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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Alysanne​

Alysanne no means a bad mother, but her children sometimes proved to be a lot to handle but that shouldn't worry her too much as her children are now mostly man and woman themselves, but her youngest, oh her youngest, is something different from his siblings

Today, that was Aetherys, no older siblings to be taught or to be caught, it was little Aetherys, as the little boy once again managed to slip past servants and knights alike, going more likely an adventure within his mind

Her little Aetherys, no more than four name days old, proved to be a havoc within the Red Keep, running, fussing, jumping around. That was normal though, right? What was surprising to her though wasn't his youthful energy, but rather his strange behaviour and growth, only getting even stranger as he grew older. His little, four-year-old body, blessed by the Warrior's way, was extremely agile and faster than his siblings, and people noticed his strength, too; although weaker than a full-bodied man, the boy could already lift something that weighed more than him, and he was taller!

Her own child was no mere child at all, she thought, his deep lilac eyes proved to have glimmered with intelligence, though now frighteningly precocious for his age, he is simply quick with thoughts, adorable as he is

They would have easily sidelined it if the behavior hadn't been repeated, but the grand master Elysar himself noted it; at that point, they couldn't heavily ignore it or let it easily pass.

Though brash and energetic, he's polite and collected when it was needed, he didn't rash out like any of his siblings, he wouldn't whine either as if that course of action was unnecessary and too consuming, he would simply be patient about things, waiting until he's noticed, maybe it was why Alysanne and her husband chose their son to have started his studies early, no swords, and spears though, as bright and strong as he is, he is no more but a child with unbound curiosity.

Right now though, little Aetherys proved to have too much energy stored in his body, as servants told her he ran off somewhere, they couldn't say where though as they didn't really see where he would go as he was very fast, but grand master Elysar approached her with great concern, said that little Aetherys made the journey all the way to the dragonpit

With Lord Commander Morrigen and several knights, she made haste for the journey, with small folk taking notice of her pass and cheering, Queen Alysanne! Though that only made her worried as the worst thing would be happening right now if her journey was met with more delays.

She was panting when she reached the entrance of the dragonpit, huffing in great breaths of air as her knees felt like they were on fire. Grimacing, she glanced around, where the harsh sunlight left few shadows on the ancient stones. She began to order the lord commander and the knights to question the dragon keepers if they've seen her child, and to look where he possibly might be, but not before finishing she would be interrupted by a young dragon keeper.

"Your Grace, I'm glad you've arrived. We found Aetherys wandering about before Dragon Keeper Daeron found him," the young dragon keeper said,

Huffing between words. "Where is Dragon Keeper Daeron? Bring him to me now along with my son," Queen Alysanne thought, having made the journey all the way from the Red Keep to the dragonpit, said it regnal grace and with posture.

"Understood, Your Grace," the dragon keeper said, before running off to find the senior dragon keeper.

As minutes have passed, where silence between the queen and her company was tense and could be easily heard, several dragon keepers and what might look like Dragon Keeper Daeron are seen, with a curious company full of energy beside him.

"Aetherys!" Queen Alysanne, breaking posture, and what might have been nervousness could be heard. "Do not run off like that ever again, you'll kill your poor mother with nervousness," she groused.

"Ah, umm, Muna… I was only seeing the dragonpit! I swear I didn't have the intention of seeing the dragons, if I did, I would be careful!" the boy said with red ears. " Besides the Dragon keepers are here, they would keep me safe"

'Even if they are here, what of the chances they aren't? And you couldn't lie that well, your ears say everything,' said to herself, her agitation and ire though softened at the sight of her youngest quickly approaching her.

"Are you alright, Muna? We can return now if you want to"

"I wouldn't know what to do if you died, Aetherys, way too many of your siblings already have been taken away from me, do not be the next"

Alysanne looking down on her youngest, who seemed to be radiating genuineness and pondering about something in his mind.

"What were you trying to see in here, anyway? You know your dragon wouldn't mind not seeing you every time," she asked, looking at her son, who stood earnestly.

