(73 AC, several weeks after Gaemon's birth)
The mornings came soft that spring, drifting in through the narrow windows of the Red Keep with the scent of rain and the murmur of gulls beyond the city walls. King's Landing had taken on a gentler face since the birth of the
Queen's new son; the bells tolled for peace instead of prayer, and even the wind off the Blackwater carried the promise of calm seas.
Within her chambers, Queen Alysanne Targaryen sat by the open shutters, her hair unbound, a shawl of Myrish lace drawn loosely about her shoulders. Her ladies had gone quiet for her sake,one mending silks, another sorting letters,but their glances often strayed to the cradle near the bed, as if a babe could command more awe than the Iron Throne itself.
Gaemon slept there, pink and perfect, his small hands curled as though ready to grasp the world. The faint light from the window caught in the downy silver of his hair. Every so often he made a noise,half sigh, half whimper,and Alysanne's heart leapt as though she had never borne thirteen children before.
Viserra, now a year old, sat in her nurse's lap upon the carpet, chattering in that sing-song babble that could charm even the most humorless of septas. She had learned to tug at hems and reach for any sparkle within sight.
When her eyes found the glint of a goblet on the table, she stretched both arms toward it and cried, "Mine!" The ladies laughed softly.
Alysanne only smiled and said, "So you are your father's daughter after all."
The nurse cooed something about cleverness, but the Queen's gaze had already returned to her infant son.
The door opened with a low groan, and all in the room rose and curtsied. King Jaehaerys entered not in his robes of state but in the simpler garb he favored for the mornings before council,dark wool, silver chain at his throat, hair combed neatly back. He seemed taller than he was, perhaps from the air of command that clung to him like armor.
"Jaehaerys," said Alysanne with a small smile.
"You surprised me."
"I do not come often enough," he admitted, closing the door with care. "But I wished to see him before I am lost to the day's labors."
He moved to the cradle and looked down, studying the child in silence. The lines at the corners of his eyes deepened, though whether from fatigue or tenderness, Alysanne could not tell.
"He is well," she said, rising. "The maester calls him strong, the wet nurse calls him greedy, and I call him perfect."
Jaehaerys's lips curved faintly. "A mother's judgment, then. The court will find no fault if you do."
She joined him beside the cradle. For a moment, they stood as they had in younger years, shoulder to shoulder, watching over something fragile that they had made together.
"You have named him Gaemon," Jaehaerys said, his voice thoughtful. "A name from old Valyria. The first of us on Dragonstone bore it."
"You named him before I did. Before he was born" she reminded softly.
"Aye." He nodded. "There should always be a Gaemon in our line. The realm forgets easily. It is for us to remember."
He turned from the cradle then, already thinking of matters beyond the room,the roads to be paved, the ports to be strengthened, the endless web of peace that demanded his hands to hold it steady.
"You will attend the council?" she asked, though she knew the answer.
"The realm does not rule itself," he said. "Even in peace, there is no rest. Yet I will send word to the sept that a mass be said for the Queen's recovery."
"That will please the septas," she said. "And perhaps the gods as well."
Jaehaerys smiled faintly, but his mind had already turned elsewhere. "The lords write daily. Dorne asks for trade. The North for grain. The Vale for roads. I must hear them all."
"Go then," she said gently. "I will mind the one small corner of the realm that truly matters."
He paused, then bent to brush a kiss against her hair,an old gesture, brief and dutiful but not unkind. "You have always been its heart, Alysanne."
When the door closed behind him, the chamber seemed to exhale. The ladies resumed their work, the nurse resumed her humming, and Alysanne sat once more by the window, letting the morning drift through her fingers like silk.
The realm's heart, he had called her. Once, that had made her proud. Now, it only made her tired.
By midday, the keep was awake in full. The sounds of King's Landing carried up through the courtyards: the ringing of anvils from the smithy below, the shouts of fishmongers from the riverside, and faintly, from the Dragonpit's great dome, a low rumble that trembled through the stones.
Silverwing.
Alysanne looked up from her embroidery. It had been many weeks since she had last seen her dragon, and guilt tugged at her. The birthing month had confined her, and the maesters had forbidden her flights until she was fully mended. She missed the feel of wind in her hair, the smell of hot scales and salt air.
"Tomorrow," she murmured, almost to herself. "Tomorrow, I shall see her."
