The bells of the Mud Gate were still ringing when the royal barge came into view, its sails catching the morning light like dragon wings of gold. From the terrace above the river, Queen Alysanne watched the vessel cut across the Blackwater's slow current, the oars moving in perfect sync, each stroke glinting bright as beaten bronze.
King's Landing was already awake. The smell of baking bread rose from the city's streets, mingling with tar and salt. Fishermen shouted along the quays; a dozen gulls wheeled overhead, shrieking their hunger. Somewhere beyond the walls, the bells of the Sept of Remembrance tolled the hour. It was a morning like any other , save that her children were coming home.
She stood with Alyssa and Baelon beside her, the two already whispering about who would reach the gangplank first. In her arms,
Gaemon gurgled, the faintest tuft of silver-gold hair catching the wind. The babe's violet eyes tracked the barge as if he somehow knew who sailed upon it.
Alysanne smiled down at him. "Do you wait for your brother, sweet one?" she murmured. "He was already a man when you were born. He'll look on you and think you small as a sparrow."
Baelon laughed. "Aemon will think him perfect, Mother. He thinks every babe is a knight in the making. Even if he is as tiny as little Gaemon here."
Alysanne swatted him lightly. "Mind your tongue. You were no smaller when you first came wailing into my arms."
They stood together at the quay as the barge drew near. The royal banner rippled at its prow , three-headed dragon, red on black , and behind it, the faint shimmer of gold embroidery marked the banner of House Baratheon. And then came Caraxes. Landing nearby.
Alysanne's heart lifted. She had not seen Jocelyn since the wedding at Storm's End two years past. The match had pleased her, though she had worried for the girl , bold Aemon could be as stubborn as his grandsire, and Jocelyn's Stormlander pride would surely match his. But they were young yet, and youth had time enough to learn the song of love.
The oarsmen shipped their blades, the hull kissing the pier with a hollow thud. The first to step ashore was Jocelyn Baratheon, her cloak clasped with silver stags, cheeks flushed by sea air.
At the same time came the Prince Aemon, tall, broad-shouldered, golden hair bound at the nape with a crimson ribbon, in his riding leathers.
Alysanne did not wait for courtesies. She handed Gaemon to Alyssa and went forward herself. "My son," she said, her voice soft but clear across the water.
Aemon's smile broke wide as dawn. He bowed, then caught her hands in his. "Mother. It's good to be home."
"You smell of salt and dragon," she teased, though her eyes were shining.
Jocelyn curtseyed, her Stormlands accent lilting: "Your Grace, the seas between Dragonstone and the capital are calmer than the stories claim. My husband insists it is because of his good fortune, not mine."
Baelon snorted. "If fortune smells of fish, I believe it."
That earned him a look from Alysanne and laughter from Aemon and Jocelyn both.
Behind them came Prince Vaegon, already with ink on his fingers, and Saera, her braids coming loose as she ran ahead of her attendants. The girl darted past everyone and threw her arms around her mother's skirts. "Mother! The dragons sang last night, I swear they did! Vaegon says it was only wind, but he's blind to wonder."
Vaegon rolled his eyes. "It was the sea caves echoing the waves."
"Let her dream," Alysanne said, resting a hand on Saera's head. "Dreams make kinder company than ink."
Vaegon opened his mouth to answer but stopped, gaze caught by the infant in Alyssa's arms. "That's him?"
"Your brother Gaemon," Alyssa said proudly.
"Born while you chased parchment and priests."
The boy prince stepped closer, peering with all the intensity of a maester examining a rare beetle. "He looks…ordinary," Vaegon decided.
Baelon laughed aloud. "You were less than that at his age, brother."
Saera tugged at her mother's sleeve. "Where's the dragon, Mother? I want to see the baby dragon."
Alysanne smoothed the girl's hair. "He's sleeping in his den, the nursery. He'll not come running to the docks to meet you, little imp."
Saera pouted, arms crossed. "Why can he have a dragon already when I have none? I want Dreamfyre."
"Because he's too young to ask for one," Alysanne said, smiling. "And you're too young to care for one. Patience, my love. Dragons choose when they will."
Aemon bent toward the baby, brushing a finger across Gaemon's hand. The tiny fingers closed around his own. "Seven save us," Aemon murmured. "He's got the grip of a soldier."
Jocelyn leaned in beside him, eyes wide with the soft wonder of one not born to dragons. "He's beautiful, Your Grace. All silver and sunlight."
Alysanne's heart warmed. "He's no different than any of my babes, all beautiful, though his father would have you think he's forged of Valyria's last flame."
Aemon glanced up at that. "Father's well?"
"As well as any man who rules a kingdom," she said gently. "You know him. He measures worth in roads and laws, not laughter."
Aemon's smile thinned, but he nodded. "Then perhaps Gaemon will remind him what laughter sounds like."
They walked together through the castle's winding corridors, sunlight spilling through tall, narrow windows. The Red Keep smelled of wax and parchment, and the distant hum of the court never ceased. Servants bowed as the royal family passed, seven bright heads of silver and gold, the living proof of peace made flesh.
As they neared the nursery, the air changed , warmer, tinged faintly with the scent of ash and raw meat. The door was ajar; inside, the hearth burned bright.
Alysanne gestured for quiet before stepping in.