"Well, umm… I just wanted to see him, how he was doing," quickly pondered before saying "I wanted to talk to him, explain how big the world is, and how if we're both big and strong, we'll fly together and have our own journey like the knights of old!"

Alysanne looked at her son, his eyes now drawn towards the deeper entrance of the dragonpit, where the view was nothing but darkness and where occasionally shrills, groaning, and roars could be heard, a smile on his face soon appeared that melted her poor heart. A soft smile, a smile that any mother would love to see on their son.

"Are you really that settled?"

The boy nodded.

"I suppose that could be settled," Alysanne commented, before glancing at Lord Commander Morrigen. "Lord commander, If my son goes off again, do your best to accompany him, or any other kingsguard will do" before glancing to the dragon keepers and settling her eyes on the particular figure that is Dragon Keeper Daeron, "I would ask the same of you"

Both figures nodded, "Understood, Your majesty"

Alysanne smiled as her boy began to gleam once again, saying how he's thankful and he'll take care of his dragon.

Chapter Text

Morrigen

Ser Gyles Morrigen was no lowly knight, or a figure to be ignored, he was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard! A prestigious role serving the king, vowing to protect him no matter what happens. He's no weakling either, if he was he wouldn't be the Lord commander would he? The reason why he got the job was that he slayed a former Kingsguard serving the previous King Maegor I, Ser Harrold Langward, thus prompting newly crowned King Jaehaerys then to name him Lord Commander — a very fantastic start!

But now it seems like he is stuck on an obstacle, a tiny obstacle! Little Aetherys, though it was good to run off to the dragonpit to the dismay of everyone, so now he is stuck here on a royal duty ordered to him, royal baby duty.

On his way back to the Red Keep, Ser Morrigen lets out a huff of annoyance. A Lord Commander of the Kingsguard — he, Gyles Morrigen, slayer of knights and treasoners, shield of a king — reduced to chasing after a child with more energy than sense. Or so he thinks.

“Seven save me,” he muttered under his breath as he strode down a corridor of the Red Keep, white cloak flowing behind him, “I’ve faced men twice my size with half the trouble.”

A pair of guards straightened as he passed. One opened his mouth as if to speak, but one look at Morrigen’s annoyed expression silenced him instantly.

If he could quickly find Ser Ryam Redwynne, he'll delegate the task to him, let him deal with the Queen’s request of handling the little royal, as talented as Ser Ryam is, maybe he'll find patience and fortitude in the task as a knight, though dignity may shatter, other traits will gladly enhance

As he reached the yard, where he could instantly see several knights dueling each other, training was something he valued a lot, as truth tell a knight is only useful as his sword and skills, but throwing that aside, he found who he was looking for, the talented young knight, Ser Ryam Redwynne. A youthful face in the Kingsguard, though what he lacks in looks, he excels in swordsmanship, the young man wasn't easily beaten, if Ser Morrigen had to choose a successor, it would be him.

“Redwynne! Come here, I have a task for you, specifically, the Queen has a task for you,” he shouted over the yard with dignified effort,

Ser Ryam Redwyne paused mid-exchange in a duel, his blade catching the sun as he lowered it. His sparring partner stepped back, offering a respectful nod, and the young knight wiped a sleeve across his brow before approaching. Even if he's young compared to his peers, Ryam carried himself like a man destined for songs.

“My lord commander,” Ryam said, voice dipped in respect, “what does Her Grace require?”

Morrigen wasted no time. “Her youngest bolted off again, if you could guess to the dragonpit. The Queen wants someone responsible to guard him if he's not on her side, and not until he's on hers. A simple task, but one better suited to a young knight… even if you're not close in age, you're close with Her oldest”

Ryam blinked so, his sword arm not once flinching to what he heard, but if one could see, there was a tightening around his eyes, a hidden glare one could say, one so that Morrigen could not miss in all his life. ‘For all his skill, he could still not mask his thoughts, one should have,’ he thought to himself.

