As the family dispersed from the meal, Laenor found himself wandering away from the others.
He turned down a corridor, drawn by the filtered sunlight streaming through tall windows. The west wing of the Red Keep was quieter than the areas they'd visited earlier. The stone beneath his fingers felt cool as he trailed his hand along the wall.
His fingers brushed against something different,not stone, but painted plaster. Laenor paused, looking up to find himself surrounded by vivid murals depicting Aegon's Conquest. The paintings stretched from floor to ceiling, bringing to life the stories he'd heard since childhood.
There was Balerion the Black Dread, rendered in strokes so detailed that the dragon's scales seemed to catch the light. Laenor stepped closer, studying the fearsome beast that had forged the Seven Kingdoms in fire and blood. Beside Balerion stood Aegon the Conqueror himself, crown upon his head, looking every inch the ruler of legend.
"They never get the dragons quite right," Laenor murmured to himself, noting how the artist had painted Balerion's eyes as mindless and savage rather than intelligent. He moved along the wall, taking in the depiction of the Field of Fire, where Aegon and his sisters had unleashed their dragons against the combined might of the Reach and the West.
The mural showed men burning, their armor melting into their flesh as they fled before the dragonflame. It was both beautiful and terrible, and Laenor couldn't look away. This was his heritage too, not just the glory of dragon-riding but the terrible power that came with it.
"Fascinating, isn't it?" came a voice from behind him.
Laenor spun around, startled by the intrusion. He hadn't heard anyone approach, a lapse that would have earned him a stern lecture from his father about awareness of his surroundings.
Prince Daemon stood a few paces away, leaning casually against the opposite wall. In the diffused sunlight, his Valyrian features looked even more striking, almost predatory in their beauty.
"Your Grace," Laenor said, bowing his head respectfully. "I didn't hear you approach."
"Few do," Daemon replied with a slight smirk. "You seem rather taken with these old paintings."
Laenor glanced back at the mural. "They tell our history."
"They tell a version of it," Daemon corrected, stepping closer to examine the depiction of Balerion. "History is written by the victors, after all. And painted by them too, it seems."
There was an intensity about Daemon's presence, something that made Laenor's skin prickle with wariness and his combat instincts flare up. The prince was young, having recently turned nineteen, but there was something in his eyes that spoke of experiences beyond his years.
"I remember seeing your dragon when you were but a babe," Daemon continued, his gaze shifting from the mural to Laenor. "You've named it Seasmoke, have you not?"
"Yes, Your Grace." Laenor felt a familiar ache at the mention of his dragon. "Though he remains at Driftmark for now."
"A pity. I would have liked to see how he has grown" Daemon stepped closer to the mural, tracing the outline of Balerion with one finger. "Dragons are power, boy. The only power that matters in this world."
Laenor remained silent, unsure how to respond to the strange intensity in his uncle's voice.
"My brother had a dragon," Daemon continued, a hint of bitterness creeping into his tone. "Viserys claimed Balerion at his most feeble, yet he lacks the will to claim another despite out insistence." He turned his piercing gaze back to Laenor. "What of you, nephew? Do you understand what it means to command a dragon?"
The question felt like a test, though Laenor couldn't fathom its purpose. "I'm still learning," he answered carefully. "Seasmoke and I grow together."
Daemon's lips curved into something too sharp to be called a smile. "A diplomatic answer. Your father's son, through and through." He moved along the wall, stopping before the depiction of Visenya Targaryen atop Vhagar.
Daemon's expression shifted, becoming almost contemplative. "Your mother should have been queen, you know. By right of birth, the throne should have passed to her when Aemon died."
Laenor tensed at the dangerous turn in conversation. Speaking of succession, especially now with the kingdom in mourning, bordered on treason.
"My mother has never expressed any resentment about the king's decision," he said carefully.
Daemon laughed, the sound echoing sharply off the stone walls. "Of course she hasn't. Not where ears might hear and tongues might wag." He stepped closer, close enough that Laenor could smell the faint scent of wine on his breath. "But tell me, nephew, do you never wonder what might have been? Had your grandfather lived, had your mother been named heir as was her right?"
