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“Like thousands of other women before her, Queen Alysanne wished to bathe in Jonquil’s pool, whose waters were said to have amazing healing properties. But she had only slipped out of her clothing when they fell upon her with daggers they had concealed within their robes. The Wise Women fearlessly stepped between the attackers and their lady. The young queen only slipped on the lip of the pool and fell into the sweetwater running red with the blood of friend and foe. And months later, after the birth of a healthy son named Aegon, Queen Alysanne would say that it was the waters of Jonquil’s Pool that blessed her and her son with good health. Therein was born a tradition. For every pregnancy, the queen would visit Maidenpool and bathe on Jonquil’s Pool, and the House of the Dragon grew ever larger and more prosperous.” – the writings of Archmaester Gyldayn.
On Dragonstone, a century after Aegon’s Conquest, House Targaryen gathered for a funeral.
Prince Valerion Targaryen stood at the edge of the group with his sister-wife as the septon led them in prayer. He never truly felt comfortable with large crowds, and his family had grown rather large. Gael held his hand and hummed softly to herself. Thirteen children, fourteen legitimate grandchildren, eight great grandchildren, Valerion recounted as he looked at his parents. And in a matter of days, we’ve lost three of them.
In the center, King Jaehaerys stood beside a seated Queen Alysanne. His parents had never looked older, and it pained him to see them in such a fragile state. The queen had shattered her hip years back, and even now walking and standing caused her pain. Her cane rested against her side. The king stood tall as always, but he was frail where he had been strong, and there was a new sadness in his eyes.
Those eyes were on the three wooden pyres, and Valerion spared them a glance. The bodies were wrapped in white linen and rested atop beds of flowers. Aegon the Younger rested beside his aunt and wife, Viserra. Their son, fondly called Aegon the Even Younger, rested next to them. He had been four when the pox took him.
Valerion still remembered those cruel days vividly. The pox had infected Viserra first, his fiery sister who had calmed with age, and it had torn through her like wildfire. None of the maesters knew how to treat her, and the Grand Maester was only able to lessen her pain. Aegon the Younger, who had loved her dearly, never left her side, against the advice of everyone. He died only a day after her, and then their young son soon joined them, just to salt the wound further.
Only young Prince Jaehaerys remained of them now, and he stood beside his grandparents, a somber little boy who had once been so happy. Valerion’s eldest brother, known to them all as Aegon the Elder, the Hand of the King, had one hand on his grandson’s shoulder, the other holding his wife close. A sheer black veil covered Lady Evelyn Peake’s face, her mourning gown like armor. Of their seven sons, Aegon the Younger had undoubtedly been their favorite, but Valerion did not see anything but sadness in the faces of their six living sons.
Prince Caen, so often called the Minstrel, stood with his hands clasped behind his back and his head bowed, so out of place without a harp in his hands. Beside him was his wife, Lady Ella Martell of Dorne, who looked defiant even dressed in mourning. Their young daughter, Princess Nymeria – named after the famous queen – was restless between them.
Prince Naehaerys stood alone. His black hair was unbound and hung past his shoulders, and with his arms crossed and lips set in a thin, he looked very much like the name he had been given. Naehaerys the Dark they called him. Dark for his hair, so unlike the silver of his brothers, but much more for his temper and the harsh hand of justice he exercised as the King’s Justice and Lord Confessor.
Prince Aellamon was taking in everything before him. Simply called the Painter by many, Valerion reckoned that his nephew was trying to remember every detail of the funeral, so that the painting he would produce of it would be as faithful to the true scene as possible.
Prince Tael looked beautiful even as he cried silent tears. The royal court and the smallfolk alike called him Tael the Fair, and he was truly the fairest of all the Targaryens. He was so pretty that even his wife, the lovely Bella Fossoway, could not hope to compete when standing next to him. But she didn’t seem to mind, and Valerion watched as she simply held her husband’s arm.
The twins stood together, the funeral putting an end to their endless japes.