“The prince? Aetherys?” Ser Ryam asked. “He ran off.. Alone?”

“Aye, managed to slip past servants, and ran off like a damn lion, as one could say,” Ser Morrigen commented “But he's in his chambers now, with Her Grace. If I were you, I would quickly find my way there”

Ryam hesitated—and that alone told Morrigen everything. Even the best knights balked at the idea of guarding children and doing nothing, he couldn't fault Ryam for his thoughts, as the idea alone is belittling, a simple guard is to opt for the duty, not the Kingsguard.

“My lord commander…” Ryam began carefully, “I am due to oversee training with knights and squires this afternoon—”

“Seven hells,” Morrigen muttered, recognizing the not-so-subtle refusal.

Ryam Redwyne, the most promising young knight in the realm, did not want royal baby duty either.

“You'll find yourself in Prince Aetherys’ chambers, understand? Otherwise, Her Majesty would be greatly agitated if her request is ignored, we'll find a replacement for you.” Morrigen quickly added while exhaling sharply.

Ryam bowed, annoyed enough to make it obvious. Ryam turned on his heel, cloak snapping behind him like a banner of resignation.

“Very well,” Morrigen muttered, though his comments may be unfound

Morrigen glanced at the yard, seeing men doing their duties as knights, some taking a small rest after a duel, some on extensive work that would prove difficult to an untrained man

Though that wasn't what caught his attention, a small strand of silver hair could be seen if you look closely enough, a few metres away from him, a semicircle of sorts could be found gathered watching a duel between knights, to the untrained eye this could only be described as a duel for the ages, occasional clings and shouts could be heard from the knights, the footwork impressive and only reserve for the highly trained. As it quickly caught Morrigen’s view, he marched up to the gathered crowd.

“What may be interesting thing here?” he asked a nearby knight

“A duel, your Lord Commander, between Prince Baelon and Ser Robin,” the knight quickly answered as he saw who was next to him

Morrigen blinked once. Baelon? Dueling? Again?

He stepped forward through the gathered men until the yard opened before him. There, right at the center, Prince Baelon moved with the kind of restless sharpness Morrigen had come to expect. The boy was lean, fast, and far too eager to prove himself. Ser Robin, broader and older, circled him with visible caution.

Steel clashed, the sound bright under the afternoon sun. Baelon pressed forward with a fierce combination, each strike precise but aggressive enough to border on reckless. Ser Robin blocked, stepped back, blocked again, only a hair slower each time.

Morrigen crossed his arms. The lad is getting better with age, he thought. As the duel continued, the Lord Commander wasn't stopping what could prove to be a deadly duel, but watched intently

The lad is getting better with age, Morrigen thought. He shifted his weight slightly, arms still folded, as Baelon advanced with the stubbornness of someone convinced the whole yard was watching, because frankly they were.

Ser Robin parried another strike, the effort starting to show in the tension of his jaw. Baelon, in contrast, moved with that familiar youthful stubbornness: half-talent, half sheer refusal to lose. It was the sort of thing that made a Kingsguard sigh, but a smallfolk wouldn't notice.

Occasional clings of steel gave way to a quick shuffle of boots as Baelon spun, not elegant, but fast, forcing Ser Robin to retreat a step. The watching men murmured in approval, some exchanging looks that said the prince might finally beat him this time.

Morrigen said nothing. Let the boy have his moment. Let the knight sweat.

A swing came wide from Ser Robin, a test more than a strike, and Baelon ducked beneath it with the kind of confidence only a Targaryen heir could muster. His counter was swift, a tap to the ribs with the flat of his blade. Not a deep cut, not a winning blow in war, but a clean point in practice.

“Hit,” Ser Robin grunted, lowering his sword.

Baelon lowered his own with a hint of triumph he tried, and utterly failed, to hide. A few of the knights clapped politely; others nodded with the grudging respect of men seeing a young prince finally grow into his pride.

