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“Are Willard and Rickon coming to the Tourney?”
“Yes, Elaena.”
"And Margaery?”
"Yes, Elaena.”
"And Lya?”
"Yes, Elaena.”
Elaena turned back to her picture book, apparently out of questions, and Dany breathed a sigh of relief as she turned back to the letter she’d been writing to Nymeria Martell. She loved her youngest, of course, but Elaena was at the age where almost every word that came out of her mouth was a question.
She looked just like her mother-all three of the Queen’s children did, something that Jon had always felt slighted by-with her long blonde hair and violet eyes. And Daenerys was sure that she acted the same way she’d acted when she was a child-but it had been so long that she could barely remember it.
It all seemed so very long ago.
Elaena stood up again and walked over to her, standing up on tiptoe so she could see over the edge of the desk. “What are you doing?”
“I’m writing a letter to Nymeria Martell.”
“Why?”
“I’m inviting her to the tourney.”
“Oh. But I thought the Martells never come to tourneys.”
Dany sighed. The Martells didn’t do a lot of things. “Well, we can still try.” She pulled Elaena onto her lap and the little girl watched quietly as she continued to write, marveling over the shape and precision of her letters. “Where are your siblings?”
“Father is giving them sparring lessons,” she answered. “Why can’t I spar?”
“You’re too young. You’d hurt yourself.”
Elaena sighed, laying her head down practically on top of the parchment. “Rhaenyra and Daeron always act like they’re grown ups.”
“You know, I never learned how to spar until I was an adult-and I’m still not very good at it, if it makes you feel any better.” She stroked her hair; it was soft and smooth, like feather down. She loved all of her children of course, for many different reasons-but she harbored a special love for their hair. “You’ll learn.”
“Rhaenyra’s always saying that we have to be on our guard. We never know when we’ll need to defend ourselves.”
She stiffened, as if she could again feel the frozen sword entering her stomach and cutting deep. “Well, you can tell Rhaenyra that the Queensguard would rather die than let anything happen to you-and you can be strong without swinging a sword.”
Just then the door to her solar opened and the rest of the family entered-Jon, Daeron, and Rhaenyra, all three of them covered in a happy sweat. Rhaenyra was smiling especially widely. “I beat Father!”
Jon rolled his eyes. “Only barely.”
Dany stood, pushing Elaena off her lap carefully, and crossed the room to kiss him. It had been ten years but it didn’t seem like Jon had aged a day-maybe there was a little more grey in his hair than there used to be, but his eyes still sparkled the same way they had the first time she’d seen him in the halls of Dragonstone. “Try not to take it too seriously,” she whispered into his ear. “After all, she’s learning from the best.”
“And what have you been doing while our eight year old daughter has been beating me at swordplay?”
“Sending out the last of the invitations.” She sighed and rubbed her eyes, realizing again just how much work went into preparing for a tournament. The Crown had only hosted two in the last decade-one for Jon’s coronation and the other for Rhaenyra’s birth. But this tournament would be special; it marked the tenth anniversary of the Battle of the Dawn and their ascent to power. It had been Tyrion’s idea-a way to unite the kingdom in celebration once again-but she’d almost forgotten in eight years just how much money, time, and energy she’d need to spend on it.
Jon kissed her forehead, the way he always did when she was thinking too hard. “Everything will be fine. We’ve done this before and we can do it again.”
Daeron tugged at her skirt. “Can I enter the lists?”
His parents exchanged a glance. “We’ll see,” Jon said finally-even though six years old was too young to even hold a real sword, much less enter a tilt.
She watched her children talk and laugh, how Rhaenyra held Elaena up so she could see out the window, and she couldn’t help but feel blessed at how everything had turned out. The past ten years had been a decade of peace and prosperity, of stability and strategy, and there had been no strange reports of activity from beyond the Wall in years.
All was well.
As the days until the tourney began to dwindle from months to weeks, Jon found himself getting busier and busier. There was simply too much to do-pavilions to erect, ravens to intercept, hotels to furnish, and three children to somehow raise on top of all of it.
The ravens from the guests started coming in almost immediately-one from Winterfell, another from the Eyrie, from Storm’s End, Pyke, Casterly Rock, Sunspear, Highgarden, and a host of smaller holdfasts as well. It seemed that everyone who could come would come and he wondered briefly how everyone would fit into King’s Landing. He and Dany had both done extensive projects to reduce the high levels of poverty in the slums and clean up the city, but there was still a problem with overcrowding even on the best of days.
