89 AC, The Red Keep
The heavy oak doors creaked shut, cutting off the muffled hum of the departing councilors' voices. Silence descended upon the Small Council chamber, broken only by the crackle of guttering candles and the distant cry of gulls beyond the window. King Jaehaerys I remained in his chair, slowly rubbing the bridge of his nose. Prince Aemon moved to the window, gazing down at the city sprawled at the foot of Aegon's High Hill. From this height, King's Landing appeared as a vast anthill, eternally churning and never sleeping.
"Rosby is aging," Aemon remarked without turning. His voice sounded hollow in the empty hall. "His men hunt for conspiracies where they do not exist, while right under our noses, an alliance is being forged that could slit our throats."
Jaehaerys sighed and raised a weary gaze to his son. The King looked majestic even in his exhaustion, though the lines upon his face had grown deeper.
"Gilbert has always been cautious—excessively so at times. He prefers dealing with known enemies within the Seven Kingdoms rather than shadowy threats from across the sea. But Corlys's words... the Triarchy. If Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh have truly united and ceased tearing at each other's throats over the Disputed Lands, this is no longer a mere squabble over tariffs. This is a claim for dominion over the Narrow Sea."
"Though I do not know Lord Corlys well," Aemon turned toward his father, leaning against the stone windowsill, "he is not a man to throw words about merely to squeeze gold for ship repairs. He has spent more time at sea than Rosby's informants in Essos have spent together. His intelligence is fresh, and it is troubling. We have grown accustomed to viewing the Stepstones as a pile of rocks claimed by no one, where failures and smugglers go to hide. But if disciplined garrisons of the Free Cities appear there, our fleet will be bottled up in the gullet. We shall become hostages to another's will on our own trade routes."
The King nodded, his fingers mechanically tracing the edges of the parchment spread upon the table.
"That is precisely why I supported him. Though the sum he quoted made Martyn Tyrell turn green. You were quite insistent in your support, Aemon. More than usual."
"Because it is a matter of pragmatism, Father, not a fondness for any particular lord," the Prince replied calmly. He crossed the hall and took his seat at the King's right hand. "We could grant the contract to Oldtown or Lannisport. The Hightowers would build us sturdy vessels that would last thirty years. But they would be ships of the last century. Heavy, lumbering things. Corlys has brought back knowledge from places our masters have only heard of in fables. His new ships surpass anything else that can be built in Westeros."
Aemon paused, looking his father directly in the eye.
"Furthermore, building at Driftmark is more efficient. The logistics are simple: from Spicetown to King's Landing is but a two-day voyage with a fair wind. We need not wait months for a squadron to round Dorne, risking storms or the blades of those very pirates. The Velaryons have already invested their own coin in expanding the shipyards. We are paying for the result, not for the improvement of infrastructure in other ports. It is the most advantageous deal we could have struck. And, most importantly: the Crown needs a powerful fleet of its own. In the event of a major war, our family can no longer afford to depend entirely on the fealty and ships of vassals."
"You believe he can manage it in three years?" the King asked, squinting.
"I believe he will do it faster if we do not stifle him with inspections and bureaucracy. Corlys is a mariner to his bones and a shrewd merchant, he will see his own profit in this. The Sea Snake understands that if the Triarchy's fleet grows stronger than ours, his own island will be the first to suffer from their tariffs, and we would be forced to use the ships of our vassals—the Velaryons included. Whatever the lords may say, they take it ill when the Crown commandeers their wealth, their swords, and their sails without what they deem just recompense.
Jaehaerys rose slowly. He approached a small side table where a decanter of wine stood and poured a measure into a silver chalice.
"Leave the ships for now. We shall have our fill of talk regarding them with Tyrell when he begins counting every golden dragon spent on the fleet in his sleep. Aemon, there are matters closer to home, and arguably more vital. Your wife, Jocelyn... she returns from Storm's End in the coming days, does she not?"
The Prince's expression softened visibly. The mention of his wife always stripped away the mask of the stern statesman he wore at council.