Morrigen’s face remained unreadable. He simply watched Baelon straighten, shoulders rising as if he expected some great praise from the gathered men. When the prince’s gaze met his, there was a flicker — embarrassment, perhaps, or surprise that the Lord Commander had witnessed the whole thing.

Morrigen raised a brow. Nothing more. He wasn’t about to coddle Baelon, nor was he going to dismiss the minor achievement.

The prince would either take it as approval or a warning. Let him choose.

With that, he turned away, cloak trailing behind him, the shouts and clatter of resumed duels fading behind his steps. Another prince playing at knighthood.

their child running off to Dragonpits, another day in the life of Gyles Morrigen.

Chapter Text

Jaehaerys

King Jaehaerys, for all his brilliance and the respect he commanded across the realm, had resigned himself to an almost mute rule.

Not because he lacked authority, Seven knew that the king held more of it than Maegor ever did who only ruled with an iron fist, and was gladly suspected to be killed because of it, but because he had learned early that words, once spoken, flew like arrows, and once hit a person, will gladly release one back, but that isn't the worst of it at all though. The worst of it will gladly tie your allies and foes alike, no matter how great and commanding you are. A king had to measure each syllable, and he had long since learned that silence could be more powerful than even the sharpest decree. A brilliant king had to measure each word and syllable uttered in this palace of snakes. He had long since learned that sometimes silence could be more powerful than even the sharpest decree.

The Small Council gathered around the polished oak table, quills scratching, petitions stacked, and emissaries waiting. Lord Hand, Septon Barth, Master of Coin, though officially recognized as Lord Paramount Martyn Tyrell, the one actually serving the rule was his wife Lady Florence Fossoway, and Master of Laws, Lord Paramount Rodrik Arryn, and other members of the small council each offered updates.

“Your Grace, A ruckus has been reported near Duskendale, a knight of sorts, could be from a prominent family in the crown lands, was caught to have acted without his Lord's permission to imprison several small folk who have been unjustly suspected of crimes” Septon Barth reported, a man of great age and wisdom alike, with long hair that reached his shoulders slicked back, wore a humble garb befitting a septon, accompanied by a brown vest that reached his legs and tied upon the waist, a pin could be seen on his chest signifying his role as hand could be seen.

“The man was quickly to be transported here to King's Landing to befit the king’s justice, upon the request of Lord Duskendale,” Septon Barth quickly added

King Jaehaerys listened but with resignation, nodding faintly, eyes tracing the carved patterns in the polished oak table rather than the faces before him. Words of law, justice, and rebellion filtered through the chamber, yet his mind strayed to another matter entirely. No one knows to whom but to the king himself

“Transported to King’s Landing, you say?” he asked, voice measured, low. “Ensure he is held tightly, he is to be punished accordingly, law must remain firm, if he asks for a trial by combat, then so be it,” His gaze flicked briefly to Septon Barth, whose eyes remained carefully neutral.

Septon Barth bowed slightly. “All will be followed, Your Grace, and he shows contrition, though some in Duskendale voice displeasure at his detention. The law may follow.”

The seat of Lord Paramount Martyn Tyrell, who should by all accounts be seated, is Lady Florence Fossoway who sat. “Your Grace, several dragons are missing from tax reports, though we couldn't retrace where it wasn't paid, we suspect it to be Lord Caswell”

“Firmly investigate the matter before you should jump to a course of action, we wouldn't hate to be brewed and unjust treatment to be done,” King Jaehaerys commented

“Understood, Your Grace”

Lord Rodrik Arryn cleared his throat next, parchment in hand. “Your Grace, there are minor border disputes between House Brune and House Staunton. Nothing that cannot be resolved with mediation, though both lords claim the other has overstepped hunting boundaries.”

Jaehaerys gave a quick nod, fingers tapping once against the table. “Send word to each of them that I expect them in King’s Landing within the fortnight. A matter of borders is a matter of pride, let us first speak with words and sense before delving into blood and steel”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Lord Arryn replied, his tone controlled.