But he would be seeing his siblings again and that was all that mattered.
One morning he woke Rhaenyra up before dawn and said “Would you like to go to the Dragonpits?”
None of the children could resist a trip to the massive building that had once housed the Targaryens’ feared mounts. Now it still held dragons-Viserion, Rhaegal, and the children’s three dragons: Sunwing, Polaris, and Cyannis; but it was still steeped in history and the echoes of what had come before.
They took a seat in the center of the sandy pit, empty at this time of day because the dragons were all out hunting. She had her knees drawn up to her chest, her hair twisted into a bun on the top of her head, and it struck him that soon she wouldn’t be his little girl any longer.
One day, she would be a queen.
“Are you excited for the tourney?”
She thought about the question for a while before she finally nodded tentatively. “I think so. I’m excited to see the cousins again.” Her voice echoed off the quiet stone around them.
“Yes, me too.” They sat in companionable silence; more than any of his children, Rhaenyra reminded him of himself. They didn’t need to be the center of attention all the time and they were both accused of being too quiet. No one else seemed to realize that the silence could be healing too.
Finally she asked “Do you ever miss Winterfell?”
He nodded. “Every day. I miss my sisters and Bran, and-strange as it might seem-I sometimes miss the cold. It was my home for so much of my life and I still sometimes find it strange here. I don’t know if I’ll ever quite fit in.”
She nodded solemnly. “But you love Mother.”
“Yes, I do. And I’ve never regretted my decision to come live here, even though this world we live in can seem so overwhelming at times. I never regret meeting you and your siblings.” He pulled her close and they sat there together, listening to the dragons fly overhead, until Tyrion came to find them and complain about how much time they were wasting and how many things they still had to do.
Yes, Jon thought as he walked back to the castle hand in hand with Rhaenyra, it was a strange and confusing life. But it was also his, and he wouldn’t change it for anything in the world.
The guests started arriving the week before the tourney-the farther they journeyed from, the longer they stayed in King’s Landing. Sansa and her husband, Micael, and her three children arrived first. Willard and Rickon were both nine and Daeron’s best friends, even though they were three years older than the young prince. They spent their time in the armory, playing with weighted swords and sparring until they were all covered in sweat and collapsed on the ground laughing. Margaery was five and determined to be a little lady; she clung to Daenerys like a shadow and followed her everywhere.
Yara brought a small retinue and her three sons-tall and brawny even at ten, with sullen expressions and loud laughter. They were out all day and only returned just before sundown but she didn’t seem to care; she and Dany stayed up late into the night talking and breaking out the fine vintage of the palace wine cellar. On a couple of nights they even got Nymeria to join them, who arrived with her three black haired children from three different fathers that no one could tell apart.
Robin Arryn came from the Vale with a couple of his closest bannermen; his wife and daughter stayed home because he believed that they were too weak to make such a long journey.
The Lannisport Lannisters came and Tyrion made himself scarce.
Willas Tyrell had two sons and two daughters, and a beautiful Hightower wife that was a decade younger than him and as beautiful as a summer flower.
Gendry Baratheon arrived three days before the tourney, the last of the major guests from the Seven Kingdoms. He brought his wife, Margaery, and their four children-including baby Osric, who was less than a year old but had his mother's eyes.
Arya arrived the day before in the middle of the night with her daughter by Gendry, seven year old Lyanna-Rhaenyra’s closest companion. They both smelled of a salt sea somewhere far away but Jon knew better than to ask her where she’d been. Arya was always traveling whenever the wind took her, which made it difficult to keep in touch.
There were elaborate feasts and banquets, patronizing small talk and genuine discussion that lasted long into the night. It felt almost like a party; the hours bled into one another like syrup into water.
The tourney itself was a grand success. Every good knight in the realm was there, but there were a few upsets from hedge knights and relative unknowns. Despite his advanced age, the head of the Queensguard, Ser Jorah Mormont, won the melee and won big in the lists, until he was unhorsed by Willas’s oldest son Arthur-the spitting image of his uncle, with long flowing hair and a nose that crinkled when he smiled. Arthur went on to win the tourney itself, crowning Daenerys the Queen of Love and Beauty when all was said and done.