The words steadied her more than she expected. She would go to the pit,not to fly, only to visit, as one might an old friend too long neglected.
For now, there was peace enough in the room. Viserra had fallen asleep against her nurse's shoulder. Gaemon stirred in his cradle and began to cry, a soft mewling that was all need and no fear. Alysanne rose at once, took him in her arms, and hushed him with the ease of long practice.
"There, my sweet. The world is not so cruel as all that."
He quieted almost at once, pressing his small face against the curve of her neck. His warmth seeped through her gown, and for a time she forgot kings and councils and dragons, forgot even her age.
In that moment, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms was only a mother again, holding her youngest child as the wind off the sea whispered through the open window.
By midday the following day, the Red Keep was alive with voices. Servants hurried through the corridors with baskets of parchment and scrolls, couriers shouted at one another in the yard below, and the clatter of hooves on stone told of riders coming from the city gates.
The Queen's solar was her refuge from it all: a bright, airy room hung with Myrish tapestries of dragon wings and flowering trees, their colors faded by sun and sea air. The windows looked east, toward the Dragonpit and the gleam of Blackwater Bay beyond.
Alysanne sat at her writing table, a quill in hand though she had written little that morning. She found her eyes drawn again and again to the cradle near the hearth, where Gaemon lay gurgling at the play of firelight. His tiny hands grasped at nothing, his whole world contained in a dance of shadows on the wall.
"Your Grace," said Septa Mariah, entering with a small bow. "Ravens from Dragonstone. Three, by the maester's count."
The Queen's lips curved. "My restless brood writes again, then."
The septa smiled faintly. "Two in proper form. The third… less so."
"Saera."
"As ever."
Alysanne took the bundle of letters, sealed with crimson wax and the three-headed dragon of their house. She broke the first seal , Aemon's hand, firm and measured, the script neat as if the quill itself were bound by discipline.
To my dearest mother and father,
The weather upon Dragonstone is fair, though the winds are strong and the air thick with salt. Caraxes grows restless; he has taken to the skies twice daily, but still snarls at the keepers when they come too close. I think he misses the company of Silverwing and Vermithor. The younger dragons grow well , the stablehands say one of Dreamfyre's eggs may soon hatch. I shall send word when it does.
….
….
….
I cannot wait to come home and meet my little baby brother. Give him my love.
Your dutiful son,
Aemon Targaryen.
Alysanne traced the signature with her thumb, her smile fond but tinged with pride. Aemon had his father's steadiness , and his father's sense of duty. It was a detailed letter speaking of things on Dragonstone, and administration.
"Ever the soldier," she murmured.
"His grace would call that a virtue," said the septa.
"It is," the Queen replied softly, "but I would rather he learn joy, too."
She set Aemon's letter aside and took up the second , Vaegon's, the seal pressed too deep, the parchment thin as onion skin. His script was elegant but cramped, lines crowding one another like scholars at a library table.
To the Queen, my mother,
Maester Perestan has allowed me access to the elder Valyrian texts on draconic anatomy. I am compiling a treatise upon the relative heat tolerances of dragon eggs and the variance in shell porosity across bloodlines. It would benefit the realm if King's Landing preserved more of these writings rather than sending them to Oldtown, where superstition often stifles learning. I trust this letter finds you in health and clarity of mind.
Vaegon.
Alysanne sighed, amused despite herself. "Health and clarity of mind," she repeated. "He writes to his mother as if she were a dusty codex. And nothing about himself, nothing about the new baby brother"
The septa tried , and failed , to hide a smile. "He has his own way of love."
"Indeed," said Alysanne, setting the letter aside. "So long as he remembers that, I shall count it affection enough."
The third letter was sealed poorly, the wax already cracked. The handwriting was Aemon's. So, Saera got him to write her letter, but sealed it herself. That precocious child.
My dearest mother , or should I say, the most patient and pretty woman in the realm,
If you are reading this, it means the ravens have survived the smoke of Dragonstone and the lectures of Vaegon. Gods, but he is dreary. He speaks to the dragons as if they might quote scripture back at him. Aemon is no better , he broods and drills the guards twice a day, though there is no war to fight and no maiden to impress. He already has a wife.
As for me, I have made friends among the dragonkeepers. They smell of ash and dung, which is more than can be said for most courtiers. I have named one of the hatchlings "Lady Ashes" in your honor. She bites. I love her. But I do not want a hatchling. I want to bond with a big dragon. I would like to try to bond with Dreamfyre once I am back.