Prince Faenor knelt beside his young bastard daughter, whispering to her as the septon continued with his prayer. She had been named Florys Ilfaenor. “She’s special,” Faenor had explained. “Calling her Waters would be an insult to me and her mother.” And when Alyssa had asked just what “Ilfaenor” was supposed to mean, Faenor had simply said, “Well, it’s quite simple. The I stands for ‘illegitimate’, and the L stands for ‘line of’. Put it all together and you get Ilfaenor, the illegitimate line of Faenor.” From then on, people began to refer to Faenor as the Fox, not simply because his bastard daughter’s mother was Jeyne Florent, but because he was as wily as a fox, able to come up with a sly answer for nearly every question posed to him.
Prince Faelor only frowned at the three pyres. Though he was often called Faelor the False with good reason, Valerion knew, deep down, that his nephew wasn’t lying about anything that day.
The septon finally ended his prayer, and it was at that moment the dragons finally descended on the beach. They had been circling above, and they just seemed to know when they were required to appear, possessing some innate knowledge of the funeral. Aegon the Elder’s dragon landed first; the large beast called Hyperion. He was larger than the other two, battle scarred as well. Then came the other two, so recently made riderless. Aegon the Younger’s dragon was called Goldfyre, his scales gleaming like molten gold, and Viserra’s was called Moonmyr, scales like the moon in a cloudless night.
All three dragons came before the pyres, and Aegon gave his grandson’s shoulder a squeeze before stepping forth. They all watched as he commanded “Dracarys!” at the three dragons, and how, at his word alone, all three bent their heads towards the pyres and let loose three streaks of bright dragon flame, each a different color.
Soon the three pyres were no more, the dragons were back in the air, and there was nothing left to do but watch as the wind blew away the ash as the waves rolled onto the beach.
Valerion thought of returning to the castle when Gael tugged at his hand, and he found himself walking with her instead. When he asked where they were going, she only smiled and said, “It’s too stuffy inside.” They strolled the beach for a time, Gael still humming softly, and Valerion looked around the beach and the sea beyond. His gaze always seemed to find its way back to where the pyres once stood.
The three eldest of their siblings were gathered around the ash, speaking softly. From a distance, the scar on Aemon’s neck wasn’t as ugly, merely a patch of skin that didn’t quite match the rest. Had it not been for Aegon the Younger and his quick thinking, the Myrish crossbow bolt would have punched through Aemon’s throat, and he would have surely died. A cruel irony from the Gods that it would be an invisible enemy that took down Aegon instead, he who had been a peerless warrior and unbeaten in battle.
“Nymeria!” Ella Martell called, and Valerion looked over his shoulder as the young princess went sprinting by with a smile. She was followed by young Baelon, Viserys and Aemma’s firstborn.
“Let them have some fun,” said Twohand Aegon, Baelon’s thirdborn. Twohand for the fact that he was dominant with his left just as much as his right. “They’re only children.”
His sister Rhaella scoffed at him. “Of course, you would say that. I’m sure discipline doesn’t exist in your vocabulary.”
“That’s a big word, sis,” called Daemon. “Egg head might not know what you’re saying.”
Twohand Aegon sputtered. “And neither do you, I’m sure,” Rhaella snapped at Daemon, then she grasped the skirt of her mourning gown and went off and joined Ella Martell in catching Nymeria and young Baelon.
Valerion watched his nephews and niece until Gael tugged his hand again and they continued walking the beach. Still, they were on his mind. “Do you think Rhaella will ever come around to the idea of wedding Daemon?” he asked his sister-wife. “They don’t seem to be getting along any better like Alyssa had hoped for when she stopped the Royce betrothal.”
“I’m sure Baelon and Alyssa know what they’re doing,” Gael said.
He wanted to believe that, but looking over his shoulder at the children of Baelon and Alyssa, all he could see was the lack of any progress. Out of five children, Viserys was the only one who had married and had children of his own: Baelon was three, Rhaenyra was two, and Aemond was not even a year old. Daemon would have been married to Lady Rhea Royce, but Alyssa had killed that idea stone dead, wanting all of her children to find true love like she had with Baelon. Valerion had been privy to just who a drunk Daemon thought he was in love with. Twohand Aegon was more interested in swordplay than anything else. Rhaella thought her older brothers were all idiots in varying degrees. And Rhaegel seemed to be heading down the same path as Vaegon.