His wife looked radiant, picking a new gown every day in shades of white, blue, red, black, and one day even a light violet that perfectly complemented her eyes. He heard the whispers, the same ones that had followed him throughout his reign, that there hadn’t been a more beautiful queen in living memory, and he felt incredibly blessed that such a beautiful creature had pledged herself to him and him alone.
Later that night she asked him “Who do you think would win if Rhaenyra fought Arthur?”
He didn’t even have to think about it. “Rhaenyra, of course.”
The next day a portrait painter came from Highgarden to paint a picture of the royal family and each of the children since all of the old Targaryen portraits had been destroyed during Robert’s Rebellion. It was a struggle getting the children to sit still for hours (much less getting Rhaenyra to put down her book), but in four days it was finished and in another two days it hung in the entrance hall facing everyone who came in.
The painter also made five small vignettes of each of the members of the royal family that hung in the master bedroom. There was Rhaenyra, smiling and carefree, but one could practically see the gears turning behind her eyes as she thought up some new idea. There was Daeron, looking like he was doing the best he could to act like a little king even though he was only six. He wore a neat black doublet and his hands were curled around Longclaw’s handle-Dany worried how they would pry it out of his hands when they were done because their father’s sword was such a coveted heirloom. And finally there was Elaena, looking like she belonged as the subject of a picture with her wide eyes and blonde curls.
There was also a picture of Jon and Dany, just for them.
“You have a beautiful family, your Graces.” The painter sketched a bow so low his beard brushed the floor.
She made sure she paid him handsomely. “Yes, we know.”
By the end of the week, the tourney pavilion was being dismantled as quickly as it had been erected. The grass was reseeded and the wooden fences that had held horses were repaired, as people began leaving King’s Landing in ones and twos and groups of hundreds, streaming out of the gates from sunup to sundown. Some knights were a little richer, some knights a little poorer, and a few squires had even been promoted to full knighthood and rode off into the sunset as an apprentice. The other High Lords departed for their home kingdoms with full retinues of soldiers and food and drink packed for the long rides home.
Before they all left the Royals threw one last spectacular feast-sixty eight courses, each a different combination of salads or fish or meat, with a dozen suckling pigs roasting at table and half of the Narrow Sea’s fishing population steaming in the kitchens. There were fifteen dessert courses-tortes and cakes and pale, flaky cookies that melted in their mouths instantaneously. The adults talked about everything except matters of policy and the children ran and played under their raised dais.
There were tears shed on departure days and promises to keep in touch and return to King’s Landing for birthdays or anniversaries, but everyone knew they were as good as broken already.
Within another five days everything had gone back to normal and it was almost impossible to tell that there had really been a tourney at all, besides the Crown of Love and Beauty that Dany had placed in a vase of water to prevent it from wilting. Their palace, which had once seemed so small to fit so many, was once again too big for only five people.
Jon and Dany had always considered having more children, both of them coming from big families, but somehow it never seemed to work out. Rhaenyra’s birth had been easy enough, but the rest of the Queen’s deliveries had been a series of hard births and miscarriages. After Daeron was born she’d had another miscarriage and borne a child that died after only three days. The latter child had hit them all the hardest-he had been a little boy, with Jon’s dark hair and a pair of sparkling green eyes, but he had been weak and sickly; in fact, Dany hadn’t been sure she wanted to try again for fear that she would lose another one. But she’d decided to try and Elaena had been born, and she counted herself lucky that all three of her children were healthy. One of Margaery and Gendry’s children had been born with a deformed hand and they weren’t sure it could ever be fixed.
So they were content with what they had.
Except, of course, for bedtimes.
“Are you sure I can’t stay up until you and Father go to bed?”
“No. We’re doing adult things. You wouldn’t be interested.” She picked Elaena up quickly and couldn’t help smiling as the little girl squealed giddily. “Trust me, you’ll have a lot more fun with your sister.”
“What are adult things?”
“Paperwork.” That was something Elaena understood; it was a common excuse for why their parents couldn’t stargaze every night or read them elaborate bedtime stories when there were pressing matters of state that had to be addressed.
“Ick. Can’t you skip it just for one night?”
“If I do that we might be in a war tomorrow.” She kissed the top of her head and let her go; Elaena ran into her bedroom and jumped on her bed-a sea of red and black blankets topped with the stuffed wolf she’d been given on her first birthday that she couldn’t sleep without.