"Yes. She has overstayed her visit with her brother. The Baratheons can be exhausting in their hospitality—endless hunts and feasts—but she needed to see her kin. I expect her by week's end."
The King took a sip of wine and regarded his son intently. His gaze held no monarchical authority, only the weariness of a father concerned for the future.
"That is good. A house should be whole. Aemon, you are thirty-four. You are the heir to the Iron Throne. You have Rhaenys, and she is a joy to my eyes—true dragon's blood. But the realm needs order. The realm needs a male heir."
The Prince tensed. His fingers gripped the armrest of his chair. This subject was raised regularly, and each time it left a bitter aftertaste—a dispute with no victor.
"We have discussed this, Father. Many times."
"And each time you close yourself off," Jaehaerys interjected gently. "Listen to me not as your King, but as your father. I know Rhaenys's birth was arduous. I remember the fear in your eyes when the maesters were scurrying through the halls. But women were made for this burden. My Alysanne... she gave me thirteen children. Thirteen, Aemon. There were hardships, there were losses—the pain of which remains in my heart to this day—but she endured. Even Gael, our little 'Winter Child,' was born when we had long since given up hope. Yes, it was difficult, and your mother was long in recovering, but she survived. Jocelyn is a strong woman, the blood of the Baratheons runs in her veins, and she is sturdier than most. You must try once more. A single son—that is all that is required for the peace of the Lords of Westeros."
Aemon stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor with a harsh jar. His voice remained low, but it held a cold, flinty edge.
"My mother is the exception, Father. And I thank the gods every day for her health. I was there, in that room, when Rhaenys was born. I saw Jocelyn. She was whiter than the sheets she lay upon, and colder than ice. The maesters said it was a miracle that both survived. I will not dice with the gods, wagering the life of the woman I love for the phantom hope of a son."
"It is not a phantom hope, it is your duty as a prince," Jaehaerys frowned.
"My duty is to ensure the stability and prosperity of the realm," Aemon countered. "And I am fulfilling it. I have an heir. Rhaenys. She is fifteen, and even now she understands governance better than half the lords in this castle. I am teaching her everything: law, economics, the art of war. She is the rider of Meleys. She is bright, resolute, and commands respect."
Jaehaerys shook his head, setting his chalice down with regret.
"You are idealizing the situation. The lords of the Seven Kingdoms are conservatives. They swore fealty to me and will swear it to you because we are men, dragonriders, and warriors. But a woman on the throne? They will seek any pretext to dispute her claim. They will look to her husband, to her sons, to any distant cousin—anything to avoid kneeling to a Queen. These are the seeds of a future war, Aemon. Blood will be spilled because of your stubbornness."
The Prince managed a faint smirk, though his eyes remained grave.
"Then I shall have to live a very long time, Father. I plan to occupy this seat until I am grey and ancient, until my hair is whiter than yours. I hope to pass peacefully in my sleep, leaving Rhaenys a woman grown and a seasoned ruler with enough allies and might to crush any dissent in its cradle."
The King did not appreciate the jest. He stepped close to his son, looking up at him without losing an ounce of his presence.
"You are risking the peace I have spent forty years building."
"No, Father. I am building a new world upon the foundation you laid. You gave the realm laws that are uniform for all. I will give them the understanding that the most worthy should rule, regardless of whether they are man or woman. Rhaenys is the perfect heir. She is calm where calm is needed, and hard when duty demands it. In her, there is none of the recklessness so often found in young princes eager to prove their worth with a blade. She is better than I was at her age."
Aemon placed a hand on his father's shoulder.
"I love Jocelyn. I will not put her in peril again. Never. If the gods have decreed that I shall have but one daughter, then so be it. And I will do everything in my power to ensure that daughter becomes the greatest ruler in the history of our House."
Jaehaerys remained silent for a long moment, searching his son's face. He saw in him the same implacability he himself had possessed in his youth. It was his pride, and his greatest anxiety.
"You are stubborn, Aemon. In that, you are your mother's son. She too always stood her ground, even when the whole world said 'no'."
"Then it is a family trait," Aemon said, withdrawing his hand and offering a slight bow. "Is the Council concluded, Father? I have reports and petitions to review."