"I try not to dwell on paths not taken, Your Grace," Laenor replied, keeping his voice steady despite the growing discomfort.
"A wise approach," Daemon conceded, though his tone suggested he thought it anything but. "Though sometimes the paths we think closed to us merely require... creative navigation."
Before Laenor could decipher the meaning behind those words, footsteps echoed down the corridor. Both of them turned to see a servant approaching, his head bowed respectfully.
"Prince Daemon," the man said with a deep bow. "The Small Council has convened. Prince Baelon requests your presence."
Something like annoyance flickered across Daemon's features before smoothing into a mask of courtly indifference. "It seems duty calls," he said to Laenor. "We will continue our conversation another time, nephew."
With a casual nod that somehow managed to convey both dismissal and warning, Daemon turned and followed the servant down the corridor, his black mourning clothes billowing around him like black wings.
Laenor remained still for several moments after Daemon departed, his mind replaying their strange encounter. The corridor suddenly felt colder without the prince's intense presence.
What an odd conversation. There had been something predatory in Daemon's manner, a coiled tension that reminded Laenor of soldiers he'd known in his previous life, men who smiled with their mouths but never their eyes, who spoke of peace while their itched for their weapon.
He turned back to the mural, studying the painted dragons while his thoughts circled around his uncle. Now he understood what his mother had meant when she warned them about Daemon's "sharpness." The prince carried danger about him like a cloak, carefully cultivated, and worn so comfortably he probably no longer noticed its weight.
Laenor had heard whispers among the servants at Driftmark that Daemon Targaryen had no equal with a blade in his hand. They said he practiced for hours each day, that he had killed his first man at fourteen and had never shown a moment's remorse.
Yet despite the obvious danger, Laenor hadn't sensed any inherent cruelty or malice in his uncle. No, what he'd recognized was something far more familiar, a hunger. Daemon craved combat the way some men craved wine or women. Laenor had seen it before, in hardened veterans who grew restless during peacetime, who picked fights in bars just to feel the rush of blood and the clarity that came with violence. Men who were truly only at peace with a weapon in hand.
A grin spread across Laenor's face as he continued down the corridor. If I weren't so young in this body, I'd love to spar with him. It would be a challenge worth having, to test himself against someone of Daemon's reputation.
The thought surprised him, in his former life he had never relished combat. When had he begun thinking of combat as something to look forward to rather than a grim necessity? Perhaps some of his past life's warrior instincts were bleeding through more than he'd realized. Or perhaps it was something in this new body, calling him to prove himself in battle, the madness and greatness that resided in the Targaryen bloodline in equal measure.
He paused before another mural, this one depicting Aegon's sisters, Visenya and Rhaenys, atop their dragons. Both women had been warriors in their own right.
Dragon-riders, conquerors, kings, his bloodline was steeped in fire and power, in glory and tragedy.
"There you are!" Laena's voice echoed down the corridor, interrupting his thoughts. She hurried toward him, her black mourning dress flitting between her small body. "Mother's been looking everywhere for you. We're supposed to meet the King."
"Already?" Laenor frowned. "I thought that wasn't until later."
"Did you see anything interesting?" Laena asked as they hurried through the corridors.
"Just some old murals," Laenor replied, deciding to keep his encounter with Daemon to himself for now. "And you?"
"I found the dragon skulls!" Laena's eyes lit up despite the somber occasion. "They're kept in a room in the west wing now, all lined up from smallest to largest. Balerion's skull is big as a carriage! The servants wouldn't let me touch them, though."
They rounded a corner and nearly collided with a group of courtiers dressed in mourning black. Laenor recognized a few faces from breakfast, nobles from prominent houses who had come to pay their respects.
"Careful there, young prince," said a tall man with the golden rose of Highgarden embroidered subtly on his sleeve. Matthos Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden if Laenor remembered correctly.
"My apologies." Laenor quickly apologised.