“Stop it!” Across the room, Rhaenyra covered her ears.
“Sorry, sweetheart. I hope we didn’t interrupt you.” She scribbled a hand through her eldest's long blonde hair, feeling it fan out between her fingertips.
Rhaenyra leaned into her touch. “Only a little-but I forgive you.”
“Why don’t you get ready to sleep now?”
Her eyes lit up. “Can you tell us a story today?”
Elaena sat upright and started bouncing again. “Story, story, story!” All three of the children loved stories-Rhaenyra and Daeron could recite all of the old fairy tales from memory and list in order the names of the old Targaryen rulers by the time they were five. They were constantly looking for a new supply-once they had practically accosted a dignitary from the Reach and when Jon had finally realized what was going on he’d found them clustered around the minister’s feet, listening raptly as the man told them about the glories of a Highgarden spring. Jon had apologized profusely later but the man hadn’t seemed bothered; in fact, he seemed to grow a soft spot for the children after that and brought the girls white roses the next time he visited.
Needless to say, they weren’t allowed to do that anymore.
They’d gone looking for new stories, spending hours in the library (they all knew how to read, even Elaena) combing over old folk tales from Essos and Dorne. But they had never seemed to grasp the most fundamental aspect of storytelling-real life was a story in its own way, and all stories were based on facts-sometimes the most horrific truths imaginable. She wanted to keep them safe from that world at all costs, especially the world she’d known too early, but she knew it was only a matter of time before the veil around them lifted.
Dany sighed. “But you’ve heard all of the ones I know and I don’t have time to retell an old one.” Their favorite story was the old Dothraki tale of the dragons breaking out of the sun; she couldn’t tell it to them enough.
“Why don’t you tell us a true story?” Rhaenyra asked. “Why don’t you tell us about how you and Father met?”
“You don’t want to hear that story, darling-it’s far too long.”
“All the better.” She sat on top of the covers and crossed her ankles. “I’m not tired.”
“Me neither,” Elaena said, even as she yawed.
“It’s a scary story. You’re too young for it.”
“I’m not!” Rhaenyra said indignantly, and Elaena nodded along and crossed her arms.
Just then Daeron ran into the bedroom, wearing a long white nightshirt but no pants. “Why are you shouting?"
“Mother was just saying she’ll tell us a new story.” Rhaenyra shot her a look, as if to say that she now had to or risk hurting their feelings.
“I want to hear a story!”
“Daeron, where did your pants go?” Dany asked, fairly sure this wasn’t a part of the normal bedtime routine.
“Father has them,” he said triumphantly. “I don’t want to wear them.”
Seven help us, she thought. “And why don’t you want to wear your pants?”
“I just don’t like them.”
Elaena started bouncing up and down again, singing “Story! Story! Story!” She was so loud that Dany had trouble thinking-although she wondered if that was supposed to be the point. No one could say that her children weren’t too clever for their own good.
“What’s all this about a story?” Jon stepped inside, holding Daeron’s pants and looking extremely worn out. “You forgot these, Daeron."
Daeron ran and hid behind Rhaenyra’s bed. “I don’t want to wear them!”
“You’re six winters now. That’s too old to be acting like a baby.”
His head popped up but he still set his mouth in a pout. “I’m not acting like a baby. I just don’t want to wear pants.”
“I want to hear about how you and Mother met.” Rhaenyra said again. “I want to hear about the Wall, and Uncle Bran, and the Battle of King’s Landing, and Drogon, and the Mad Queen, and the White Walkers.”
Jon exchanged a look with Daenerys as she sat down on the edge of Elaena’s bed and rubbed a hand through her hair. The children knew the basics, of course-they knew the names of the dead, they made yearly pilgrimages to the place where the old Wall had once stood, and once or twice they had even taken them to the crypt below the Dragonpits where Drogon’s bones had been laid to rest. They’d heard the songs and ballads that were often sung about them at the dinners they went to, even if they never quite understood them. But they’d never heard the full story-the children had never been old enough and the time had never been right. Even now, she knew they wouldn’t understand everything-but Rhaenyra looked like she wasn’t backing down and she’d gotten the other two riled up as well.