The discussion moved, rippling from one matter to the next — trade shipments delayed by storms, a minor sept burned in Crackclaw Point, repairs needed on the Dragonpit’s outer wall. Each voice spoke with purpose, but Jaehaerys heard them as if through a veil.

His mind drifted again. To his youngest, his boy.

Aetherys, strangely big for his age already reaching beyond a man's waist, fearless as a dragon though only time could tell if mad as it, clever beyond his years, and far too eager to run toward danger as though fire could not burn him. Jaehaerys had always known his own children tended to the bold and a headache, shy at first but can be a headache once they reach age, but Aetherys was something else entirely. A dragon blazing, brilliant, and impossible to catch.

He folded his hands, making the gesture appear thoughtful, kingly, though truly it grounded him against the steady pull of worry.

Alysanne had spoken to him the night prior, soft but firm, concern etched in every word.

The king exhaled softly, almost imperceptibly.

“…Your Grace?”

He raised his eyes. Lord Paramount Rodrik Arryn once again watched him with a face both gentle and sharp, Arryn always noted what others missed.

“You were about to respond,” the beloved man prompted kindly.

Jaehaerys blinked once, then inclined his head. “Yes. Continue the investigation quietly. If whispers rise before truth is known, half the realm will conjure their own answers, like wildfire unbound to anything”

Beesbury bowed. “As you command.”

Silence settled briefly across the council. The king’s expression remained composed, unreadable, though Septon Barth’s keen eyes softened, King Jaehaerys’ closest friend and ally on the small council, he alone seemed to sense the king’s distraction, though he did not pry.

Finally, Jaehaerys spoke again, voice low but firm.

“If there are no further matters of urgency, we shall adjourn. The realm is stable thanks to your diligence.”

Quills were capped. Chairs creaked. Cloaks rustled.

As the council began to rise, Septon Barth remained seated a moment longer, studying the king with quiet intuition.

“Your Grace,” he said gently, “if something else weighs upon you, know your Hand is fast to help you like before”

Jaehaerys hesitated, only for a heartbeat.

“It is nothing of state,” he replied with a faint, tired smile. “Simply… a father’s concern.”

Barth bowed his head in understanding. “Those, Your Grace, are often the heaviest of all.”

When the council dispersed, Jaehaerys stayed behind, staring at the carvings on the table once more.

He traced one absentmindedly.

Aetherys… What future are you racing toward? And how do I ensure you live to reach it?

He stood with that of royal dignity.

It was time to visit his son, and speak to Alysanne about what to do about Aetherys.

As time passed by slowly, Jaehaerys, at this moment not a dignified king but a dear father to his children, slowly walked through the corridors of the red keep, his own home, and his children's home, dear sacrifices were made along the journey, but none shall be repeated like it.

He noted the servants and courtiers alike walking to their own tasks and opinions, the cats roaming about the halls and stairways, why were there so many cats in the first place, anyway? Why haven't they been caught? Anyway that was another thing to settle in the near future, he has his own worries right now.

As he slowly approached Aetherys' room, he could see a glimpse of white cloak and armour exiting the room, then pivot to another hall as if a man relieved of his task for the day

It was Ser Ryam Redwyne, no doubt, only he could assume that the young knight was assigned to keep watch over the boy. Jaehaerys let the figure pass, careful not to be seen, and continued toward the door, mind already shifting to the matter at hand.

The king paused for a moment outside the chamber, listening. The faint echo of laughter and the soft murmur of small feet against the floor told him Aetherys was still at play. His son, the youngest, ever so spirited, utterly unbothered by the tasks, the future, and the weight of the crown that rested on the family.

Jaehaerys exhaled softly so he couldn't be heard and knocked softly, not needing to announce himself further.

“Aetherys, my son?” he called, voice low and warm.

The laughter ceased, and a small, bright face appeared at the edge of the doorway, curious and unafraid.

