale cheeks as she gazed at the woman who had been like a mother to her. Next to her stood a tall man in maester's robes. Vaegon, Laenor's memory supplied.
Rhaenys guided them through the assembly, her hand firmly on Laenor's shoulder as she steered them toward a familiar face in the crowd. Aunt Aemma stood with little Rhaenyra sleeping against her shoulder, the child's face peaceful in slumber despite the solemn gathering. As they approached, Aemma offered them a soft, sad smile of welcome.
On either side of Aemma stood two men who could only be Targaryens, their Valyrian features unmistakable even in the flickering torchlight. One was slightly fuller in build, though still handsome, with the same ethereal beauty that marked their bloodline. Prince Viserys, Laenor realized, Aemma's husband and another of his royal uncles. Beside him stood a leaner man, perhaps eighteen years of age, his sharp features set in a contemplative expression as he surveyed the gathering. Prince Daemon.
As they took their places beside Aemma, both men acknowledged them with solemn nods. No words were exchanged; none seemed necessary or appropriate in the heavy silence that blanketed the Dragonpit.
A dragon's cry suddenly echoed through the Dragon Pit, its mournful sound freezing Laenor where he stood. He watched in awe as Vermithor's massive bronze form descended through the open dome, wings spread wide against the night sky. The dragon's scales caught the flickering light of the funeral pyre below, turning them to molten bronze.
Around him, the gathered mourners fell silent, faces turned upward as the king's mount circled above the funeral pyre where Queen Alysanne's body lay wrapped in Targaryen crimson and black.
Another dragon appeared in the opening, crimson scales gleaming like fresh blood against the darkness. Meleys. His mother's dragon joining Vermithor in what appeared to be a ritual dance of grief.
A piercing keen split the air as a third dragon joined the gathering. Silverwing, once Queen Alysanne's faithful companion, now masterless. Her cry was higher, more desperate than Vermithor's, and Laenor felt tears spring unbidden to his eyes at the raw emotion in that sound. Dragons weren't beasts, no matter what the maesters claimed. They grieved. They remembered.
Then came the fourth dragon, her massive form dwarfing even Vermithor. Vhagar, oldest of all living dragons, descended with ponderous grace. Once the mount of Queen Visenya herself, now bonded to Prince Baelon. The ancient dragon's scales had faded from their once-vibrant bronze-green to a weathered copper, but her size remained unmatched, her presence overwhelming.
Laenor felt a sudden, sharp longing for Seasmoke. His dragon should be here, part of this ancient ritual. Through their bond, he could feel his mount's restlessness back at Driftmark, as if the silver dragon somehow sensed what was happening and strained against the distance separating them.
The dragons began to descend, spiraling lower with each pass around the dome. The crowd pressed backward, nobles and servants alike creating space as the massive creatures approached. Only the king remained where he was, unmoving before the pyre of his queen.
Vermithor landed first, his massive talons scraping against the stone floor with a sound that raised gooseflesh on Laenor's arms. The king's bronze dragon folded his wings and lowered his head until his snout nearly touched the floor in what could only be described as a bow to the fallen queen.
Meleys landed next, taking position opposite Vermithor. The crimson dragon's eyes gleamed in the firelight as she, too, lowered her head in reverence.
Silverwing's landing was less graceful, her grief evident in the way she practically collapsed to the stone floor, her keening continuing even after she had settled. The silver-white dragon's massive head lowered, her snout nearly touching the pyre where Alysanne lay. The dragon's grief was palpable, a force that seemed to press against Laenor's chest and make it difficult to breathe. The other dragons joined in, their combined voices creating a terrible harmony that echoed throughout King's Landing.
"They're singing," Laena whispered beside him, her eyes wide with wonder even as tears streaked her cheeks. "They're singing for the Queen."
Laenor felt something stir within him, a power awakening in response to the dragons' mourning. The lavender glow of Nereid Kyrie flickered behind his eyes, responding to the dragons before him. He quickly closed his eyes, forcing the power down despite the overwhelming urge to join in with the singing. This was neither the time nor place for such a display.
Vhagar descended last, her enormous body shaking the ground as she landed.
Laenor couldn't tear his eyes away from the dragons. Their massive forms filled the dragonpit with ancient power that seemed to vibrate through the very stones beneath his feet. Vhagar alone was large enough to swallow Seasmoke whole, her ancient scales thick as armor plate, bearing the scars of a hundred battles.
Beside him, Laena clutched his hand, her small fingers digging into his palm. Her eyes were wide with wonder as she stared at the massive dragons. He felt her tremble with excitement when Vhagar shifted her enormous bulk, the ancient beast's scales catching the firelight like burnished bronze.
"She's magnificent," Laena whispered, so softly that only Laenor could hear. "The mount of Queen Visenya herself."
Laenor squeezed her hand in warning. This was not the time for dragon-lore enthusiasm, even if he shared her awe at the sight of these legendary creatures. Vhagar was indeed magnificent, and terrifying in her immensity.