The man's gaze lingered on them a moment too long, his eyes calculating as they took in their Valyrian features. "No harm done. It's an honor to finally meet the children of the Sea Snake and the Princess Who Should Have Been."
Laenor tensed slightly at the man's words. The title some had given their mother was not one spoken openly at court, especially not now.
"You honor us with your attention, my lord," Laenor replied carefully, "but I fear we must not keep our mother waiting."
With another small bow, he steered Laena away from the Tyrell lord and his companions, who watched their departure with undisguised interest.
"Why did he call Mother that?" Laena whispered once they were out of earshot.
"Politics," Laenor replied grimly. "Best not repeated, especially not here."
They found Rhaenys waiting in an antechamber outside the king's private solar, her expression tightening with relief when she spotted them.
"There you are," she said, straightening Laenor's collar and brushing an imaginary speck from Laena's shoulder. "Remember, the king is in mourning. Speak only when spoken to, and keep your answers brief and respectful."
"Yes, Mother," they chorused.
As a steward approached to announce that the king would see them now, Laenor found himself wondering if Jaehaerys would mention Daemon's talk of succession. Somehow, he doubted it. Some conversations, it seemed, were meant to remain in shadowed corridors, spoken in whispers between those who understood the dangerous game of thrones.
The doors to the solar swung open, revealing the dimly lit chamber beyond. King Jaehaerys sat by the window, a frail figure silhouetted against the afternoon light. Despite his grief, he still wore his crown, the weight of rule never fully set aside even in his darkest hour.
He turned to face them as they approached the king together and knelt before him, heads bowed in respect.
"Your Grace," Rhaenys said softly. "We thank you for receiving us in this difficult time."
King Jaehaerys said nothing. His piercing violet eyes studied them with an intensity that made Laenor's skin prickle. The old king's gaze lingered on him longest, those ancient eyes seeming to search for something in his face.
The silence stretched uncomfortably before Jaehaerys finally spoke, his voice stronger than Laenor had expected.
"Rhaenys," he said, "I wish to speak with your son alone."
Laenor felt his body go rigid. He darted a glance at his mother, whose face had transformed in an instant. Her eyes flashed with sudden fury, her mouth tightening into a thin line.
"No," she said flatly. "Whatever you have to say to my son can be said in my presence."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Laenor watched his grandfather's weathered face harden, the grief momentarily replaced by the steel that had ruled seven kingdoms for over five decades.
"Rhaenys," Jaehaerys said, his voice rising sharply. The single word cracked like a whip in the quiet solar. His mother went silent immediately, though Laenor could feel her vibrating with barely contained rage beside him. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
"As your king," Jaehaerys continued, each word deliberate and heavy with authority, "I am ordering you to let me speak with your son alone. Now leave us."
For a moment, Laenor thought his mother might refuse again. The tension between them filled the room like a physical presence. Then Rhaenys inclined her head, the gesture so stiff it barely qualified as respectful.
"As Your Grace commands," she said, her voice cold. She squeezed Laenor's shoulder once, a warning? reassurance?, before taking Laena's hand. "Come, daughter."
Laenor watched them leave, his throat suddenly dry. The heavy oak door closed behind them with a sound that felt oddly final.
He remained kneeling, uncertain whether to rise without permission. Jaehaerys studied him for another long moment before gesturing to a chair across from his own.
"Sit, boy," the king said. "No need to stand on ceremony. Not now."
Laenor rose carefully and took the offered seat. Up close, he could see how grief had ravaged the old king. Jaehaerys's face was deeply lined, the skin under his eyes bruised with exhaustion. Yet those eyes remained sharp, missing nothing.
"You have her eyes," Jaehaerys said abruptly. "Alysanne's eyes. The same shape."
Laenor didn't know how to respond to that. "I'm sorry for your loss, Your Grace," he managed finally.
Jaehaerys waved away the condolence. "You barely knew her. Hard to mourn a stranger." The words might have sounded harsh, but there was no accusation in them, only a tired acknowledgment of reality.
The king reached for a goblet of wine on the table beside him, his hand trembling slightly. He took a sip before fixing Laenor with that penetrating stare again.