The King only nodded, not looking at his son. Aemon strode from the hall with a firm, confident step. His mind was made up. He knew there would be further arguments, sidelong glances from the lords, and perhaps more attempts by his father to sway him. But every time he recalled Jocelyn's ashen face after that grueling labor, he knew he would not waver. Rhaenys was his future, and he believed in her more than in any Andal tradition.
....................................…....
While the fates of the Seven Kingdoms were being decided in the Council chamber, a far different atmosphere reigned in the apartments of Queen Alysanne. The air here was thick with the scent of lemon, fresh-baked bread, and dried lavender. Great windows looked out over the Blackwater Bay, inviting in a cool sea breeze that pleasantly chilled the skin on this sweltering day.
Queen Alysanne, who retained a striking liveliness in her eyes, sat at the head of a small table. Opposite her were her granddaughter Rhaenys and her daughter Viserra. The table was set with platters of roast chicken, cheeses, and bowls of fruit, alongside the Queen's favorite treats—honeycombs and flaky cinnamon rolls.
Viserra, the most beautiful of Jaehaerys's daughters, idly toyed with a cluster of grapes on her plate. Her lilac eyes frequently strayed to the window, toward the massive dome of the Dragonpit atop the Hill of Rhaenys.
"I saw Vermithor circling the bay," Viserra remarked with a sigh. "Father took to the sky after the Small Council meeting. Even from here, I could hear the dragon's roar."
"Flights upon Vermithor help your father clear his mind when he is fixated on something," Alysanne noted gently, breaking off a piece of bread. "And do not look at them so longingly, child. Dragons are not toys, nor are they a way to pass the time."
"I know, Mother. It is just... it isn't fair. Rhaenys has been flying Meleys for two years, while I am still relegated to horses."
Rhaenys, sitting with a straight back and impeccable poise, cast a sympathetic look at her aunt. She was only a few years younger than Viserra, but thanks to her position and her father's steadfast support, she had been able to claim Meleys.
"You know Grandfather's stance," Rhaenys said softly. "He fears dragons falling into the wrong hands. To him, a dragon is the ultimate power, and it is not to be shared lightly."
"Exactly," Viserra agreed, pushing her grapes aside. "'Viserra will marry the lord of a Great House, and we cannot permit anyone outside the Targaryen family to possess a dragon.' I have heard that since I could walk. But I am a Targaryen too! The same blood flows in my veins as in yours. Why should I be stripped of my birthright simply because I was not born first?"
"Your father worries for the future of the dynasty," Alysanne interjected, trying to soothe her daughter's bitterness. "We have seen what discord among dragonriders leads to. No one can guarantee that your descendants—or those of any princess wed outside the family—would not rebel against the Crown if they had the might of a dragon behind them. Those are the seeds of war that could sprout a hundred years hence."
Rhaenys managed a small smile, recalling her own experience.
"Grandfather was in a towering rage when he learned I had mounted Meleys without his leave. He shouted so loud I thought the very stones of the Red Keep would tremble. But my father... he simply stepped forward, placed a hand on my shoulder, and said: 'She is my heir, and the Red Queen chose her. There is nothing more to discuss,'" she recalled with nostalgia. "That was the day I learned what it meant to have power at my back. He has always shielded me from the world."
Rhaenys looked at Viserra with genuine compassion.
"I wish you could fly your own dragon beside me. We could fly to Dragonstone together, or even further. But, alas, Grandfather is not like my father. He will never allow it to happen."
Viserra gave a wry, melancholy laugh, propping her chin on her hand.
"You are fortunate in your father, Rhaenys. Aemon sees you as an extension of himself. My own father sees me only as a piece to be moved for a marriage alliance."
"There is another path," Rhaenys smirked mischievously, hoping to lighten the mood. "You could always marry Uncle Baelon. That way, the dragon stays 'in the family.' Or, if you have the patience, you could wait for Viserys to grow up and choose him."