The hatchling lay curled beside the cradle, its violet scales catching the firelight. It was larger now, no longer cat-sized, but nearing the length of a hound's body. It stirred as they entered, lifting its narrow head, eyes bright as amethyst.
Gaemon cooed from Alyssa's arms.
The dragon made a low, throaty sound , not a hiss, not quite a growl, and slithered closer to the crib as if to guard it.
Jocelyn drew a sharp breath. "By the gods..."
"It won't harm you," Alysanne said softly. "It only guards what it loves."
Vaegon crouched, fascinated. "It reacts to the babe's voice. How often does it feed?"
"Twice daily," Alysanne said. "It favors goat's milk and raw fowl. The keepers say that's common for hatchlings."
Aemon smirked. "A dragon that prefers chicken , there's hope for us all."
Even Vaegon chuckled.
But then the maester, grey and stooped, cleared his throat. "Your Grace, if I may speak plainly… it might be wise to move the creature. For the child's safety. Dragons are unpredictable."
Alysanne turned to him, voice mild but firm. "When it breathes fire, you may take it. Until then, it sleeps beside my son."
Septon Barth, standing near the door, nodded thoughtfully. "Fire unbreathed is innocent," he said.
The queen smiled faintly. "Aye. Let innocence stay beside innocence a while longer."
The room fell quiet but for the crackle of the hearth. The dragon stretched one wing , soft leather, black along the edges , and folded it again. Then, as if content, it curled up against the cradle's leg, eyes half-lidded.
Gaemon laughed, a bubbling, bright sound , and for that moment, every tension in the room melted away.
Aemon placed a hand on his mother's shoulder. "He's blessed, Mother."
Alysanne looked at her son , her eldest, the man who would one day lead , and then at the babe in her arms. "Look how peaceful he looks, Aemon. We should all pray for it. For love, laughter, and dragons who eat chicken."
The prince laughed softly, and even Jocelyn joined him. Outside, bells tolled noon over the city , a clear, steady sound that carried across the roofs of the Red Keep.
The day felt endless, sunlit, and whole.
For now, all was well.
The Red Keep was quieter after the morning's greetings faded into the hum of daily life. From the Queen's solar came the scratch of quills, the murmurs of stewards, the shuffle of pages carrying ledgers. The royal court had grown so orderly under Jaehaerys that even laughter seemed to follow its own schedule.
But in the nursery, the rhythm of life belonged to no council.
The room was a world apart , warm, sun-dappled, filled with the faint sweetness of milk and the sharper musk of straw and ash. Tapestries of dragons and clouds hung along the walls, their threads catching the light.
Alysanne sat by the open window, a length of soft silk draped over her shoulder, as Gaemon gnawed on her finger and gurgled in delight.
"You'd have the maesters think you're teething early," she said with mock sternness. "Always so hungry, little dragon."
On the carpet nearby lay the true little dragon , the hatchling, grown near the length of a mastiff's body, scales shimmering from plum-dark to lavender where sunlight touched them. Its wings were still soft at the joints, its limbs almost delicate, but the strength in its tail was unmistakable. The keepers called it "the violet wyrmling." Alysanne, in private, thought of it as her second child.
The creature lifted its head when Gaemon laughed, nostrils flaring. Its tongue flicked once, twice, tasting the air, and then it chirped , a throaty, purring sound that had become familiar over the past months.
"It's as if they share a secret," Jocelyn Baratheon said quietly from her chair by the hearth.
She had taken to spending her mornings in the nursery when Aemon was off to council or the training yard, and Alysanne had found her company soothing , the kind of calm that only someone unshaken by dragons could offer. The young lady's dark hair gleamed in the light, her smile soft but knowing. "I never thought dragons could be gentle," she added.
"They are what we make them," Alysanne replied. "Much like men."
Jocelyn's lips curved. "Then mayhaps I should learn your ways, Your Grace. My husband is as proud as any dragon and twice as stubborn."
"Pride is a family sickness," Alysanne said with a small sigh. "The Seven know his father's caught a stronger case than most."
Jocelyn chuckled, covering her mouth. "You speak boldly for a queen."
"I speak as a mother," Alysanne said, looking down at Gaemon. "And we are allowed our heresies when it comes to those we love. Also, I belong to the same family" she winked.
A moment of peace passed between them , the kind of silence that needs no filling. Outside, the wind rattled faintly against the shutters, and the sea's distant breath could be heard beyond the walls.
Then came a knock at the door.
"Enter," Alysanne called, shifting Gaemon to her other arm.
The Grand Maester, his chain glinting like frost, entered first, followed by a pair of dragonkeepers in soot-stained leathers. They bowed low.
"Your Grace," said the maester, adjusting his spectacles, "forgive our intrusion. The King has given leave for us to speak regarding the hatchling."
Alysanne's brow arched slightly. "Has he now?"
The Grand Maester's throat bobbed. "The matter is one of...prudence, Your Grace. The dragon has grown quickly, and though it remains docile in your presence, its temperament cannot be assured. The keepers report restlessness at night , scratching, low wailing sounds, and... ah...a tendency to smolder the bedding."
"Smolder?" Jocelyn echoed, eyes widening.
"Only faintly, my lady," one of the keepers stammered. "A warmth through the straw, like a coal buried deep. No flame."