But who am I to judge? Valerion thought. He was the twelfth born child, married to the thirteenth, so far down the line of succession that he was never going to sit the Iron Throne. And nor did he even want it. He was more than happy for all that power to be in someone else’s capable hands, like their father, and Aegon after him. He wouldn’t even know what to do with it all, and he wasn’t about to force Gael into being someone she wasn’t. Being queen was the last thing she needed.
“Look,” Gael said, and Valerion looked to where she was pointing. “It’s a dragon.”
Indeed, it was a dragon, and as it flew ever closer Valerion saw that one he had assumed wouldn’t come at all, for its rider was off exploring the east. But apparently, he was wrong, and that made him smile.
“Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken. Those are the words of House Nymeros Martell. If I must be forever known as the bowed and the bent, then so be it. I remain unbroken, as does Dorne. Can Prince Morion say the same? No. So they can call me the Princess Who Knelt all they want, they can curse my name in their cups, they can call me a spineless coward, and I will sleep well all the same knowing that Dorne is not a land of ash and glass.” – Lady Mara Martell, Ruling Lady of Dorne.
“Let’s give them a show,” Gaemon Targaryen yelled as he checked that the chains fastened between the saddle and his belt were secure. “High and tight, Gemheart. You know the one. Like how we did it for the Brightlord of Marahai!”
The she-dragon rumbled beneath him as she flapped her strong wings and flew higher and higher into the air. Below, Dragonstone was growing small by the second, and Gaemon pulled the goggles down onto his eyes and the scarf up to cover his mouth and nose. He leaned forward until he was flush with the saddle seat, his feet finding the stirrups at the back.
He grinned like a madman as he held on tight to the reins, and when Gemheart reached a height, she thought was best, she folded in her wings and dove.
The wind roared past them, and Gaemon couldn’t hear his own shout as they fell through the sky, only the blood thundering in his ears and the cold air biting at his skin. Hundreds of feet passed by in seconds. They were going faster than any dragon and rider had gone before, ripping through the air like a hot knife through butter, and Gaemon had never felt more alive than he did right then.
And when Gemheart reared up and spread her wings, pulling them from a dive into a glide, Gaemon held onto the saddle until they were going slow enough that he could sit up without being ripped away from the reins. “Yes!” he shouted. “Fucking amazing as always!”
The she-dragon let out a pleased roar, and Gaemon patted her neck.
“Alright, Gemheart. Bring us down to the beach. Looks like we’ve already missed the pyre burning, but I’m sure there’s still the feast to come.”
It had been years since he’d seen home, and it was only by chance that he’d been on his way back to Westeros when word reached him that his nephew, sister, and grandnephew had all died of a pox. Gaemon had dropped everything he had been doing and raced back to Dragonstone like a madman, pushing Gemheart to the point where she was eating fish for her meals, and he was pissing off the side of the saddle and sleeping on her back.
They’d probably broken a record for the amount of ground covered in such little time, but Gaemon was only glad that they were only just late. From all the dragons mingling around the Dragonmont, it looked like no one had even left yet. He spotted the obvious ones, his parents’ Vermithor and Silverwing, Aemon’s Caraxes, Baelon’s Vhagar. Alyssa’s Meleys. Aegon the Elder’s Hyperion was making lazy circles around Dragonstone with Goldfyre and Moonmyr. On the other side of the island, Gaemon spotted what he thought was Naehaerys’ dragon, Nyr. And he was sure that there were others he didn’t recognize as well. He’d been away for some time. Some of the kids must’ve had hatchlings by now.
When they landed on the beach, it was a ways away from where the pyres had been, and Gaemon nodded to himself as he saw the distant figures of people, with some of them making their way towards them. He went through the routine of unchaining himself from the saddle, stowing his goggles and scarf, removing his pack from where it was secured in the saddle, and making sure that Gemheart knew what she could and couldn’t do. “Get something to eat, preferably from the Dragonkeepers and not some poor farmer,” Gaemon told her after he leapt from the saddle onto Westerosi sand. “And no fighting. Play nice with the others. Stay away from the Cannibal.”