“Fine!” She threw her hands up and lay down next to Elaena, looking up at the ceiling where two red dragons chased each other in the corners. Obviously someone in the Baratheon household had forgotten it was there; someone had written the name Maekar in the margins in a child’s shaky script. “But it’s a long story and you all have to be very quiet. If you have nightmares, you’ll keep them to yourselves. And Daeron, you have to put your pants back on.”
Daeron rolled his eyes but pulled them on extremely slowly before taking a seat on Rhaenyra’s bed and toying with her toy sword-a gift from Arya for her last name day. Jon sat down beside Dany and she felt his heartbeat through her back; after all of these years, it calmed her, preparing her to relive memories she hadn’t revisited in a long, long time. Perhaps on purpose, perhaps not.
She took his hand and squeezed it, giving him a quick kiss before they started-ignoring the exaggerated gagging from the children. “Would you like to start?”
The story took nearly three hours to tell. Elaena fell asleep before the Battle of King’s Landing, Daeron lasted until the Coronation, and Rhaenyra managed to make it to the end-but just barely. She closed her eyes when Jon gave her his customary good night kiss and she didn’t open them again, her body relaxing into the familiar rhythm of sleep.
Out in the hallway, Dany swore when she realized how late it was. “The letter-”
Jon brushed a strand of hair that had fallen loose from her bun out of her face. It was calming, in a way, and she felt her heart rate returning to normal slowly, slowly, slowly. “It’s all right. It can wait for one night.”
“It almost sounds like a fairy tale when you listen to it like that,” she said, gently pulling away. “It seems so complicated...so many things had to line up in just the right way for things to work out the way they did...Jon, do you believe in fate?”
“How so?” He gently moved her against the opposite wall, running a hand down the side of her face and playing with the edges of her collar bone.
She had to step away again because his touch was so distracting. “Do you believe that we have a choice in our actions, or is everything just predetermined for us by the gods? Was the red woman’s prophecy really a prophecy, or did we just create it ourselves? Is there any way we could have not met each other?”
She could see that Jon wanted to kiss her again and she desperately wanted to kiss him, but he took a moment to really consider the question-yet again something else she loved about him. “I don’t know that we’ll ever know for sure.” He flipped over her hand, running his hand along the spot on her lower forearm where the Night King’s grasp had burnt a mark of ice into her skin-they’d had it inspected by maesters from all over the world but not one of them knew how to cure it. And perhaps that was a good thing anyway-scars helped define a person. Sometimes when the day was sunny and the temperature was perfect, she could almost forget where she’d come from and that the monsters from her nightmares were very, very real.
“Yes, I know, but if you had to decide.”
“Then I would say that it doesn’t matter. You know I believe in the gods and I know that you don’t, so I don’t see how we can possibly bring the faith into it. I don’t know how it’s something that we could ever figure out-and who knows? Maybe it’s better that we don’t. Maybe we just need to accept the fact that not everything in life can be easily explained. Maybe we were meant to meet, maybe we weren’t. Maybe we were never supposed to go to war in the first place.”
She sighed heavily. “I guess I just don’t understand how you can believe in gods that will lead so many innocent lives to the slaughter-who allow terrible things to happen to good people-to innocent families.”
He sighed, running his fingers through his hair again. He did that more and more lately. “But the gods aren’t all bad. They’re benevolent too-look at us. Look at our children. Look at our kingdom. Twenty years ago, the world wouldn’t have thought anything of us-but look at what we’ve been able to accomplish. There are two sides to every coin, two sides to every story. Who knows whether or not we really have free will? And who cares? We’ll just keep on living anyway.” He took a step forward again and this time she didn’t squirm away. “May I kiss you now?”
She stepped in closer, praying that none of the children would decide to come outside for a drink of water. “Of course. Always.”
It felt like an ending, as she stood there in his arms, with the last remnants of the tournament being dragged into storage until the next time they would be needed. But really, she knew it was just the beginning. Stories never really ended, did they? Someday, years from now, she and Jon would be gone and their children would have plenty of stories to tell their own children.
She hoped that they wouldn’t forget about the people they’d met and loved and lost along the way. Sometimes the things you least expected ended up making the best kind of stories.
Another of his kisses brought her back to the present and she thought of all the moments, big and small, that had led up to this moment. Jon had a point-who ever would have thought that she’d be here, of all places? When in her childhood had she ever contemplated being a queen except as a counterpart to her older brother?