Alysanne's gaze moved from the hatchling , who now blinked slowly, perfectly serene , back to the maester. "You would have me send it away."
He inclined his head. "To the royal mews, or the lower cavern beneath the Keep, where it may be studied and properly tended. It would be safer for all, and the child,"
"The child," she interrupted, "is a Targaryen, born of dragon blood, who sleeps soundly beside it each night."
"Until the creature's nature changes, Your Grace," he said softly. "Dragons are not hounds. Affection can turn to peril in an instant."
Jocelyn bit her lip, uncertain. The dragon had lifted its head now, eyes narrow and gleaming, as if it sensed the change in tone.
Alysanne rose, passing Gaemon gently to the wet nurse, and crossed to the cradle. "You speak of nature," she said. "I speak of nurture. If you treat flame with fear, it burns you. If you learn its warmth, it keeps you alive."
The Grand Maester hesitated. "Yet, Your Grace, even warmth consumes when left untended."
From the doorway came a new voice , calm, thoughtful, unmistakable. "Aye, but so can cold neglect."
It was Septon Barth, his white robes trailing lightly over the stone. He stepped inside, inclining his head first to Alysanne, then to the others. "Forgive me, I overheard. The matter of dragons often leads men to forget they were once small enough to cradle."
The Grand Maester frowned. "This is no matter for scripture, Septon."
Barth smiled faintly. "Nor for fear, Maester. We have kept dragons since Aegon's day, yet only a few have ever harmed their kin. The Queen's wish is reasonable, let the bond develop. The hatchling poses no danger until it draws fire into its lungs"
Jocelyn looked between them. "When does that happen?"
Barth answered before Alysanne could. "At one year, give or take. The old chronicles say their lungs harden to flame when the first scales along the belly darken from milk-white to iron."
"And until then?" Jocelyn asked.
"They are half bird, half lizard, and all appetite," Barth said mildly. "But harmless if kept well-fed."
The Queen gave a soft chuckle. "You hear, Maester? A creature after my husband's own heart."
That earned a ripple of laughter from the keepers , even Jocelyn covered her smile.
The Grand Maester sighed, clearly outnumbered. "If Your Grace insists, we shall maintain watch and report any... incidents."
"You'll do more than watch," Alysanne said, gentle but firm. "You'll feed it properly. Twice daily. Goat's milk in the mornings, fowl or hare at dusk. And none of your tonics , it doesn't need your leechcraft."
"As you command," he murmured, bowing deeply.
When they left, the nursery seemed warmer, lighter. The hatchling stretched, wings fluttering once before folding back. Its head turned toward Alysanne, who reached down and brushed its snout with two fingers.
It did not flinch.
"You'll stay with him, then," she said softly.
"Until you breathe fire. Until you remember what you are."
Behind her, Jocelyn said quietly, "You're braver than I, Your Grace."
"No," Alysanne replied. "Just older. I've learned that love and fear grow from the same seed. You choose which to water."
Later that afternoon, Aemon arrived from the training yard, sweat-dark hair clinging to his neck, a boyish grin still ghosting across his face. Jocelyn excused herself with a curtsy, and soon only mother and son remained.
Aemon crouched by the cradle, watching Gaemon slap his hands together in delighted mimicry of the dragon's wingbeats.
"He adores it," Aemon said softly. "I feared it might frighten him."
"He doesn't yet know what fear is," Alysanne replied.
"I wonder if that's a blessing or a danger," Aemon mused.
She smiled at him , the same soft, patient smile she had used when he was little and too curious for his own good. "You were born in war's shadow, my love. He was born in peace. Let him have that."
Aemon looked up at her, eyes alight with both affection and unease. "If only peace were a cradle we could keep forever."
"Peace is no cradle," she said, taking his hand.
"It's a choice. We make it each day, against every voice that says we cannot."
He squeezed her fingers lightly. "Then I'll make it, too. For him."
They stood in silence for a long while , mother, son, babe, and beast. Outside, the sea wind shifted through the windows, carrying the scent of salt and stone. The dragon gave a contented sigh, lowering its head until its muzzle brushed Gaemon's blanket. The boy reached out with clumsy fingers, giggling.
Alysanne felt the ache of love so deep it nearly frightened her. But she held it close, as she held her child, and whispered in High Valyrian, "Blood of my blood, flame of my heart. Sleep easy."
The hatchling blinked, as though it understood.
That night, when Jaehaerys returned late from council, he paused at the nursery door and found them just so: Alysanne asleep in her chair, the baby dozing beside a dragon curled like a shadow, both breathing in time.
For a long moment, the King said nothing. Then, with a faint sigh that was not quite resignation, he closed the door softly and left them to their peace.
Morning broke bright and clear over King's Landing. The smell of the sea came soft through the open windows, and from the sept below drifted the faint sound of bells , thin and silver, swallowed by the wind.
Queen Alysanne had been awake since dawn.
The castle stirred around her , pages running, septas whispering, the usual rustle of servants preparing for court , but she paid them little mind.
Today was hers. No petitions, no reports, no endless talk of tariffs or grain. Today she meant to remind herself why her blood had crossed the Narrow Sea in the first place.
In the cradle near her chair, Gaemon was awake too, babbling to the little wooden dragon Baelon had carved for him. The toy's head wobbled as he smacked it against the blanket, laughing whenever it toppled.