"Tell me about your dragon," he said.
Of all the questions Laenor had anticipated, this was not one of them. "Seasmoke, Your Grace?"
"Unless you've claimed another I don't know about," Jaehaerys replied, a hint of dry humor briefly animating his features.
"He's... growing well," Laenor said carefully. "Silver-gray, with pale blue highlights on his wings and crest. He's about the fifty feet in length, but he continues growing each month."
"And your bond with him?"
Laenor hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. "It's strong, Your Grace. I feel him even now, across the bay."
Jaehaerys nodded slowly. "The blood of the dragon runs true in you, despite your Velaryon name." There was something in his tone that Laenor couldn't quite identify, resentment? Reluctant admiration?
Jaehaerys's weathered face cracked into a wry smile. "Did you know," he said, leaning forward, "your mother placed your egg in your cradle without my consent?"
Laenor blinked, stunned by this revelation.
"I had expressly forbidden it," the king continued, a spark of the old fire returning to his eyes. "Dragons were for Targaryens alone. That was our way. Our tradition. But Rhaenys..." He shook his head, and Laenor couldn't tell if the emotion behind the gesture was admiration or lingering resentment. "She always had her father's willfulness. She did it in secret, placed the egg beside you when you were barely a moon's turn old."
The king took another sip of wine, his gaze distant now, lost in memory. "When I learned of it, I was wroth. Absolutely furious. I was fully within my right to strip you of that bond." His voice hardened. "The dragon was never meant to be yours."
Laenor felt a cold dread spreading through his chest. Seasmoke, not his? The very thought made him feel ill. The bond between them was so fundamental, so essential to who he was in this life, that losing it would be like losing a limb. Worse.
"But I hesitated," Jaehaerys continued, his voice dropping lower. "Because to do so would make me no less than Maegor." He spat the name with such hatred that Laenor nearly flinched. "And Alysanne..." His voice softened at his wife's name. "Alysanne came and pled your case. My Queen always had a soft heart for children."
The king's eyes refocused on Laenor's face. "And thus you and your dragon were given a pass. And for the first time since Valyria fell, a rider without the surname Targaryen was born."
Laenor had stiffened at the knowledge of this. His mind was rapidly calculating the political scenario, and he could see why his mother's actions would inspire such rage.
"I thank you for your mercy, Your Grace," he said softly after a moment.
Jaehaerys studied him for a long moment, his violet eyes piercing. "You're a cautious one, aren't you? Like your father in that. Not like your mother at all." He leaned back in his chair. "Do you know why I'm telling you this now, boy?"
Laenor considered his words carefully. "I assume to warn me, Your Grace. About the precarious nature of my position."
"Sharp," Jaehaerys nodded approvingly. "As I suspected. No, not to warn you, exactly. To prepare you." The king gestured vaguely toward the window, toward the world beyond. "There are those at court who resent your dragon. Who believe the blood of Old Valyria should remain pure, untainted by lesser houses."
Laenor bristled inwardly at the implied slight against House Velaryon but kept his expression neutral. "House Velaryon shares the blood of Valyria with House Targaryen, Your Grace."
"So your father reminds the court at every opportunity," Jaehaerys replied dryly. "But it's not just about blood, boy. It's about power. Dragons are power. And there are those who believe that power belongs exclusively to those who wear the Targaryen name."
The king's fingers drummed against the arm of his chair. "You met my grandson Daemon today, I understand."
The abrupt change of subject caught Laenor off guard. "Yes, Your Grace. Briefly."
"And what did you make of him?"
Laenor hesitated, unsure how to describe his encounter with the intense young prince without causing offense. "He seems passionate about his heritage. He actually said something similar to me earlier," Laenor admitted, thinking back to the encounter in the corridor. "That dragons are power. The only power that matters in this world.""
A short bark of laughter escaped Jaehaerys. "Diplomatic indeed. Daemon is dangerous, boy. Brilliant and brave. He's inherited far more of Alyssa than Baelon. But he has still yet to learn something that I have learnt over the course of my long life, that Targaryens are not so close to gods as we believe. That, in the end, we too are only men. Men with dragons, yes. But men all the same."