Maybe Jon had a point. Maybe the gods, whoever they were, were benevolent as well as terrible. Maybe she could still be religious, someday. After all, there was plenty she still had to learn-as much as he tried to pretend to the contrary, Tyrion didn’t know everything.
And she had all the time in the world to learn.
The castle was finally still, the way it was late at night when the last of the servants had gone home and they finally had the Keep to themselves. It was arguably Jon’s favorite time of the day.
Dany was asleep with her head on his chest, heart beating slowly and comfortably in sleep. He pressed a kiss to the shell of her ear and pulled her a little closer to him, wondering why he’d had the dream today of all days. There was no reason for him to be having nightmares, especially not about the Battle.
It was always the same, no matter how much time passed-he found himself on the battlefield, lungs screaming from exhaustion, heart beating out of his chest, and unable to move while the Night’s King killed his wife again and again, handing her as gently as one might handle a child, or maybe a lover. He wanted to save her, he wanted to scream her name-but he was paralyzed and helpless every time he tried. He always woke up in a cold sweat; he tried not to wake her up (they both tried to keep their nightmares a secret) but every so often they didn’t succeed. He would find the bed empty and go to look for her, only to find her standing on the balcony looking out at the slumbering city or in the childrens’ bedrooms, sitting by their bedsides and singing them Valyrian lullabies because sometimes it was all she could do to chase the pain away. He would always sit with her-never saying anything, but letting her know with his simple presence that he was there for her.
On the nights he woke her up he could often be found in the training room-and that was where his feet took him now. He grabbed a practice sword off the rack on the other side of the room and lined up his targets, taking a moment to focus and then attacking each target one by one, one for each of the family members he’d lost-for his uncles and his mother, for Catelyn and Robb and Rickon, hell, even for Jaime Lannister because he knew that he hadn’t been all bad. He had a different perspective on him and Cersei now that he was a father himself and he realized what he would do to keep his children safe.
When he finally finished, covered in a fine sweat and breathing heavily, he saw Dany in the doorway taking off her shoes and grabbing her own sword of choice. It had been especially commissioned for her and it fit perfectly in her hand as she swung it around carefully-she liked to joke that Elaena could beat her, even after all this time, but Jon knew that wasn’t true. She’d be able to beat Elaena, Daeron was debatable, and Rhaenyra would have her on her back in three minutes flat. “I’m here for my lesson.”
“At this hour?”
She shrugged. “Maybe I feel more awake in the darkness.”
They began circling; she stayed low and tight, just as they practiced. When he came for her she was ready and parried his block expertly-but when he went for her weak side she stumbled. Defense had never been her strong suit.
“Keep your left shoulder forward. Have you ever heard that a good defense is the best offense?”
“I thought we’ve already established that I’m rubbish at defense.”
“Now’s as good a time as any to learn.” He took up his position again, straightening his sword so it shone in the dim light of the training room. “Now remember, left shoulder forward and light on your feet. The second you lose your mobility is the moment your enemy defeats you.” There was something calming about training her-or any of his children, really. It reminded him of his earliest days holding a sword, running around the training ring with Robb while Donal Noye tried to get them to concentrate-or more recently of his days at Castle Black, training new recruits the same way he trained her now. Again they fought, moving backwards and forwards across the soft matting of the training room. Moonlight streamed in from above them; it shone on her hair.
“What was your dream about?” Dany asked once he managed to corner her a second time, pressing the tip of his sword lightly just below her chin.
“It’s the same dream it always is. Such an old song. I’m sorry I woke you.”
“I don’t mind. I...was having trouble sleeping too, to tell you the truth. Maybe telling the children the story made us revisit those old memories.”
“They’re just memories. They can’t hurt you.” He dropped his sword and eased into a stretch, working out the kinks in his muscles that were becoming annoyingly frequent with every name day that passed. “Although I could give myself the same advice.”
“Did you hear Sansa’s expecting a fourth child?” She tried to attack him but he parried her away easily.
“No, I didn’t. How far along is she?” It irked him a bit that she knew before he did, but he’d quickly realized that to marry Daenerys meant sharing his family because she had so little of her own.
“Two months. Sansa hopes it’s another little girl.” She broke for water and sat down on the ground, massaging his shoulders before he needed to ask her to. “But it made me think...we’re not too old.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You’re considering this?”
She drew back, looking hurt. “You don’t want to?”