"You'll slay us all, won't you?" Alysanne murmured, smiling.
The hatchling, stirred from its corner by the hearth. Its wings were darker now , violet fading to shadow near the tips , and the faintest ridge of black scales had begun to form along its spine. It blinked at the queen, hissed softly, and then lay its head back down.
Alysanne watched it a moment, fondly. Then she called for her handmaids.
"Fetch my riding leathers," she said, her voice bright. "And tell the keepers to ready Silverwing."
One of them hesitated. "For what, Your Grace?"
"For flight," she replied. "It's been too long since my lady stretched her wings."
The handmaids exchanged glances , the kind of look that always came when the queen decided to do something her council wouldn't approve of. But none dared question her further.
By the time she reached the Dragonpit, the city below was awake and gleaming. The Blackwater reflected the sun like molten glass, and the domes and towers of the sept shone white in the distance.
The keepers bowed as she passed. Each one bore the scars of their trade , arms marked by talon and burn, faces seamed by smoke. Yet even hardened dragonmen softened when the queen approached; she treated them as comrades, not servants.
"Your Grace," said old Torrhen the Keeper, bowing low. "Silverwing's restless this morning. She'll be glad to see you."
"She's not the only one," Alysanne said, smiling.
The roar that answered her made the air tremble.
Silverwing emerged from the gloom of the pit , vast and silver-pale, wings folded close, eyes like pools of molten gold. Chains clinked as she moved, though loosely; the dragon was docile with her and her alone. Steam curled from her nostrils, and her scales caught the light like moonlit steel.
Alysanne felt her breath catch , as it always did. The dragon was both beauty and terror, grace and power in one form. Even after decades, the sight still stirred her like the first day she'd climbed into the saddle.
She stepped forward, voice soft but steady. "Sȳz hāedar, Silverwing. Hāedar ñuhys." ("You're good, Silverwing. You're mine")
The dragon's head lowered until its muzzle brushed her outstretched hand. The air grew warm around them, the scent of heat and stone.
Behind her, the wet nurse approached with Gaemon wrapped in a pale blanket. The babe squealed when he saw the dragon's shining bulk , not in fear, but in wild delight, kicking his feet and babbling nonsense.
"He recognizes her," Alysanne said, taking him into her arms.
Silverwing turned her head slightly, one vast golden eye fixing on the small bundle. A low rumble sounded deep in her chest , not a growl, not quite a purr.
"She knows him," murmured Torrhen. "Dragons recognize blood."
It took time to mount, not for her, but for the precautions that followed. Straps were checked thrice, buckles fastened, and the keepers muttered blessings half in Valyrian, half in prayer. Gaemon giggled the whole while, tugging at his mother's sleeve, as if impatient for the sky.
"Easy, little flame," Alysanne whispered.
When all was ready, she climbed into the saddle, Gaemon secured snugly against her chest in a special harness she had sewn herself , soft leather lined with lamb's wool. The babe's small hands reached upward, grasping at nothing.
"Let's give him a gentle wind, my lady," Alysanne said.
Silverwing spread her wings with a sound like thunder. Dust and straw whipped through the courtyard, and even the keepers ducked for cover.
Then came the lift , the sudden, glorious heave as the dragon's body surged upward and the ground fell away beneath them.
The sky greeted them with open arms.
They burst through a veil of mist into pure light , blue above, gold below, the city spread wide like a map. The river glinted far beneath, ships crawling like beetles across its surface. The wind whipped Alysanne's hair loose from its braids, and Gaemon's laughter rang sharp against her ear.
He shrieked once , not in fear, but in sheer delight , as Silverwing tilted her wings to catch the rising current.
"Ha!" Alysanne cried aloud, laughing herself.
"Do you feel it, my love? The sky is ours!"
The dragon roared, a great echoing sound that sent gulls scattering in clouds of white. They wheeled over the bay, banked inland, and climbed higher still.
Below them, the Red Keep looked small, almost fragile , a crown of red stone perched on the city's hill. The sept's dome flashed bright as a coin. The Blackwater curved like a serpent to the sea.
For a long while, mother and child were silent , only the rush of wind and the beat of wings.
Alysanne's heart swelled. Each flight felt like rebirth. The weight of councils, the ache of childbirths lost and won, the years of ruling and mending and enduring , all of it fell away up here. There was only the wind and the warmth of the babe pressed against her.
Gaemon squealed again, reaching out a hand as though to grasp the clouds themselves.
"Too high for your little fingers," she murmured. "But soon enough, you'll have your own wings."
They circled the city walls, the guards below waving spears and cheering, accustomed to their queen's silver shadow. Children pointed from rooftops, their cries carried faintly upward.
When they flew beyond the walls , over the green fields and the rippling river , the air grew cool and sweet. Alysanne slowed Silverwing's pace, letting the dragon glide.
From this height, the realm looked eternal , villages clustered like beads, roads winding like veins through the land. Peace, hard-won and fragile, lay stretched beneath her like a promise.
She pressed her cheek against Gaemon's head. "Remember this sky," she whispered, though he was far too young to understand. "Remember that we are more than kings and thrones. We are blood and breath and wind."
Silverwing's tail swept wide as they banked toward the sea again, the sunlight turning her scales to living silver.