Talk to your husband and get me permission.
Your best daughter,
Saera Targaryen.
The Queen's laughter filled the solar. Even the septa smiled.
"Lady Ashes," Alysanne said. "I can only imagine what the keepers think of that."
"She is ever your most spirited child," said Mariah gently.
"Spirited, yes," Alysanne said, though her tone softened with fondness. "But too clever for her own good."
She folded the letters and set them in a neat stack beside her inkpot. Outside, a gull screamed above the bay, and the faint rumble of dragons answered from the pit below , a sound she had lived with so long it no longer frightened her, only comforted.
She thought of Daella and Maegelle who were in old town. A letter should arrive from Daella.
Gaemon began to fuss again, small mewling cries that rose and fell like the tide. The Queen crossed to him, lifted him from the cradle, and pressed her cheek to his soft hair.
"Hush now," she whispered. "Your brothers and sisters send their love , even the ones too proud to say it."
The babe's cries softened into hiccups, then faded. She swayed gently, her gown whispering against the floor.
From the table, the letters seemed to watch her , three voices of her older brood, each different, each distant, all bound by the same blood that had shaped her life.
She wondered, not for the first time, whether her children would ever understand what she and Jaehaerys had built. Peace was a harder inheritance than war.
That evening, when the chambermaids came to light the candles, they found the Queen still seated by the window, her son asleep upon her shoulder, the letters spread out like relics of another life.
"Your Grace," said Mariah softly, "shall I take him?"
"In a moment."
Her gaze had drifted beyond the walls, toward the Dragonpit , that vast dome of stone rising from the hill. From here she could almost hear the chain-clink of Silverwing's restless movements.
"Tomorrow," she said again, half to herself. "Tomorrow, I will go to her."
The Queen went to the Dragonpit at dawn.
Mist still clung to the hill when her litter climbed the winding path that led to its gates. From below, the great dome rose like a mountain of blackened stone, its ribs of bronze and iron gleaming faintly in the new sun. Ravens perched along the arches, cawing as if to herald her approach.
Few came here now who did not need to. Even lords grown fat on dragonfire preferred to keep a safe distance from the beasts that slept within. But Alysanne had never feared dragons, not even when they roared loud enough to shake the marrow in her bones.
The pit's heavy doors groaned as they opened, releasing a breath of air thick with heat and the musk of stone and ash. Torches guttered in the gloom. Dragonkeepers in their soot-black tunics bowed low as she entered.
"Her Grace comes for Silverwing," said the eldest, a thin man with half a beard and eyes like burnt coals. "The she-dragon grows restless of late. We feed her twice daily, but she waits for the sky."
"She will wait a little longer," said Alysanne. "I only wish to see her."
The keepers exchanged looks , curiosity, respect, a touch of fear. No matter how many years she had been their queen, it still unsettled them that she walked among dragons without armor or spear.
The great chamber that housed Silverwing lay at the pit's southern curve. Heat rolled from it in waves, heavy and living. The chains that bound the dragon's neck and leg were thick as a man's torso, sunk deep into rings of blackened iron.
Silverwing lifted her head as the queen approached, her scales glimmering pale as dawnlight where the torchfire struck them. Her breath steamed in the air, carrying the sharp scent of brimstone.
Alysanne halted a dozen paces away, inclining her head in a gesture that was neither bow nor prayer , something older, perhaps, born of long companionship.
"Hello, old girl," she said softly. Her voice echoed faintly in the stone vaults.
The dragon blinked one molten-gold eye, then exhaled a slow breath that stirred the Queen's gown. The air was hot enough to sting, but Alysanne only smiled.
"You've been patient," she murmured. "Too long chained from the sky."
Silverwing rumbled low in her throat, a sound that rolled like thunder underfoot. Her great wings flexed slightly, sending ash swirling.
The Queen stepped closer, hand lifted in calm. "I cannot fly with you yet. The maesters say my strength is not returned. But soon."
Another rumble , not anger, more the weary protest of a creature who remembered freedom too vividly.
Alysanne's gaze fell then to the ground near the dragon's haunch, where a patch of straw had been blackened and charred. Something glinted faintly beneath it. She frowned, moved closer.