Gemheart snorted at him, and Gaemon threw his arm to shield his face from the steam she blew his way. He hefted his pack across his shoulder and waved for her to go on as he started his walk to the rest of the funeral party.
She was already a hundred feet in the air by the time Gaemon reached the first of them. “And who might you be?” he said to the little girl. She had the eyes of a Targaryen, but the skin color of a Dornishman, and the hair to match. He could have guessed, but she was talking before he got the chance, slightly out of breath as she was.
“I’m Princess Nymeria!” she said, her hands on her hips. “A daughter of Dorne!”
Beyond her, Gaemon saw what looked like the girl’s mother coming towards them. “Well met, Nymeria,” he said. “Seems like someone’s looking for you.”
The girl looked over her shoulder and made a face. “Funerals are boring.”
“But they are necessary. And aren’t you sad that it was your uncle and cousin who died?”
“I am.” Nymeria worried at her bottom lip. “But the septon wouldn’t stop praying and then grandfather made us stand and watch the pyres burn until they were all gone. And we’re not even going back to King’s Landing for a week!”
“I’m sure the week will just fly right by,” Gaemon said, and then he turned her around just as the girl’s mother reached them. “Now why don’t you introduce me to your mother? It’s been a long time since I last returned to Westeros.”
“But I don’t even know your name.”
“Nymeria,” snapped the mother. She looked flustered and blushed slightly as she took her daughter by the hand. “Forgive her lack of manners. She’s usually perfectly respectful.”
“I’m sure she is,” Gaemon said. He winked at Nymeria when her mother wasn’t looking and got a toothy grin back. “The name’s Gaemon. I’m sure my brothers and sisters have mentioned me.”
“They have.” The dark-haired woman offered a hand, and Gaemon shook it. That seemed to startle her somewhat. “I’m Lady Ella Martell of Dorne, sister of Mara Martell, the Ruling Lady of Dorne.”
“Right.” Gaemon remembered her now. “When I left, you and Caen were still two awkward kids trying to come to terms with your betrothal. I’m glad to see that everything turned out well.”
“You can say that,” Ella Martell muttered, but Gaemon didn’t hear her as another member of the family reached them, and she was holding a little boy.
“Is that you, Rhaella?” The last time Gaemon had seen her, she was but a baby herself. “Gods be good, you look just like your mother.”
“I’ve been told,” she said, shifting the boy onto her hip. “Baelon, want to say hello to your uncle Gaemon? He’s just come back after a long time in Essos.”
The boy gave him a shy wave, and Gaemon offered him a winning smile. “I’m sure you’ll grow tall and strong,” Gaemon said. “Just like the man you’re named after.”
He hefted his pack on his shoulder and led their motley little group back to the rest of the family, and along the way he listened to everything they told him, catching him up on what had happened and who was who. He’d missed quite a few births in the family, and some tragedies as well. His mother was not long for the world, and his father was not as strong as he used to be. The nieces and nephews he had left were not all grown up.
Some of them were even parents in their own right.
“A shame Saera left the way she did,” Gaemon said, after being told just where his sister had gone and ended up. He didn’t have the heart to tell his niece that he’d spoken with his disgraced sister whilst visiting Volantis. What she had said about the whole scandal with the court fool and her friends wasn’t something he was inclined to repeat.
Rhaella agreed. “But everyone else is here, from Uncle Vaegon to Aunt Daella. They’ve all come for the funeral.”
“Quite the reunion.” And Gaemon was soon met by a wide range of emotions.