For the first time in months, Alysanne felt wholly herself , not queen, not consort, not keeper of peace. Only woman, mother, and rider.
When they landed again on the terrace, half the keep had gathered to watch , stewards, guards, even a few lords lingering from court.
The wind of Silverwing's wings sent cloaks flapping and banners whipping against the battlements. The dragon settled with a satisfied rumble, her breath steaming.
Alysanne dismounted gracefully, unfastened the harness, and lifted Gaemon high.
He was laughing still, face flushed, eyes bright with joy. The watching courtiers murmured in wonder.
"Your Grace," said one knight, bowing, "it seems the prince already loves the skies."
Alysanne smiled, smoothing the baby's hair.
"Then he is truly his father's son."
By the time they returned to the nursery, the hatchling was awake, pacing its corner restlessly. When Alysanne entered with the child, it let out a low, chuffing sound , almost a greeting.
She set Gaemon down upon the carpet. The dragon approached cautiously, snout dipping.
The babe laughed again, clapping tiny hands.
Silverwing's scent still clung to Alysanne , a mix of heat and ash , and the little dragon sniffed at her skirts, then at Gaemon's fingers, and finally curled beside him, purring softly.
"See?" Alysanne whispered, kneeling beside them. "Even hatchlings know kin."
The wet nurse, still pale from watching their flight, shook her head. "You tempt the gods, Your Grace."
"Then let them be tempted," Alysanne said gently. "The gods made dragons, too."
That night, after Gaemon slept, Alysanne stood at her window overlooking the city. Silverwing roosted on the cliffs beyond the walls, her pale shape gleaming faintly under the moon.
Far below, torches flickered along the streets, each one a spark of the life she and Jaehaerys had worked to protect.
For a moment, she thought of her husband , buried in scrolls and maps, chasing the dream of a perfect realm , and she almost pitied him. He sought peace in law, in order. She had found it here, in warmth and wind and laughter.
Behind her, the baby stirred, and the dragonling with him.
Alysanne turned, the ghost of a smile upon her lips. "Sleep well, my loves," she whispered. "May your dreams always have wings."
Outside, Silverwing gave a single, distant roar , soft as a sigh , and the city slept on, safe beneath its dragons.
Evening settled softly over the Red Keep. The air was cool, scented faintly with lavender oil and the smoke of dying candles. From the city below drifted the sound of musicians playing somewhere near the river , a low, lilting tune carried up by the wind.
In the nursery, the fire burned low.
The dragonling lay curled at the foot of Gaemon's cradle, its violet scales glinting dull red in the light. Its breathing was steady, warm puffs of air rising and falling like bellows. Every so often, a soft, purring growl rumbled in its throat , not loud enough to wake the babe, only enough to reassure itself that its companion still breathed beside it.
Alysanne sat near the cradle, her hair loose about her shoulders, hands folded in her lap. She looked tired in that way only mothers could , not from labor, but from love.
Gaemon had fallen asleep minutes before, his tiny fists curled, his lips moving faintly as he dreamed. He had laughed all afternoon after the flight , even after the bath, the dressing, the endless fussing of maids who could not stop gasping that the prince had flown before he could walk.
He was at peace now, and so was she.
A knock came at the door.
"Come," Alysanne said, softly so as not to wake them.
The door opened to reveal Lady Jocelyn Baratheon, her face lit by the glow of the corridor torches. She stepped inside with quiet grace, her dark hair braided with gold thread, the faint scent of rosemary and salt clinging to her.
"I thought you might still be here," she said.
"I never stray far," Alysanne answered. "He doesn't rest well if he doesn't hear me near."
Jocelyn's eyes moved to the cradle , and then to the dragon curled beside it. "Neither does that one, I think."
"They share one breath between them,"
Alysanne murmured. "Sometimes I wonder if the gods mean to remind us that peace is born of simple things."
Jocelyn smiled faintly. "I wouldn't call dragons simple, Your Grace."
"No," the queen agreed, "but love is."
She gestured to the chair beside her. Jocelyn sat, smoothing her skirts. For a while they said nothing. The fire crackled softly, and the faint purr of the dragonling filled the quiet.
After a long pause, Jocelyn said, "Your son,Prince Aemon,spoke much of you on Dragonstone. He said there's no steadier heart in the realm."
Alysanne's laugh was soft. "He flatters his mother as only a son can."
"He meant it," Jocelyn said gently. "He said you are the peace behind the peace. That without you, the King's dream would crumble."
Alysanne's expression softened, but her gaze turned distant. "Dreams crumble regardless. I've learned that much. We build and rebuild, and hope the next stone holds longer than the last."
Jocelyn tilted her head. "And yet you fly, ruffling some feathers on the council."
The queen smiled. "Because flying reminds me that not all weight must be carried."
For a long while they watched the flames together, content in shared silence.
Later, when Jocelyn had gone and the keep had settled into its night hush, another knock came , firmer this time.
"Enter," Alysanne said, expecting her handmaid.
Instead, Prince Aemon stepped through the doorway, freshly washed from the training yard, his tunic unbuttoned at the throat, his expression soft.
"I hoped I'd find you still awake," he said.
"Jocelyn said you hadn't left the nursery since morning."
Alysanne smiled. "She tattles quickly for a daughter by marriage."