“Father!” the boy exclaimed, dashing toward him.

Jaehaerys stooped slightly to catch him, the familiar tug of his son’s arms around his waist drawing a smile he rarely let himself show in council chambers.

Behind him, the door creaked open again, and Queen Alysanne stepped lightly into the corridor, her expression calm but resolute, befitting a mother and a queen. She had anticipated this moment as much as the king had, and together, they would speak of what must be done, of guidance, oversight, and ensuring their son’s future and may lay ahead.

The two of them paused there for a heartbeat after finding a seat, the sun falling through the window, bathing the corridor in a quiet warmth.

“Husband,” Alysanne said softly, “we must decide on what to do with him. I'm afraid he's growing too quickly, his studies may not bind him any longer, he has already sought his dragon in the pits. Eventually, he'll seek knights and steel in the yard.”

Jaehaerys nodded, listening carefully, indulging what his dearest wife's worries were about then glancing at his youngest antics “Yes…I suppose we must,”

Jaehaerys leaned back slightly, letting the warmth of the sun wash over him as his gaze drifted to Aetherys, who was now fiddling with a loose tile on the floor, curiosity evident in every movement. The boy seemed oblivious to the weight of the conversation, yet the king knew well that such innocence could not last forever.

Alysanne’s hands rested lightly in her lap, her voice steady but tinged with concern. “We cannot simply leave him to wander unchecked. His spirit is bright, yes, but the world beyond these walls… it will not suffer carelessness, it will seek him, bind him to dangers that a child like him, growing fast, yes, cannot expect to dispel. He needs guidance now, something that will make him tamed at least.”

Jaehaerys nodded again, fingers tapping thoughtfully against his knee. “He has energy… more than many men twice his age, I suppose,” he said amused “And courage, I cannot deny. But courage without direction can be dangerous. I'll seek to find him a better schedule to use, he cannot yet train as you've said, he's young but growing fast, maybe in two years we'll put him up to it.”

Alysanne’s eyes softened as she met his. “Then you must choose carefully. I fear if he grows too bright, someone with dangerous intentions will use him, turn him against us, like another Maegor, we can't afford that”

The king exhaled, shoulders sagging slightly as though a small burden had been added to the weight he already bore, his eyes and temple tightening. “He won't turn into him, I'll seek to that, your concerns will be addressed.”

“He has Ser Ryam as his guard, yes?” he questioned, turning to Alysanne

“Yes, he has, Lord Commander Morrigen delivered the task to him, he'll guard Aetherys, after what our son did.”

“Good, then at least we won't hear of anything concerning of him for a while, I'll seek out Septon Barth, to teach him, about the realm and its laws, he'll be a good guidance and brother to Aemon, Grand Master Elysar will probably be glad of the news, if not Septon Barth, I'll look for another."

Alysanne nodded, lips pressed in a small, approving smile. “It is settled then.”

Jaehaerys allowed himself one last look at Aetherys, a mixture of pride and apprehension in his gaze. My son is bright and untempered, he'll be Maegor the 2nd, or something greater instead, he thought. Before he and Alysanne rose, leaving the boy to his explorations for now. The sun cast long shadows across the corridor and the chambers, as if reminding them, however bright and stable his son is, and the family, only hidden figures would bind them to destruction.

Chapter Text

Ryam

Six moons, six moons since he's been tasked to guard a child, though no means a normal child, not even that of a prominent lord’s child, but a royal child, the youngest of the lot, Prince Aetherys.

If the Seven could forgive for his expectations, then he'll be glad in his sleep, for what he only expected at the start was a right royal brat, but the moment he met little Aetherys, he was only giving a tilt of the head, a frown, and what could only be described as a glare but the little Aetherys could only give a mildly amusing squint of the eyes.

Ryam remembered what the Queen asked him to do, guard him when he's on his studies, don't let him out of sight, and most of all don't let him die, for all his skill and brilliance he was glad to do it, but he would be lying if he didn't say he was irritated when he first heard of it.