Jaehaerys's eyes drifted to the window, where beyond the glass the city sprawled beneath them. His gnarled fingers tightened around his goblet.
"When I was young, I believed much as Daemon does. That our dragons made us untouchable. Invincible." The old king's voice grew softer, more reflective.
Laenor shifted in his seat, unsure how to respond to this sudden vulnerability from the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms. The king's grief seemed to have cracked something open within him, allowing words to spill forth that might otherwise have remained unspoken.
"Alysanne taught me that was not the case," Jaehaerys continued. "She could accomplish more with a gentle word than I could with all the fire of Vermithor behind me." His voice cracked slightly.
The king's eyes refocused on Laenor's face. "Remember this, boy. A dragon gives you power, yes. But what you do with that power, that is what defines you."
"I will try to remember, Your Grace," Laenor said, the weight of the king's words settling on his shoulders.
Jaehaerys studied him for a moment longer, then nodded as if coming to some decision. "Your mother resents me. Has resented me since I named Baelon my heir over her. I don't blame her for it. She had the better claim by the laws of inheritance."
Laenor tensed, surprised by this frank acknowledgment. He had no idea what would make the King of the Realm so frank before a mere six year old.
"Why did you, then?" The question slipped out before Laenor could stop it, his curiosity overriding his caution.
Instead of anger, the king's face showed something like respect at his directness. "Because the realm would not have accepted a queen. Not now, not ever. The lords of the Seven Kingdoms would have risen against her, done everything to undermine her, and we would have had war." Jaehaerys sighed heavily. "I chose peace over right. As kings must often do."
The admission hung in the air between them, heavy with implications. Laenor thought of his mother's carefully controlled expressions whenever succession was mentioned, the tightness around her eyes that betrayed her lingering resentment. His father's open disdain at the decision of the King.
"Boy." the king's voice broke him out of his thoughts.
Jaehaerys was studying him with an intensity that made him feel transparent, as though the old king could see every thought flickering through his mind. Then, unexpectedly, Jaehaerys laughed, a dry, humorless sound that held no mirth.
"I can see that you're a smart boy," he said, eyes never leaving Laenor's face. "You must be wondering why the King would talk to you this way, spilling his heart to a boy of merely six name days."
Laenor remained silent, uncertain how to respond to this sudden shift.
"I am old, boy. My wife has gone, and I will be soon to follow. Of that I am sure." Jaehaerys's fingers tightened around his goblet. "I know not when I will see you again, or if I will ever speak to you again."
The king's gaze hardened, his voice gaining a sharper edge. "Of all the threats House Targaryen faces, it is you, when you grow to adulthood, who poses the most complex threat." He paused, letting the words sink in. "I shall make no attempt to hide my dislike of your father. He rose far above his station and stole your mother, a princess of the Blood."
Laenor felt a flush of anger rise in his cheeks at the insult to his father, but he kept his expression neutral, sensing that interrupting would be unwise.
"Through them, you now have a dragon. And House Targaryen no longer has a monopoly on dragons." Jaehaerys leaned forward, his crown catching the light. "My son Baelon does not hold the suspicions and worries I hold, he is far too soft-hearted for that. He can't see that by granting you a dragon, it has opened up the possibilities of other houses claiming dragons through marriage into our House. That your children, or even your sister, may claim dragons of their own. And the day may come when Targaryen dragons are in the minority."
The king's voice dropped to barely above a whisper, forcing Laenor to strain to hear his next words. "That is my deepest fear. That your mother's actions have opened the gates for the collapse of the Targaryen dynasty. In my dreams dragons fight dragons, leaving none."
Laenor stood frozen, the weight of the king's confession pressing down on him like a physical burden.
A Dance of Dragons, like my old war buddies used to discuss. Where all the dragons die. Even in the show, whatever little I saw, there weren't any dragons around. Is this meant to happen. Are the King's dreams prophetic?