A movement from King Jaehaerys drew everyone's attention. The old king stepped forward. Even in his grief, there was something majestic about him, this man who had ruled the Seven Kingdoms for over half a century. His violet eyes were dry, though the hollowness in them spoke of a sorrow beyond tears.
His hand trembling slightly as he reached out to touch Alysanne's cold cheek one final time. The gesture was so intimate, so filled with over five decades of love and shared history, that Laenor found himself looking away, feeling like an intruder on a private moment.
"My queen," Jaehaerys's voice carried through the silence, cracked with age and grief but still commanding. "My Alysanne."
"The gods blessed me with nearly sixty years by her side," the old king said, his voice carrying across the silent pit despite its softness. "Sixty years was not enough."
Laenor felt his mother's hand tighten on his shoulder. He glanced up to see tears streaming silently down her face, her eyes fixed on her grandmother.
"Dracarys," Jaehaerys whispered.
Four massive heads reared back in perfect unison. Laenor felt the heat before he saw the flames, instinctively stepping back as Vermithor unleashed a torrent of golden fire upon the pyre. Silverwing's flame joined next, a brilliant white-hot stream that made Laenor's eyes water. Meleys followed with her distinctive scarlet flame, and finally Vhagar, whose fire burned so hot it appeared almost blue at its center.
The pyre erupted instantly, the combined dragonfire turning the carefully stacked wood and the body upon it into a column of roaring flame that reached toward the sky. The heat was overwhelming, forcing everyone back several steps. Through the shimmering air, Laenor watched as the flames consumed Queen Alysanne's mortal remains, transforming her into ash and smoke.
The assembled Targaryens stood in silence as the fire raged. The burning pyre cast a golden glow across the faces of the assembled Targaryens, highlighting their silver hair and violet eyes in a way that made them seem almost otherworldly.
Laenor stole glances at his relatives, studying these figures he'd heard so much about but had barely seen. Baelon's face was a mask of grief, tears rolled silently down his face. Vaegon, the archmaester, watched the flames with no expression. Viserys wept openly, while his brother Daemon maintained a carefully composed expression that revealed nothing of his thoughts.
Gael's sobs had quieted, but tears continued to stream down her face. Their mother stood tall and proud beside them, her hand resting protectively on Laena's shoulder.
Little Rhaenyra had awoken and stared at the flames with wide, fascinated eyes. She tugged at her mother's hand and whispered something Laenor couldn't hear. Aemma bent down to listen, then straightened with a sad smile.
Through the dancing flames, Laenor saw King Jaehaerys step forward, approaching the pyre where his queen lay. For a terrible moment, Laenor thought the king meant to throw himself onto the flames, to join his beloved in death. But instead, the old king simply stood at the edge of the conflagration, his white hair and beard illuminated by the dragonfire, the firelight caught in the old man's tears, making them glitter like molten gold as they tracked silently down his weathered cheeks.
The dragons withdrew their flames as the burning pyre collapsed in on itself, sending a shower of sparks toward the pre-dawn sky. In that moment, as embers drifted like stars falling back to earth, the first rays of dawn broke through the open dome, painting the smoke-filled air with streaks of gold and pink.
Watching this, Laenor felt something shift within him. This was what it meant to be a Targaryen to stand among dragons and fire, to witness both the power and the vulnerability of those who ruled the Seven Kingdoms. One day, perhaps, it would be his turn to stand before such a pyre, bidding farewell to someone whose loss would tear at his heart.
One by one, the dragons took to the air again, circling once more before departing through the dome's opening. Vermithor was the last to leave, the king's mount lingering as if reluctant to abandon his rider to his grief.
Jaehaerys finally moved then, taking three halting steps toward the smoldering remains before his legs seemed to give way. Prince Baelon was at his side in an instant, supporting his father's weight with gentle hands. The king leaned heavily on his son as they turned away from the pyre.
As they passed where Laenor stood with his family, Jaehaerys paused. For a heartbeat, those ancient violet eyes, fixed on him with startling intensity. The boy felt pinned in place by that gaze, unable to look away or even breathe.
Then the moment passed. The king continued his slow procession out of the Dragonpit, followed by the rest of the royal family.
"Come," Rhaenys murmured, her hand firm on Laenor's shoulder. "We should return to the Keep. There will be a breaking of the fast for family."
Aemma approached them, little Rhaenyra still clutching her hand. "Will you walk with us?" she offered. "I think we could all use the comfort of family this morning."
Rhaenys nodded gratefully. "That would be most welcome, cousin."
As they followed Aemma through the corridors of the Red Keep, Laenor found himself walking beside Prince Viserys, who had fallen into step with them.
"Your first time in King's Landing, is it not?" Viserys asked, his tone gentle despite the somber occasion.
"Yes, Your Grace," Laenor replied politely.
"Please, call me Uncle Viserys," the prince insisted with a sad smile. "We are family, after all." He glanced ahead to where Rhaenyra was now chattering animatedly with Laena. "My daughter seems quite taken with your sister. She rarely warms to strangers so quickly."