Nestled in the hollow between two great claws lay an egg , large as a helm, smooth-shelled and faintly steaming in the warmth of the pit. Its color was unlike any she had seen before: deep violet streaked with veins of black, as if twilight itself had hardened into stone.
She drew a slow breath.
The dragon's tail curled protectively about it.
The nearest keeper stepped forward, alarm flickering across his face. "Your Grace, best stand back. She guards it close. None have dared,"
"I will not harm it," said Alysanne quietly. "Nor her."
She knelt, careful, deliberate, the hem of her gown gathering ash. "I did not know you were nesting, my beauty."
Silverwing lowered her massive head, nostrils flaring, her breath gusting over the Queen in waves of heat. For a heartbeat, the world held still.
Alysanne did not flinch. She had flown this dragon across seas, through storms, over battlefields and temples and towers. She knew her moods as she knew her own breath.
"I have a son now," she said softly, words meant for herself as much as for the creature before her. "Born strong, and full of fire already. Perhaps he should dream beside one of your children, if you'll allow it."
Silverwing's eyes, vast and unblinking, fixed on her. A long moment passed , a silence broken only by the creak of chains and the hiss of breath through stone.
Then the dragon shifted, slow as sunrise. One great claw uncurled, revealing the egg in full.
Alysanne reached forward and laid her palm upon the shell. It was hot to the touch, almost searing; she felt its life pulsing faintly beneath her hand.
"Thank you," she whispered.
The keepers stirred, but she raised a hand to still them. "Bring silk and straw," she said. "We will carry it carefully. No harm must come to it."
The eldest bowed low. "It will be done, Your Grace."
As they prepared the wrappings, Alysanne remained a moment longer, watching the dragon's golden eyes dim and brighten like embers in the dark.
"Rest now," she murmured. "You've done enough."
When at last the egg was lifted from its bed and swaddled in thick Myrish cloth, Alysanne turned to leave. At the sound of her steps, Silverwing gave a low, resonant call that trembled through the dome , not rage, but something older and sadder, a note of reluctant surrender.
The Queen looked back once. "He will know where it came from," she said. "I promise you that."
The morning light was harsh after the pit's dim heat. Alysanne breathed it in deeply, steadying herself as the cool wind touched her face. The keepers carried the bundle before her, careful as priests with relics.
By the time they reached the courtyard, the egg's warmth had seeped through the wrappings, radiating like a small hearthfire.
"Purple and black," she murmured to herself. "A strange hue for a strange time."
Then, glancing skyward toward the Red Keep's towers, she smiled faintly.
"Jaehaerys will call it folly. Let him. A mother has her own wisdom."
(Later that evening, 73 AC)
By the time Queen Alysanne returned to her chambers, the day had begun to fade. The Red Keep's stones were steeped in the gold of sunset, and from the open windows came the distant cry of gulls and the tolling of the evening bells.
The egg lay on her table now, swaddled in layers of silk and wool, steaming faintly.
Maester Kelvyn hovered nearby, cautious as a cat before a brazier.
"Freshly laid, Your Grace?" he asked, his voice tight with awe. "From Silverwing herself?"
"So the keepers say," Alysanne replied, unwrapping the clothes one by one. Each layer released another breath of heat until the purple-black shell gleamed bare in the lamplight. "It was her gift, or perhaps her whim. I shall not question which."
The maester leaned in, careful not to touch. "Magnificent. The color is rare. I have seen many eggs, but none like this. The veins run deep as if the shell drank nightshade and flame together."
He looked up, uncertain. "Shall I have it sent to the Dragonpit for safekeeping?"
"No."
The word was gentle but firm.
"It will rest where it belongs , beside my son."
Kelvyn hesitated, then inclined his head. "As the custom commands."
The Queen smiled faintly. "Custom commands nothing. I do."
By nightfall, the nursery was filled with the warm glow of candles. Alysanne stood beside the cradle, her ladies and children gathered close.
Baelon came first, tall for sixteen, with the restless energy of youth in his limbs. His hair caught the firelight like a crown. "You found it yourself?" he asked, awe and disbelief mingling in his tone.
"I did," said Alysanne. "Silverwing guarded it fiercely. I half expected her to keep it forever."
"She let you take it?" Alyssa asked, wide-eyed.
"She did. Perhaps even dragons know a mother's pleading voice."
Baelon and Alyssa have returned from their journey. They have been taken by Gaemon and they spend their free time here with him.