Baelon greeted him with a clap on the shoulder and a small smile. Alyssa punched him in the arm for arriving late, then hugged him for arriving at all. Their sons all greeted in him turn: Viserys introduced him to little Rhaenyra and baby Aemond, his wife Aemma by his side; Daemon gave him a nod with a look in his eyes like he didn’t quite remember him; Aegon introduced himself as Twohand Aegon and didn’t explain what it meant; Rhaella provided the details; Rhaegel gave him a stuttering nod before turning his attention back to his book. Daella gave him a soft smile and a kiss on the cheek. Valerion and Gael waved to him from the distance before continuing their stroll. Vaegon’s hand was as cold as his expression. Aemon gave him a sad smile and a nod, while his wife Jocelyn Baratheon greeted him softly. Their daughter Rhaenys stood with her husband, Lord Corlys Velaryon, and introduced their two children to him, Laena and Laenor. Aegon the Elder merely thanked him for coming, and Evelyn offered a host of kind words. Little Jaehaerys Targaryen, the only surviving son of Aegon the Younger and Viserra, quietly introduced himself, trying to sound older than he was. Caen’s voice was beautiful even when he wasn’t singing. Tael really was beautiful, a honey timbre in his voice, and his wife Bella knew she couldn’t hope to match. Faelor frowned at him and introduced the little girl in his arms as Florys Ilfaenor, his twin’s daughter. Faenor smiled and told him what the “I” and “L” in Ilfaenor meant, much to the groans of those around them. Aellamon asked when he’d have some time to sit for a portrait in way of a greeting.
Naehaerys said nothing, with one hand behind his back and the other resting on the pommel of his sword. He stood at the queen’s side, and Gaemon knelt beside her chair as he greeted his mother. “Oh, Gaemon, you’ve come back,” she said. She patted his hand, and he kissed her on the cheek before rising to face his father.
The king was old, and Gaemon suddenly felt ashamed for having spent so much time journeying through the east while the burden of governance fell on the shoulders of others. “It’s good to have you back, son,” Jaehaerys said, and Gaemon agreed.
“It’s good to be back, father.”
Gaemon didn’t expect anything more than that, and he wasn’t surprised when the king merely nodded and turned his attention back to the queen, telling her that he was heading back to the castle to get some rest. He refused any help from the knights of the Kingsguard along the way, but he did not object to Naehaerys walking beside him.
“I’m starving,” Faenor suddenly announced to them all. “And I’m sure Aegon and Viserra would have wanted us to celebrate their lives by eating and drinking instead of wallowing the day away on the beach and watching their ashes mix with the seawater.”
Rhaella was scandalized “Faenor!” she hissed at him.
“He’s right,” said Aegon the Elder. “Even if his words are… crude, he still has the right of it. My firstborn wouldn’t have wanted us all to waste the day away, and Viserra would certainly hate it if we didn’t honor her memory with a feast. She always wanted to be queen, and the mother of a king, so let’s celebrate them like the kings and queen they should have been.”
Faenor raised a cheer. “I couldn’t have said it better myself, father! Everyone, follow me to the food and the wine. We have the memories of three lives to celebrate!” Gaemon thought he saw some tears in Faenor’s eyes, but the prince turned around too quickly for him to be sure, and he was already off marching back to the castle the same way the king was taking. Young Nymeria was the first to join, and soon the others followed in kind, sparing the beach and the ashes one last look before going. Even their mother the queen stood and left, walking with the help of her cane and the arm of a knight of the Kingsguard.
Gaemon stayed back until it was only Aegon with him, and they stood side by side and watched as the waves slowly pulled the ashes of the pyres into the sea, while in the distance Valerion and Gael continued to walk hand in hand along the beach.
“He was my favorite son,” Aegon said. “As much as I find the idea of having a favorite child discourteous, he was still my favorite. He would have made a great king.”
Gaemon cleared his throat. “He would have indeed.”
“He was so much like Daenerys when he was a boy. I know you don’t remember our sister, but just think about how Aegon was when he was young, and that’s how Daenerys was as well. So full of life and adventure, running around the Red Keep with Viserra. The two of them had been inseparable. And now they’ve both been taken away from me too soon, just like Daenerys. We Targaryens are supposed to be immune to common illness. We don’t get sick. And yet Daenerys died of the Shivers.”
“And your Aegon, Viserra, and their Aegon all died of a pox.”
“It tore through them in a matter of days, and now here we are.” Aegon swallowed. “You know, I still remember our father lighting Daenerys’ pyre. I can still smell the smoke and the incense. And I never thought I’d have to light the pyre for my own son.”