Queen Alysanne was seized by a sudden, sharp coughing fit, clearly not expecting such suggestions from her granddaughter. Viserra looked at her mother in alarm, and once she was sure the Queen was well, she turned a heavy gaze back to Rhaenys.
"Marry my perpetually brooding brother?" Viserra grimaced. "A man who still mourns Alyssa and would compare my every word and deed to his late wife?" she asked rhetorically. "I have no desire to live as a shadow of Alyssa in his life. Or the boy? I would have to wait years for him to come of age and pray that Viserys at least grows a spine. Looking at him now, I cannot imagine him becoming half the man my brother Aemon is. No, I would rather have no dragon at all than spend my life trying to resurrect Baelon's dead memories or nursing a nephew."
The Queen, startled by such bluntness, moved to defend her grandson and gave her daughter a soft scolding.
"You should not speak so of Viserys. He may lack the martial fire his father and uncle possessed at his age, but he is a kind and responsible youth. Such men often make for wise counselors."
Alysanne sighed, her voice trembling slightly with grief.
"Though, regarding Baelon, I am inclined to agree. I have not seen my son truly happy since Alyssa passed. His heart turned to stone the night we lost her. A forced marriage would bring no joy to him, nor to you."
"At least Meleys loves you," Rhaenys tried again to cheer Viserra. "Did you notice? When we flew last week, she didn't even grumble when you climbed into the saddle behind me. She lets you touch her scales, and she actually seems to enjoy it. That is a rare gift."
This was the plain truth. Meleys, called the Red Queen for her scarlet scales and fierce grace, was known for a temper as hot as her fire. She was notoriously difficult even for experienced dragonkeepers. Yet with Viserra, she displayed a strange, almost supernatural patience.
"It is truly peculiar," Queen Alysanne mused, watching the two girls. "Dragons rarely tolerate anyone but their own riders. The dragonkeepers tend to them for years, feeding them and mucking their dens, but the dragons merely endure their presence. They do not show affection. But Meleys... it is as if she senses how dear you are to Rhaenys, Viserra. She feels your bond, your shared blood. You two have been inseparable since you were babes."
Alysanne took a sip of wine and deftly steered the conversation toward more earthly matters.
"It was a noisy session in the Council today. Jaehaerys mentioned they were debating the construction of a new fleet. Lord Corlys brought troubling news from Essos. It seems the Free Cities have united to seize the Stepstones, but their appetites may well extend to our waters. It could threaten the trade and security of the entire realm."
"Father spoke to me of it after the session," Rhaenys nodded. "He believes the Triarchy is a long-term threat. He discussed Lord Corlys's proposals for the fleet and its construction with me. Father is certain that Lord Corlys and his shipyards are the best choice we could make."
Alysanne smiled. It always heartened her to see how Aemon involved his daughter in the affairs of state, grooming her for her future role.
"Indeed, your father holds Lord Corlys's abilities in high regard. And he is not alone. Corlys brought magnificent gifts for our family especially for us women save, perhaps, for the ring he presented to Jaehaerys. A gift of Valyrian steel is not easily eclipsed, after all. He is a man of vast ambition and an even wider horizon."
The Queen cast a casual, seemingly incidental glance at Viserra, who was listening intently.
"And what do you think of him, Viserra? You saw him in the throne room and at dinner with the family. He struck me as a rather... resolute young man."
Viserra, not suspecting that her mother was testing the waters for a potential match, answered seriously:
"Lord Corlys? He is... unusual. He lacks that droll boredom one sees in most of the lords at court. Those men dream only of the next boar hunt, the next tourney, or which serving girl they can coax into their bed. When he speaks of his voyages, it feels as though he sees the world far more broadly than I could have ever imagined. He is clever and well-read, that much is plain. And he was not afraid to spar with Baelon, which requires either great courage or total recklessness."
The news of the morning's bout in the training yard between "The Spring Prince" and Lord Velaryon had already swept through the castle.
"But he doesn't seem a striver or a sycophant," Viserra added. "He knows his own worth and does not grovel for favor. That commands respect."
"He is as rich as a Lannister, and he earned that wealth himself," Rhaenys added. "A rarity in Westeros. Most of our noble houses do nothing but devour the inheritance of their ancestors."