The maester entered then, bearing the egg in both hands. It glowed softly through the silks, the heat visible in the shimmer of the air above it. Even Baelon, who had seen Vhagar's fury up close, took a step back in reverence.
Alysanne gestured to the cradle. "There."
The egg was placed beside the infant, wrapped in fine Dornish linen to dull the warmth. It fit neatly into the space carved for it, its shell catching the flicker of candles like polished amethyst.
Gaemon stirred in his sleep but did not wake. His small fingers flexed once, as though reaching toward the warmth beside him.
A murmur ran through the gathered attendants, that soft collective breath that follows a miracle, or something close enough to one.
Baelon broke the silence first. "When he's older, I'll teach him to ride."
"Or speak," said Alyssa dryly. "He can hardly cry without help, brother."
Baelon grinned. "Then we'll start with that. Every dragon's roar begins with a cry."
Viserra, perched on her nurse's hip, clapped her tiny hands at the sound of her siblings' voices. "Cry!" she echoed, and everyone laughed.
Alysanne shook her head, smiling. "Enough talk of swords and roars. He will have enough time to learn such things. For now, let him sleep in peace."
Alysanne reached down, brushing a finger along the egg's surface. The warmth seeped through her skin , living, gentle, powerful.
When the children had gone to bed and the attendants had dimmed the candles, Alysanne lingered. She sent the maester away with a nod, dismissing even the septa until only she and the two sleeping babes remained.
Outside, the wind sighed against the shutters, carrying the faint rumble of dragons from the pit , Vermithor's deep growl, Dreamfyre's answering roar.
The Queen drew her chair close and watched her son sleep. The cradle's silken curtains stirred with each of his breaths. Beside him, the egg gleamed faintly, its dark veins alive with light from within.
She thought of all her children , the ones near, the ones far away, the ones buried under marble and memory. The Seven had blessed her with so many, yet each one seemed to carry a different piece of her heart, leaving her a little lighter each time.
Still, this child, this Gaemon, had come when she thought her body too weary for new life. Perhaps that alone made him special , not for prophecy or power, but for the simple defiance of being born.
Her thoughts wandered then to Silverwing, chained and restless in her lair. She had seen something almost human in the dragon's gaze that morning, some faint echo of understanding. The creature had yielded the egg but not gladly. Alysanne had promised she would care for it well, and she intended to keep that promise.
She rose and went to the cradle one last time, resting her hand on the silken edge. "Sleep well, little one," she whispered. "May the heat keep you warm, and the wings that gave it keep you safe."
The candlelight flickered across her face, gilding the tears she had not meant to shed. She brushed them away with a soft laugh.
"Your father would call me foolish," she said to the sleeping babe. "But perhaps a fool's love is exactly what this realm needs."
The child made a small sound , not a cry, only a sigh, and settled again.
Alysanne bent, kissed his brow, and turned toward the balcony.
Outside, the night lay still over King's Landing. The city's lights twinkled like fallen stars, the bay black and calm beyond the walls. The moon hung low above the Dragonpit's dome, pale against the smoke rising from its vents.
Somewhere within that stone mountain, Silverwing moved, chains clinking faintly in the dark. The Queen's heart ached at the sound.
She looked up at the stars and whispered a prayer, though she could not have said to whom , the Seven, the Old Gods, or something older still.
"Let there be peace," she murmured. "For him. For all of them."
When she turned back, the cradle's faint light caught her eye through the doorway , the purple sheen of the egg glowing softly beside her sleeping son.
The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms stood a moment longer, then drew the curtains and let the night settle around them both.
It was deep in the night when the sound came.
At first, Alysanne thought it another of Gaemon's stirrings , a whimper, perhaps, or the soft kicking he did when his dreams grew lively. But when she turned, the light of the hearth caught something else: a dull shimmer beneath the cradle's silk canopy, a pulse that wasn't candlelight.
The air was warm. Warmer than it should have been, though no log had been added to the fire since the last bell. The wet nurse slept soundly by the wall, her snores soft and steady, and yet the queen felt her heart beating quick, as if some invisible hand had nudged her awake.
She rose quietly, barefoot across the stones, her robe gathered close. The cradle stood beneath the window, carved from redheart wood, its railings etched with seven-pointed stars. Inside, Gaemon slept on his back, mouth slightly open, his downy hair catching the faint firelight.
Beside him, nestled in the folds of linen, the dragon egg trembled.