He shook his head, hard. “No, it’s not like that. I just…”
She sighed. “You’re worried that I’ll lose it again.”
“The Grand Maester said specifically that it would be hard for you to carry another child-”
“But if it was your choice, Jon...would you want another child? Another little sister for Elaena and Rhaenyra or a playmate for Daeron?”
"I would love another child-even if he or she does end up looking exactly like you. It’s just that...before Elaena, the miscarriages were so hard-” She had locked herself away from the rest of the world for days on end and he hadn’t known how to reach her; he’d attended to the everyday running of the kingdom as well as he could, stopping by every so often to make sure she was eating, but she’d stayed confined in her room and had barely spoken to him or the children. Rhaenyra and Daeron had berated him endlessly, worried they’d done something to anger their mother.
“It will be the last time. If I lose this baby, then we’ll know that it’s not meant to be. But we can at least try.” She looked away, playing with her hands-wrapping them together and then pulling them apart. “I've always liked Visenya..."
“Visenya. I like it. But what about for a boy?”
She thought for a second. “Rhaegar.” Her tone was so matter of fact that he knew this wasn’t just a spur of the moment decision-and he wasn’t sure exactly how he was supposed to feel about that.
“We’ll have to talk to the children first-”
“Of course. If they don’t like the idea, then we won’t bring it up again...you don’t believe me, do you? You think that this baby will be like the others.” He saw the rose bushes they’d placed in the front gardens, one for every child they’d lost-three so far, two within consecutive years. “Something just feels right about it. I can’t know for sure.”
“But what happens if something happens to the baby? Are you going to retreat into yourself again? The children are getting older, Dany-I’m going to need your help raising them.”
“I know and I’ll be there for them. I promise. But this is something that I want to do-and maybe it’s not a good idea but...perhaps it is.”
Finally, he smiled. “I don’t think Elaena will like having to share the attention with a baby. She’s perfectly happy being the youngest.”
“Again, there’s lots to work out before we commit but...if everything goes well?”
He shook his head. “I want Sam to check you over to make sure you can carry the baby safely.”
She rolled her eyes. “Call him Grand Maester if you’re going to refer to him like that.”
“Fine, the Grand Maester. We’re so worried about the baby but I want to make sure it won’t be dangerous for you either. I don’t want to lose another baby, but I can’t stand losing you.” He thought about their mothers, dead in childbirth because of a particularly hard birth-or, in Rhaella’s case, one pregnancy too many after too many miscarriages.
“I’ll be safe, Jon. I’m fine.”
“Just promise me.”
She sighed. “Fine. I promise. Does that do anything to assuage your fears?”
“Plenty.” He embraced her tightly and closed his eyes, allowing him to imagine this Visenya-could she have his hair, or would she have his eyes and nose? What would she be like? What would her hobbies be? What would she grow up to become? He felt the familiar thrill of possibility and before he knew it he was agreeing. “Yes.”
She turned around to look at him, her eyes lit up. “Yes?”
“If everything works out well, then I would gladly have a fourth child.”
She hugged him even more tightly. “I’m so glad. I feel certain about this, Jon. Everything’s going to be just fine.”
“That is what you said the last time-”
“And Elaena is perfectly healthy. We’ll be careful. We’ll do everything right. And then we’ll see what happens.”
Jon had always thought that the middle of the night was a strange time; a time of fluidity, when nothing seemed as concrete or important as it did in the light. Ideas and feelings were constantly shifting and opinions he always held in the daytime could turn completely on their heads. But he hoped now that this idea of theirs might just bring itself to fruition somehow.
They sparred for another few hours until a baby was the last thing on their minds, although he still felt full of possibility and a wild happiness he hadn’t felt in a long time.
He let Dany win a couple of matches, just to keep her interested.
When Daenerys and Jon weren’t down for breakfast the next morning, Rhaenyra wasn’t phased.
“Where are Mother and Father?” Elaena asked, bouncing along in her wake as Rhaenyra circled back to her room and grabbed her patterned black blanket. Rhaenyra didn’t answer as she plodded in bare feet down the hall to the sparring room and pulled open the door. Her parents lay asleep in a pool of sunlight, lying next to each other with their hands intertwined.
Rhaenyra draped the blanket over them gently, a small smile playing at the edge of her lips. “Let them rest. They’ve had a long night.”