Now he's at Septon Barth’s room, the hand of the king, guarding little Aetherys doing his studies. He could see that the kid was bright, and surprisingly strong for his age, and he's sure he's not among the first to notice.

He quickly glanced at the sight of the two, hearing an occasional good job and a laugh of approval from Septon Barth here and there,
The kid was joyous too as he observed clearly enjoying what the Hand was teaching him.

He enjoyed the peace it gave him from what he initially thought of loudness and annoyance, though he'll admit he greatly missed the opportunity of dueling and practicing his swordsmanship at the yard on the daily. The training yard had its adrenaline, its challenges, he greatly missed it

Aetherys glanced up briefly, deep lilac eyes meeting Ryam’s brown, and the knight inclined his head, a small acknowledgement between the two of them, before returning to his silent vigil. There would be no swordplay here, no clash of metal to test skill or courage, and laughing with his friends on the norm

He straightened, adjusting the cloak over his shoulders, and let out a quiet sigh. Perhaps this was not the task he would have chosen, nor the life he had envisioned as a Kingsguard, but in this room, amidst scrolls and quiet laughter, he realized it was a duty worthy of his attention. Not all battles required steel. Some required patience, watchfulness, and the steady resolve of a man willing to stand between chaos and order, even if that chaos wore the face of a small, silver haired prince.

As he glanced over a window, he could see a lot of time have already passed, the sun now engulfing the room with long shadows, he could only see a small view from where he stood, but he immediately knew it was a beautiful view of the sun resting, now producing what he could only a describe a sea of orange hues on the sky, white streaks on the horizon, and the heavens above.

Catching his attention however was the prince tugging his cloak, an earnest smile that could prove to be infectious if it weren't for his fortitude.

“I'm done with my studies, Ser Ryam” The prince uttered while smiling, “Let's go back to my room, and you could take a rest after that.”

Ser Ryam for all his might could not be harsh to the kid, “Understood, my prince.”

Ryam turning towards the brown oak door, pushing the door as it creaked on its hinges, he pivoted his so he could the prince, “After you, my prince, I'll be behind you.”

Aetherys immediately dashed towards the exit, and stopped, turning his body so he could see Ryam, “let's go, Ryam!”

Before exiting the room, Ser ryam turned his towards the Hand of the king, Septon Barth, nodding lightly “Farewell, and a good night to you, Septon Barth.”

Septon Barth inclined his head, a faint smile crossing his weathered face. “Farewell, Ser Ryam. Take care of the prince.”

Ryam nodded once, turning fully toward Aetherys. The boy’s small hands were already clenching his clothes, jumping now and then, impatience written in every movement, his lilac eyes glinting with the kind of excitement that made even a seasoned knight pause for a moment.

“Keep close, my prince,” Ryam said, his voice calm, measured, though a hint of amusement threaded through it. He fell into step behind the boy, cloak brushing softly against the polished floor.

Aetherys bounded down the corridor with the energy of a storm, tiny feet making quick, purposeful sounds against the stone. Ryam’s gaze flicked from the prince to the walls, the tapestries, the paintings, taking in every detail with the quiet vigilance he had cultivated over six moons.

The corridor opened onto a quieter wing of the keep, sunlight filtering through the tall windows, dust motes dancing in the beams. Ryam allowed himself a brief sigh. Here, at least, the footsteps would not echo too loudly, and the small prince could not so easily dash into danger.

“Ser Ryam!” Aetherys called over his shoulder, spinning halfway to ensure Ryam followed. “Race you to my room!”

Ryam allowed a small, reluctant smile. “Very well, my prince, but no sudden leaps from balconies this time, I wouldn't want you injured.”

The prince laughed, sounded like chimes caught in the wind, and dashed ahead. Ryam followed at a measured pace, hands ready but not with protective intent.