It was a subtle thing , a shiver, then stillness. Then another, longer. The purple shell, once dark and glossy, now glowed from within, like coals roused from slumber. The black streaks along its surface were molten veins, pulsing slow and bright.
Alysanne's breath caught.
"Gaemon…" she whispered, though the babe did not stir. She didn't worry, not yet.
The tremors grew sharper. A fine crack split the shell, running like lightning across its curve. A scent of brimstone filled the air, faint, but unmistakable. Then another crack joined it, and another, until the egg began to break apart with soft, wet sounds.
The queen took a half-step forward, torn between wonder and fear.
From the fragments, a sliver of movement emerged, slick, trembling, struggling against its birth. A snout, narrow and scaled, pressed through the steam. The creature pushed once more, wings unfurling like damp parchment, its small body slick with birth-fluids that hissed against the warmth of the cradle's silks.
Alysanne gasped, not from horror, but reverence.
The hatchling blinked. Its eyes were the color of amethyst, luminous and deep. Tiny claws scrabbled against the sheets, and it uttered a sound , half hiss, half chirp , high and uncertain.
Gaemon stirred.
His hand, impossibly small, brushed the dragon's flank. The creature froze, head tilting, tongue flickering to taste the air between them.
Then, with a sound almost like a coo, it pressed itself against the child's side.
Alysanne watched, hand to her mouth. The dragonling was no larger than a cat , wings folded like velvet ribbons, tail coiling instinctively around the baby's legs. Its scales shimmered purple so dark they looked black in the dim room, but where the firelight touched, veins of silver and violet gleamed.
The babe gave a gurgling laugh.
It was the sound that broke Alysanne's stillness , soft, bubbling laughter, bright as bells. Gaemon's fingers tangled in the hatchling's wing, and the creature, far from resisting, tucked itself closer, eyes closing as it gave a low, throaty hum.
Alysanne sank to her knees beside the cradle. "By the Seven…" she breathed. Her heart trembled like the egg had moments ago.
Silverwing's egg, she had known it might hatch, someday, perhaps even soon. But to hatch now, in the cradle, before priests could bless it, before keepers could tend it, that was something else entirely.
The wet nurse muttered in her sleep, turning away from the warmth. No one else in the chamber stirred. Only the queen and her son, and the newborn dragon whose breath came in faint, smoky curls.
Not fire, not yet. Only heat, the faint shimmer of life new-made.
Alysanne reached out. The dragon's eyes opened, and for an instant, she saw herself reflected there , old and young at once, queen and mother both. She had seen dragons hatch before. She had seen keepers at Dragonstone cradle smoking eggs, and watched the creatures claw their way into the world. But never like this. Never so quiet, so gentle.
"Do you know him already?" she murmured, half to the creature, half to her son.
The hatchling blinked once, then settled its head on Gaemon's chest, wings fluttering faintly before folding tight. Its breathing slowed to match the boy's own.
She had expected shrieks, fire, chaos. Instead there was peace, the steady, shared rhythm of two heartbeats.
For a long while, Alysanne only watched. The candle burned low. A distant wind moved through the halls of the Red Keep, carrying the cries of gulls from the Blackwater.
When she finally rose, her knees ached. She looked down once more. The cradle held two sleepers now: one of flesh and one of flame, both bound by blood older than kingdoms.
At dawn, word spread like wildfire through the keep. Servants whispered, then courtiers, then the maesters who came with their quills and questions.
"An omen," said Septa Mariah, crossing herself thrice.
"A blessing," murmured Septon Barth, quill forgotten in his hand.
The king came at last , his expression unreadable, the night's duties weighing still upon his shoulders. He stood by the cradle a long time, eyes upon the coiled dragonling.
"So soon," he said quietly.
Alysanne nodded. "It chose him."
Jaehaerys looked at his wife, and something like pride stirred behind his composure. "Mayhaps it chose us all."
But Gaemon only laughed again , a bright, bubbling sound as the dragonling stretched, opened its tiny jaws, and gave a soft chirp in answer.
And for the first time in many months, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms felt peace take root once more , not the fragile peace of treaties and councils, but the kind born of family, fire, and blood.
Author's Notes:
The Egg hatched!
Drop me your suggestions for the name.
My choices are:
1. Arrax
2. Drax
3. Aerion
The dragon is a male. Let me know your pick.