"Laena has that effect on people," Laenor said, feeling a surge of pride for his sister. "She's very passionate about dragons. I imagine she's telling Princess Rhaenyra all about them right now."
Viserys chuckled softly. "That would explain it. Rhaenyra is quite dragon-mad herself, despite her tender age." His expression grew more serious. "And what of you, young Laenor? How is your dragon doing, Seasmoke was it?"
Laenor felt a pang at the mention of his dragon, still so far away on Driftmark. "He is doing well uncle. He is growing fast for his age."
"A fine beast," Viserys nodded appreciatively. "Though I understand he was not permitted to join us for the ceremony."
"Mother thought it best," Laenor replied carefully.
Viserys's eyes twinkled briefly. "Indeed. Though between us, I think my grandfather would have appreciated the gesture. He always said there could never be too many dragons."
The great hall of the Red Keep had been transformed for the occasion. Black banners hung from the rafters, and the tables were arranged in a hollow square rather than the usual arrangement. At the head table sat Jaehaerys, flanked by Prince Baelon and an empty chair that made Laenor's throat tighten. That would have been Queen Alysanne's place, he realized. Even in death, they honored her presence.
Servants moved silently among the tables, filling goblets with watered wine and setting out platters of bread, fruit, and cold meats. No one seemed particularly interested in eating. The conversation, when it happened at all, was conducted in hushed tones that barely disturbed the heavy silence.
"Eat something," Rhaenys urged her children, though her own plate remained untouched. "It will be a long day."
Laenor obediently took a piece of bread and some cheese, though his stomach felt too tight for food. Across the table, he noticed the young man who had been pointed out as Daemon watching him with unconcealed curiosity.
He met the older boy's stare evenly, refusing to look away first. After a moment, Daemon's lips curled into what might have been a smile or a sneer, it was impossible to tell which, before he turned his attention elsewhere.
"Who is that?" Laena whispered, following Laenor's gaze.
"Prince Daemon," he replied quietly. "Our uncle."
Laena studied the young man with interest. "He looks dangerous."
"He is," Rhaenys interjected, her voice low but firm. "Mind yourselves around him. Daemon can be unruly."
Before Laenor could ask what she meant, the hall fell silent as Jaehaerys rose from his seat. The old king looked as though he had aged a decade overnight, his shoulders stooped beneath an invisible weight, his hands trembling slightly as he gripped the edge of the table.
"I thank you all for coming," he said, his voice stronger than Laenor had expected. "For sharing in this... this final farewell to my queen." He paused, seeming to gather himself. "Alysanne would not want us to linger in sorrow. She would tell us to continue our work, to serve the realm as she always did. And so we shall.To Queen Alysanne, may she find peace with the gods."
"To Queen Alysanne," they echoed, even little Rhaenyra lisping the words.
Jaehaerys nodded once, then sank back into his chair as if the brief speech had drained what little strength he had left.
"Will he be alright?" Laenor asked his mother in a whisper.
Rhaenys's expression softened with something like pity as she looked at her grandfather. "In time, perhaps. But they were together for so long... it's like losing half of himself."
The rest of the meal passed in relative silence. Laenor picked at his food, his thoughts drifting to Seasmoke. The bond felt stretched thin by distance, like a thread pulled taut. He closed his eyes briefly, sending a pulse of reassurance across their connection. A faint answering warmth told him his dragon had received it, but the response was muted by distance.
The breakfast continued with subdued conversation, primarily focused on memories of Queen Alysanne. Laenor listened attentively, building a mental image of Alysanne Targaryen, a woman of wisdom and kindness, who had championed the rights of women and smallfolk alike throughout her long reign alongside Jaehaerys.
"I miss home," Laena sighed, pushing her food around her plate.
"Me too," Laenor admitted. He turned his attention back to Rhaenyra, who was now building a small fort with pieces of bread. "Have you ever been to Driftmark, cousin?"
The little girl shook her head, sending her silver-gold curls bouncing. "Is it pretty?"
"Very pretty," Laenor told her, warming to the subject. "There are beaches with sand so white it looks like snow, and waters so clear you can see all the way to the bottom. And the cliffs rise up from the sea like castle walls."
Rhaenyra listened with rapt attention, her violet eyes wide with wonder. "And dragons?"
Laenor smiled. "Yes, dragons too. Seasmoke likes to perch on the highest cliff and watch the ships come and go."
"I want to see," she declared firmly.
Aemma gave Laenor an apologetic smile. "Perhaps someday we'll visit, sweet one. If Lord and Lady Velaryon extend an invitation."
"You would be welcome anytime, Aunt Aemma," Laenor said sincerely. Despite the somber occasion that had brought them together, he found himself genuinely liking this gentle aunt and her precocious daughter.
When the meal finally ended, Rhaenys drew her children aside. "You'll be expected to pay your respects to the king later," she told them. "But for now, you may explore the Keep if you wish. Stay together, and remember where you are."
"Yes, Mother," they chorused.
x__________X
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