"She worries," Aemon said. "We both do."
"About me?"
He nodded. "And about Father. He eats little, sleeps less. I think he's forgotten there's a world beyond his parchments."
Alysanne's smile dimmed. "He forgets because the realm demands it. That's always been his way. When we were young, he used to tell me that duty was the dragon we both must ride. He's just never learned when to land."
Aemon moved closer, resting a hand on her chair. "You landed. You found peace."
"I found meaning," she said softly. "Peace is only what grows in its shadow."
They both looked toward the cradle. Gaemon stirred, muttering in his sleep, and the dragonling lifted its head, gave a small huff of steam, then settled again.
"He'll be strong," Aemon said quietly. "Gentle, too. Jocelyn says he has your eyes."
"And your stubbornness," Alysanne said with a smile.
Aemon laughed under his breath. "The gods help us all, then."
He hesitated a moment, then added, "Mother...I think sometimes the realm forgets you're its queen as much as Father is its king."
Alysanne rose, touching his cheek briefly , that gentle, fleeting gesture only mothers could give.
He smiled, embarrassed, and kissed her hand.
"Go to your wife," she said fondly. "Let her rest before the dawn steals her dreams."
He bowed lightly. "Goodnight, Mother."
"Goodnight, my son."
When he was gone, Alysanne turned back to the cradle. The fire had burned low, painting the room in gold and shadow. The dragonling's wing was draped protectively across Gaemon's feet, the rise and fall of their breathing perfectly in sync.
She felt a pang of something she could not name , joy tinged with the faint ache of knowing that even peace ages, that moments like these fade as surely as fire cools.
Jaehaerys POV
The Red Keep was awash in the last colors of day when Jaehaerys returned from council. From the high windows of the Queen's solar, the sunset spilled in streaks of rose and bronze, and the sea below glimmered like hammered gold. Somewhere in the city, the bells still talked of dragons , the sight of silver wings over the bay, a pale shadow crossing the sun.
The stories had reached him before the stairs did. They followed him like a wind through the corridors , the Queen had taken to the air, and not alone. The Queen had flown with the babe in her arms.
When he entered, the scent of salt and smoke still lingered. Alysanne sat by the open windows, her hair unbound, her riding leathers loosened at the throat. Gaemon slept in the cradle beside her, one fist pressed against his cheek. Silverwing's song still seemed to hum faintly in the stones.
"You flew," Jaehaerys said. The words came quiet, steady, too controlled.
"I did." Alysanne's voice was mild, but there was a calm defiance in it. "Silverwing grows restless when she's too long chained. So do I."
"With him," Jaehaerys said, glancing toward the cradle. "With my son."
"Our son," she corrected softly.
He took a breath, but it trembled when it came. "You risked both your lives. For what? A whim? Nostalgia?"
"For remembrance," she said. "For the sky. For the peace that comes when the wind drowns out the noise of men."
His tone sharpened. "Peace? You call that peace? What if the wind had shifted? What if the saddle failed, or Silverwing took fright,"
"Silverwing does not take fright," Alysanne interrupted, not harshly, but with certainty. "Nor do I."
"You gambled with fate," he said, the words striking harder than he meant them to. "Do you understand that? The Queen and the young prince , gone in a breath , and all we've built with them."
She stood, the light catching the silver in her hair. "I understand better than you think," she said. "You've called me the realm's heart before, Jaehaerys. But a heart that never beats for itself withers. Would you have me still and silent while the blood of dragons cools to ash?"
His composure broke. "I would have you alive," he said, voice rough. "Seven save me, Alysanne, I would have you here. I have buried too many of our children, watched you fade too many times. I cannot watch the sky swallow you, too."
Her gaze softened. "And yet you flew once," she said quietly. "And I never saw you afraid."
The words stilled him. "That was different."
"Was it?" she asked, stepping closer. "Tell me, husband , when was the last time you even saw Vermithor?"
He said nothing.
"Do you even remember the sound he makes when he breathes?" she went on, gently, but without mercy. "The feel of the ground trembling beneath his wings? You tamed him once , no, not tamed, knew him. And now he sleeps alone beneath the pit, half-forgotten, because the King of the Seven Kingdoms no longer remembers how to look up."
Jaehaerys's jaw worked, a flicker of shame beneath the anger. "There is more to rule than flight."
"What's the point of ruling without it," Alysanne said. "Do you think the dragons obeyed our ancestors because they built councils and laws? No. Because they remembered what they were."
She looked toward the window, where the last red edge of the sun burned against the horizon. "Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor," she said. Voice like steel.
Jaehaerys looked at her, the words stirring something half-buried. "A dragon is not a slave," he translated softly.
"No," she said, turning back to him. "Nor is the rider."
The room fell quiet. The fire in the hearth cracked, a single ember flaring and dying. Outside, gulls wheeled in the fading light.
He broke the silence first, voice low. "You think I've forgotten the sky. You think I've become one of them , the men in council, all parchment and law."
"I think you've forgotten that even kings were born of flame," she said. "That peace is not the same as stillness. You build your roads and walls, Jaehaerys , I will not fault you for that. But roads go nowhere if no one dares to travel them."
He turned away, hand resting on the cradle's rim. The child stirred, sighing in his sleep. "If the wind had taken you," he said, barely audible, "the realm would have broken. I would have broken."