The implications were staggering. He wasn't just a boy with a dragon, in the king's eyes, he was the beginning of a potential end of the Targaryen dynasty.
"You fear what you cannot control," Laenor said finally, the words escaping before he could consider their wisdom.
Jaehaerys's eyebrows rose slightly. "Perhaps," he conceded. "Or perhaps I simply understand power better than most. The Targaryens rule because we alone command dragons. Take that away..." He let the thought hang unfinished.
"So why tell me this?" Laenor asked. "If you see me as such a threat?"
"Because you should know the truth of your position, the knife's edge you walk." Jaehaerys gestured vaguely toward the window. "Out there, you're the Sea Snake's son with a dragon. Your father may be filling your head with delusions of grandeur. You are a fascinating, perhaps even inspiring to some. But here," he tapped his temple with one gnarled finger, "in the minds of those who truly understand power, you represent a dangerous precedent."
The king sighed, suddenly looking every one of his years. "I tell you this not out of malice, boy, but because you deserve to know. The game of thrones has already claimed you as a piece, whether you wish it or not."
The king leaned forward, his voice dropping to little more than a whisper. "There are those who would see your dragon as a means to their own ends. Who would use you as a pawn in the great game. Be wary of them, Laenor Velaryon. Be wary even of those who claim to love you."
He fell silent then. And the two souls in the solar stared at each other. One a child, the the other an ageing King.
"I understand, Your Grace," Laenor said carefully. "And I thank you for your honesty."
Jaehaerys nodded, seemingly satisfied, and his energy seeming to drain away as quickly as it had come. He looked suddenly older, the brief animation fading from his features. "Go now," he said, his voice weary. "Your mother will be fretting. Tell her..." He paused. "Tell her I meant no disrespect by speaking with you alone. Some words are not meant for mothers' ears."
Laenor bowed once more and left the solar, his mind racing. Outside, he found his mother pacing the antechamber like a caged dragon, Laena watching her with wide eyes from a bench against the wall.
"What did he say to you?" Rhaenys demanded as soon as the door closed behind him. Her voice was low, urgent.
Laenor hesitated. The king's words felt too raw, too charged with dangerous implications to repeat verbatim. "He spoke of dragons," he said finally. "And of power."
His mother's eyes narrowed. "And?"
"And he said to tell you he meant no disrespect by speaking with me alone. That some words are not meant for mothers' ears."
Rhaenys made a sound that might have been a scoff or a laugh. "Of course he did." She studied Laenor's face closely. "Are you alright? He didn't upset you?"
"No," Laenor lied, offering what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Just some old man's ramblings about dragons and tradition."
His mother didn't look entirely convinced, but she didn't press further. "Very well. Come, both of you. We should return to our chambers. The formal mourning feast will begin at sunset, and we must prepare."
As they walked back through the winding corridors of the Red Keep, Laenor found himself lost in thought. The king's words echoed in his mind, painting a future where his very existence threatened the foundation of Targaryen rule. Was that truly possible? Could one boy with one dragon truly represent such a danger?
The answer, he realized, wasn't simple. It wasn't about him specifically, but what he represented: the first crack in a monopoly of power that had sustained Targaryen rule for nearly a century. The first step on a path that could lead to a very different, very chaotic Westeros.
Laenor looked up his sister, at her innocent curiosity, and felt a surge of protectiveness. "Nothing important," he said, bumping her side. "He was just talking about dragons."
"Was it about Seasmoke?" she persisted. "Did he ask to see him?"
"Something like that," Laenor replied, grateful for the easy deflection. "Come on, race you back to our chambers!"
As Laena darted ahead, laughing, Laenor caught his mother watching him with a knowing look. She didn't believe his evasion for a moment, but she wouldn't question him further, not here, not now, with the walls of the Red Keep having so many ears.
Later, perhaps, when they were safely back at Driftmark with the sea between them and the king's suspicions, he might tell her some version of the truth. But not the whole of it. Never the whole of it.
Some burdens, Laenor was beginning to understand, were meant to be carried alone.
x________________________________________x
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