Gaemon didn’t have anything to say, so he said nothing, only stood by his brother’s side as they watched the rolling waves of the sea.
“You would be surprised at the things I can trick people into believing.” – Prince Faelor Targaryen.
“This is what you call training?” said Rhaella.
Aegon Targaryen blocked each of his niece’s strikes with his wooden sword and deftly stepped away from her to face his sister. “Of course,” he answered. “Nymeria is learning.” He tossed his sword from his right hand to his left and continued to bat away Nymeria’s ineffectual strikes. She didn’t seem to care if the smile on her face was anything to go by.
Using his left hand felt just as natural as his right hand.
“You’re not teaching her anything.”
“Are you learning, Nymeria?” Aegon asked.
“I am!” Nymeria said as she continued to bash her sword against his.
“See?” Aegon added a twirl to his parry and riposte, catching his niece on her thigh. “Watch your left next time. Had this been a real sword you’d have lost that leg.”
Rhaella only rolled her eyes at him and returned to her self-appointed duty of watching over their other nieces and nephews at the other side of the courtyard. Laena and Laenor Velaryon were playing come-into-my-castle with young Baelon and Rhaenyra, though the younger children toddled after the older ones. It was a harmless game, but Rhaella watched over them like they were going to burst into a violent rendition of monsters-and-maidens.
And quite missing from it all was young Jaehaerys.
“Watch your left,” Aegon told his niece, just before catching her on the left.
“Hey! That’s not fair! You said watch the left!”
“Your left or my left?” Aegon grinned as he tapped the tip of his sword on the right and left of her feet. “My left is your right, and your left is my right.”
“Fine. Watch your right!” And she swung at him from her right.
He parried the blow and tapped her wrist with the flat of his blade. “I’m coming for your left,” he said, and went for her right. She got her sword in the way just in time. “Oh my, seems like someone is learning. Or was it luck? My right!”
She moved her sword to her left, and his sword tapped her on the crown of her head.
Her hand flew to her head. “Hey! That’s cheating!”
“I don’t remember any rules against up and down.”
Nymeria pursed her lips at him. “Heh. Up!”
Aegon moved to block her, but he caught a wooden sword right between his legs instead. The ringing laughter of his sister sang from across the courtyard as he crumbled to the ground. Then he had a small host of children crowding around him, and Nymeria declared that they were going to play monsters-and-maidens next, with Aegon being the maiden and the rest of them the monsters.
“Nymeria!” Rhaella chided, but it was already too late.
“You’ll never catch me,” Aegon croaked over his shoulder as he scrambled to his feet and limped away, his nieces and nephews in hot pursuit.
“They call me the finest artist to have ever lived. Yet I continue to fail in capturing my late brother’s likeness. His face is in my memories, but my hands are unable to reproduce it on canvas. The shapes and colors just don’t match what I remember him to be. Mayhaps that will be my curse. I can paint anything, just not my beloved brother.” – Prince Aellamon Targaryen.
Her husband found her on the ramparts of the castle, looking over the roiling waves of the sea.
“Did you know that I was meant to marry him,” Rhaenys Targaryen said, as Corlys leaned against the black stone parapet. A gargoyle in the shape of a dragon stood beside him. “The queen thought it would be a fine match between us. We were so alike as children.”
“But you decided to marry me instead.”
“Yes, I did.” Rhaenys remembered it all well, like it had been yesterday. “Aegon and I had spoken about it at length many times. We spent most of our childhood side by side. But in the end, I think we were too much like each other.”
Corlys grinned. “And we aren’t alike?”
“Stop it,” Rhaenys said, returning his grin. “You know what we share isn’t the same as what I had with Aegon. I always thought I was going to marry him in those days, but I never fell in love with him like I did with you. It felt more like duty than passion, and I saw how he was with Viserra. Our aunt always wanted to be queen, but she didn’t play with Aegon’s heart like she did the other boys. I think they truly loved each other.”
She didn’t realize she was tearing up until Corlys wiped away an errant tear from her cheek. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly.