"Then it is good the wind was kind," she answered. "And that I did not forget how to trust it."
His anger faltered into something quieter, heavier. "You make it sound so simple."
"It was," she said. "For one hour, I was not queen or mother or symbol. Only Alysanne. The girl who first learned what it meant to ride the wind beside you. Do you remember her, Jaehaerys?"
His lips parted, but no answer came. The years weighed between them.
She moved past him, toward the cradle, her fingers brushing the soft linen at Gaemon's side. "He laughed," she said. "When the clouds touched his cheeks. He laughed like you once did."
That caught him. His breath shuddered. "I do not laugh much anymore."
"No," she said gently. "You rule instead. And rule has its own gravity. But even kings must sometimes fly, lest they forget the ground is not all there is."
He looked at her then, eyes no longer sharp but weary, and something inside him , pride, fear, habit , began to loosen. "You think me trapped."
"I think you've caged yourself," she said. "And called it duty."
He exhaled slowly, and for a moment it seemed as though the sound might turn into laughter or tears , but it was only a sigh. "You'll never change."
Alysanne's smile was faint but real. "Neither will you. That is why we endure."
The firelight caught them both, casting their shadows long upon the walls , a queen of air and a king of stone, bound by love and the slow, painful remembering of what they had once been.
Jaehaerys stepped closer, his anger finally spent. "You could have told me," he said softly.
"And you would have forbidden it."
He hesitated, then nodded once. "Aye."
"Then I was right not to." Her tone was calm, not triumphant, merely certain. "I will not apologize for living as the gods made me."
He looked at her, then at the child between them. "You'll be the death of me yet."
"Mayhaps," she said. "But I am also your life"
He almost smiled at that.
The tension that had hung in the air all evening eased, slow as tide withdrawing from shore. For a long time, they stood together in silence, watching their son sleep , the firelight warm upon his face, the faint curl of his fingers against the blanket.
Outside, the night deepened. The last of the sunset slipped beneath the horizon, and somewhere beyond the walls, the dragons stirred in their dreams.
The castle slept. The wind off the bay had turned cool, stirring the banners on the towers and sending faint sighs through the arrow-slits of the Queen's solar. The last of the servants had gone. Only the fire kept vigil, burning low, its light catching on gold thread and silver hair.
Jaehaerys had not left.
He sat by the table where her letters lay, the flame from the nearest candle guttering against the open inkpot. His council chain had been set aside, coiled like a serpent near his elbow. For once, he looked not like a king, but like a man too long at war with peace.
Alysanne watched him from near the window. She had changed into a soft gown of blue and silver, her hair braided loosely over one shoulder. Beyond her, the lights of King's Landing scattered across the river like spilled stars. The cradle beside her chair rocked faintly as Gaemon dreamed.
"You haven't eaten," she said.
He looked up, startled from thought. "Nor you."
"I ate while you were still arguing with yourself," she said gently. "Did you win?"
That earned her a quiet huff of laughter , small, unwilling, but real. "I seldom do, where you're concerned."
She smiled faintly. "You did once. When you asked for my hand."
His gaze softened, the memory threading through the silence. "That was another life."
"Then mayhaps it's time you remembered it."
He rose slowly, crossing to the hearth. "You make it sound simple, Alysanne. To remember. To be what I was."
"You still are," she said. "You've only buried it beneath the crown."
He turned toward her, the fire behind him throwing his face half into shadow. "You think I like the weight of it? Every day the realm presses closer , a thousand lords with a thousand needs. I cannot afford to dream as we once did."
"And yet you built a realm so that others could dream," she answered. "Why not yourself?"
He opened his mouth, then stopped. Words had always come easily to him , except with her, when truth made speech clumsy.
Alysanne's tone softened. "Do you remember your first flight on Vermithor?"
His eyes unfocused, drawn backward. "Aye. I thought the wind would tear me in half."
"And when it didn't?"
He smiled, faintly, as if the ghost of it still stirred in his bones. "Then I thought nothing could stop me. That the world was smaller than his wings."
"Then you understand me," she said. "That feeling , it was never arrogance. It was life itself. We were born to it, Jaehaerys. You and I both."
He looked toward the window, where the sky beyond the glass was black and bright with stars. "The world seemed simpler then."
"It wasn't," she said softly. "We were just brave enough not to count the cost."
He exhaled slowly, the firelight catching the silver at his temples. "And what of now? Are we still brave, or only foolish?"
She tilted her head. "You build roads because you believe men can be better. I fly because I believe we still can."
That silenced him. The wind moaned faintly through the shutters. Somewhere below, the bells of the sept tolled the hour before midnight.
Alysanne turned back to the cradle, her hand resting lightly on its edge. "Do you know what frightens me most?" she asked quietly. "Not falling. Not flame. It's the thought that our children will inherit a peace so dull it will choke them. That they'll grow safe and soft, and forget what it means to be alive."
He moved closer, until he stood behind her.
"Would you rather they inherit fire?"
"They already have," she said. "It lives in them. In him." Her fingers brushed Gaemon's blanket. "The trick is not to smother it."
Jaehaerys's hand came to rest on the back of her chair. "And if fire consumes?"
She looked up at him. "Then let it consume falsehood, not wonder."