Alysanne nodded with satisfaction. Viserra's response was measured and mature. The girl had not blushed or giggled like a moonstruck maid, confirming her sharp wit and self-possession. She was evaluating Corlys as a person and a political entity, not a storybook knight. This was exactly what the Queen needed for her designs.
The meal continued a while longer. They discussed the latest court gossip, plans for the upcoming tourney, and the Queen's health, which, despite her years, remained robust. As the sun began its slow descent toward the west, painting the bay in shades of gold, Rhaenys stood.
"Viserra, shall we? The air in the castle has grown too stifling."
Viserra rose readily and followed Rhaenys.
"Yes, the Godswood should be pleasant now. It is always cooler beneath the shade of the trees."
The girls took their leave of the Queen and stepped out into the corridor. Two knights of the Kingsguard in their snow-white cloaks awaited them. One was Ser Ryam Redwyne, widely held to be the greatest blade in the realm and the very flower of chivalry. He followed the princesses in silence, maintaining a respectful distance, his white cloak rustling softly, his hand never far from the hilt of his sword.
They navigated the endless passages of the Red Keep, passing tapestries of Aegon's Conquest and massive iron torch-holders. Viserra walked slightly ahead, her long gown of delicate silk whispering against the stone floor. Rhaenys walked beside her, her stride more confident and sure.
As they stepped under the canopy of the Godswood, the noise of the castle—the shouts of guards, the clatter of steel, and the neighing of horses—fell away instantly, swallowed by the thick foliage. The place was an anomaly amidst the stone grandeur of the keep. At its center stood a great Weirwood. Its bone-white bark and red, hand-shaped leaves created an atmosphere of primordial stillness. A face was carved into the trunk—sorrowful, with eyes from which sap seemed to flow like tears of blood.
"It always feels as though time has stopped here," Viserra whispered, sinking onto a soft carpet of moss in the tree's shadow. "As if everything happening beyond these woods is mere noise."
"Father says it is easier to think here," Rhaenys sat beside her, leaning her back against the cool white trunk. "There are no intrigues here, no Small Council, no eternal expectations. Only you and the Old Gods, who care nothing for our titles."
Viserra closed her eyes, tilting her face toward the stray shafts of sunlight piercing through the branches. The silence of the wood was soothing, yet thoughts of the future inevitably returned.
"Rhaenys... do you think if I simply stayed with you forever? If we flew Meleys and helped Father rule... would he not eventually reconcile himself to it?"
Rhaenys looked at her aunt with a deep sadness. She knew the question had no easy answer.
"He would reconcile himself to your presence, Viserra. He loves you, you are his daughter. But he would never stop fearing the ease with which dragons respond to you. In his eyes, that is a risk he cannot tolerate. And that fear would only drive him to wed you sooner to someone as far from King's Landing and Dragonstone as possible, to eliminate any chance of accident."
"So, my lot is to be the wife of a stranger in a foreign castle," Viserra said bitterly, plucking a blade of grass and winding it nervously around her finger.
Rhaenys was quiet for a moment, watching her friend, then spoke softly but firmly:
"A stranger can be made an ally, Viserra. And a castle can be made a home, if you apply your will to it. My father says a crown is also a kind of cage, just a golden and very heavy one. We are all hostages to our names. And who knows... perhaps the 'stranger' will be someone who looks at you the way my father looks at my mother."
Rhaenys placed a hand on Viserra's shoulder.
"But for now, we have Meleys. And so long as I am the heir, I promise you: your voice will always carry weight in this castle. We are not merely aunt and niece—we are sisters, and I will always protect you."
They sat in silence beneath the shade of the Weirwood. Ser Ryam Redwyne stood at a distance, as motionless as a statue, his white cloak a stark contrast against the green. In the sky above the castle, a shadow flickered—it was Caraxes, Prince Aemon's dragon, whistling through the air as he returned to the Dragonpit. But here, below, in the shadow of the red leaves, the princesses found the fleeting peace they so desperately needed before the turning of the tide.
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A/N
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