“No,” Corlys said. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. He was like a brother to you. Rhaenys, you have every right to mourn him.”
“I just never thought he’d… die first. He seemed invincible.”
Corlys read her posture, and Rhaenys was grateful that he didn’t try to coddle her any further. She wanted to be alone. He left her to the sight of the sea, and when the tears came again, she tried to remember the laughter she shared with Aegon instead of the pain of his absence.
“One day, King’s Landing will span both sides of the Blackwater Rush, and the Red Keep will watch over a population of a million or more. Whether it be during my own reign or that of my grandson ultimately does not matter. It is inevitable that King’s Landing will grow to be the greatest city Westeros has ever seen.” – the writings of Prince Aegon Targaryen, commonly known as Aegon the Younger.
The boy was not as subtle as he thought he was.
When the feast had concluded and the castle slowly fell to sleep, the boy thought he was being careful when he cracked open the door to his room and left barefoot. The boy thought the knights of the Kingsguard tasked with guarding them were unobservant to his movements. The boy was wrong, but Naehaerys bid them be silent with a finger to his lips.
“My nephew is learning a very important lesson,” he told them after the boy was out of sight and hearing. “One that he has to learn alone.”
Naehaerys caught up with his nephew as the boy crept past the guards. As much as any five-year-old could manage. They all saw him, and Naehaerys made sure that they did not disturb him. His nephew was making the long trek to the Dragonmont.
He managed to make it all the way to the entrance of the cave before his fear stopped him cold.
“Don’t stop now,” Naehaerys said, and watched as the boy whipped around in shock.
“U-Uncle?”
“You’ve made it all this way only to hesitate at the last moment?”
“No.”
“Then what are you waiting for?”
“I… I don’t know…”
Naehaerys stepped up to his nephew and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “That dragon is all that remains of your father, besides yourself. By rights you should be the one to claim it. But you are only a child, and a stupid one.”
“I’m not stupid!” young Jaehaerys shouted, and that was when they heard it.
“You are stupid,” Naehaerys said as he grabbed his nephew and picked him up.
From the mouth of the cave, Goldfyre’s eyes bloomed from within like two pits of molten bronze, twin beacons in the darkness. Naehaerys backed away with measured steps as his late brother’s dragon poked its head out from its lair. His nephew clung to him with fear, but he couldn’t look away, transfixed by the sight. Goldfyre let out a rumble from deep within his throat.
Naehaerys could feel the presence of his own dragon in the air. A raising of the hairs on the back of his neck. Somewhere above them, Nyr was flying through the clouds, a shadow in moonlight. He did not call to him.
He stood his ground.
“Your father is dead,” he said, “but he lives on in your, and in Goldfyre. And when you are old enough, you will come and claim his dragon as your own. The realm will need a strong man to sit the Iron Throne when the time comes. Are you that man?”
Young Jaehaerys could only give him a shaky nod.
“Then let us return to our beds and put thoughts of dragons away for another time.”
He felt Goldfyre’s eyes on his back for the entire descent, and it ranked as one of the few moments when he truly felt afraid.
“I knew him. My nephew was too much like my father, even as a boy. But I will admit that it is a pity that he’s dead. And I’m sure my father would have rolled in his grave had Viserra actually been allowed to be queen. He never like either of us.” – Princess Saera Targaryen.
“What do we do now?” Aegon asked. He had never felt so lost.
“We go home,” Evelyn said. “We raise our grandson to be the king his brother should have been.”
“It is not cruel to put such pressure on his shoulders? He is too young.”
“You’re still strong and healthy. And Gods forbid, if we should both die before he is of age, Jae will still have his uncles and cousins at his side.”
Aegon held his wife’s hand and sucked in a breath. “The Gods might be cruel enough to deal us that blow. They’ve already taken so much from me.”
“My nephew will remain as one of history’s great what ifs. What if he had lived to be king? Would he have been just as great as his grandfather, Jaehaerys the First? How would he have shaped Westeros during his reign? We will never know, and that is the real tragedy.” – the writings of Archmaester Vaegon.