He studied her face , the calm, the certainty, the exhaustion she carried so gracefully. "You speak like Barth," he said at last, a smile ghosting the edge of his mouth.
"Then the septon is a wiser man than your maesters give him credit for."
"I grant you that," he said softly.
For a time they said nothing. The fire crackled, and from the cradle came the small, even breaths of their sleeping son. The world seemed to shrink to the sound.
When Jaehaerys spoke again, his voice was low. "I dreamed once that I fell," he said. "From the clouds. Vermithor beneath me, but I had no hold. I woke before I struck the ground, but the fall stayed with me."
Alysanne reached for his hand. "You've been falling ever since you took the crown," she said. "Only you learned to call it ruling."
His fingers tightened around hers. "And you would stop the fall by leaping?"
"I would remind you that falling and flying begin the same way," she said. "It's how you end that matters."
He drew in a slow breath, the tension between them ebbing into something gentler. "You think you've won this quarrel."
"I think there was no quarrel to win," she replied. "Only a truth to remember."
He looked down at their joined hands, then at the child sleeping beside them. "When I saw you in the sky, part of me wanted to curse you," he said. "The other part envied you."
Alysanne smiled. "Then perhaps there is hope for you yet."
He huffed softly, shaking his head. "Do you mean to shame me into flying again?"
"I mean to remind you that dragons do not sleep forever."
He met her gaze, and something shifted there , a flicker of the man who had once ridden through storm and smoke beside her.
"Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor," he murmured, as if testing the words again.
Her smile deepened. "Nor are kings."
The line hung between them, quiet as a vow.
Jaehaerys looked toward the window. The stars were paling now, dawn's first ghost of light touching the horizon. "If I went to Vermithor tomorrow," he said, "he might not know me."
"Then speak his name, apologise" she said. "Then he will."
He studied her a moment longer. "You make it sound so easy."
"It was never easy," she said, "only worth it."
He sighed, but it was not weariness this time , something lighter, almost a release. "You're relentless, woman."
"It's why you married me."
He almost smiled. "I thought it was your beauty."
"It was," she said. "Then you learned better."
He laughed softly , truly laughed, the sound startling them both. It echoed faintly in the rafters, warm and human. The years between them seemed to fold for an instant, until they were once more two young riders on the wind.
The baby stirred at the sound, a faint whimper escaping his lips. Alysanne bent to soothe him, and Jaehaerys watched , the tenderness in her movements, the way the fire haloed her silhouette. When she turned back, his expression had changed.
"I do not know what the realm would do without you," he said.
"Nor I without it," she replied. "But I know this: if peace means stillness, it will rot. If love means fear, it will fade. And if dragons forget the sky, the world will forget wonder."
He nodded slowly. "And what of kings?"
"They, too, must remember how to dream," she said. "Or they'll wake one day to find the realm dreaming without them."
For a while, they stood in silence , two rulers, two lovers, two weary souls bound by blood and time. The fire had burned low to embers. Alysanne sank into her chair, fatigue softening her posture, but her eyes remained bright.
Jaehaerys reached out, touching her braid. "You frighten me," he said, not as reproach, but as confession.
"You married a dragonrider," she said, smiling faintly. "We are meant to be feared a little."
He bent, pressing a kiss to her hair. "And loved a great deal."
"That, too," she murmured.
He lingered there a moment, his hand resting on her shoulder. "When you flew today," he said quietly, "did you think of me?"
She looked up at him, half-smiling. "Always. The sky is lonelier without you."
He drew a breath, something between a sigh and a vow. "Then perhaps it's time Vermithor saw the sun again."
"Perhaps it is," she said. "And when he does, the sky will be a little less empty."
Jaehaerys straightened, his hand brushing the cradle as he turned. "Rest, my love. You've shaken the council enough for one day."
"They'll recover," she said, leaning back, weary but content. "Men always do when a woman frightens them."
He chuckled under his breath. "You'll be the death of them all."
"Only if they deserve it."
He moved toward the door, but before he reached it, her voice stopped him.
"Jaehaerys."
He turned.
"Do not let fear make a prisoner of you," she said. "The chains are of your own forging."
He inclined his head, solemn. "And you'll be there to break them, I suppose."
"Always," she said simply.
He left then, the door closing softly behind him. The echo lingered, then faded into the hush of the chamber.
Alysanne sat awhile longer, watching the embers pulse red and gold. In the cradle, Gaemon sighed, turning in his sleep. She leaned forward, brushing a stray lock of hair from his brow.
"Your father will fly again," she whispered. "And you, one day. You'll see what we saw , what we almost forgot."
Her eyes drifted to the window, to the faint paling sky beyond the towers. "The dragon is not a slave," she murmured again in Valyrian, the words barely more than breath. "Nor the woman who rides her."
Author's Notes:
There it is. I hope I did a decent job at setting the pace of the fic and the style.
MC wakes up soon, a detailed explanation of his gifts follows.
From the next chapter, all updates will be on Sunday.
It will be one chapter a week for the foreseeable future. I will keep writing and if I think I have enough, I shall upload twice a week.
Please, do let me know your thoughts on the style and tone and pace. It will be slow, detailed, focused more on the people.
Alysanne is a badass in this fic.
Comment your feedback. I will read them all and reply and take them into consideration.
Thank you for reading! See you next week.