When they reached the prince’s chambers, Aetherys skidded to a halt, eyes bright. “There! I was first!” Aetherys joyously laughed before stopping, “You may rest now, Ser Ryam,” he announced, as if Ryam had been laboring under some great trial.

Ryam inclined his head, careful not to disrupt the boy’s small theatrics. “As you wish, my prince. I shall sit here for a moment, until you are settled.”

Aetherys nodded, pushing the door to his room, with all the strength he could mustered, then dashed, hopping onto a cushion by the window, glancing back with a grin. “Thank you, Ryam. You always keep watch, even when it’s boring!”

Ryam allowed himself a quiet chuckle. “A knight’s duty is rarely exciting, my prince. But someone must ensure the realm’s smallest treasures do not find themselves in trouble.”

The boy’s grin widened, and Ryam took his seat, adjusting his cloak, eyes sweeping the room. He was not dueling today, nor practicing with sword or shield, yet he felt a steady satisfaction he didn't think he would have. Perhaps this too was a form of vigilance, a softer, quieter battle, one that required patience, care, and unshakable resolve.

And so he waited, a knight at rest, yet alert, ready for whatever mischief or lesson the next hour might bring.

As the minutes passed, he could see the prince had fallen asleep, the energy in his body gone, he rose up from his seat, and patted whatever might have been caught in his armour, adjusted his cloak, then walked towards the door pulling it into his direction, and exited

As he walked down the royal corridor, he could see his fellow kingsguard Robin Shaw posted near an entrance, as he neared the difference, he grinned “Shaw! Night duty today huh?”

“Perhaps, but it's better than diaper duty isn't it? Weeguard?” Shaw teased, almost holding what could be perhaps a thunderous laugh from his system

“Whatever,” Ryam grimaced while rolling his eyes, as much as he began to like the prince, he didn't like the nickname given to him that much.

Recovering himself from his thoughts, he immediately grinned and said “You watch your mouth, Mudcrotch”

“Seven hells, damn you! Ryam!” Shaw shouted, red in recallment from the name

Ryam instantly dashed towards a hall, getting away from Shaw’s shouting, and didn’t slow until the echoes of Shaw’s indignant shouts faded behind him. He quickly stopped in a hall, drawing in a breath as if to steady the rapid beat of both his heart and the lingering amusement. Seven save him, sometimes he wondered if the Kingsguard had collectively lost all sense of dignity.

The corridor stretched on, quiet now except for the distant creak of servants moving through the keep, and the occasional clink of armor from a fellow knight on patrol. Ryam allowed himself a small, private grin at the absurdity of it all, here he was, sworn to guard one of the realm’s most noble child, yet constantly embroiled in nonsense with his fellow comrades in duty.

He passed a window, moonlight spilling across the stone floor, as he was about to continue, he stopped near a window and looked towards the wider world, the vastness of it all, the raging tides sometimes calmer than the Mother herself, was beautiful to look at, the huge amounts of lands stretching beyond the horizon, reflecting the moonlight. Oh the moon, the moon itself was beautiful, she was like the maiden herself, graceful, elegant, full of beauty. He couldn't do nothing but wander, if this was what he's bound to protect, then so be it, he'll gladly take up my sword and protect it with all his might, a smile spreading across his face. Taking up all the moonlight the window opening gave him, could only imagine what he now looked like, broad shoulders, white cloak flowed down neatly, the weight of sword at his side, he looked every bit the Kingsguard in his own mind, even if his mind sometimes wandered to antics rather than battles.

Shaw’s voice had long since disappeared, he thought, replaced by the silence of the keep at night. Ryam adjusted his cloak again, running a hand through his hair, and allowed himself once again a brief moment of satisfaction. The prince was safe, asleep, and the world outside the corridors of the Red Keep could wait until dawn.

Then he continued down the hallway, Ryam knew this peace was only temporary. The prince's energy now he slowly but surely grew to like, the lessons the prince took of the day, the small unpredictabilities, this was all part of the duty he had chosen, whether he liked it or not. A chuckle threatened to escape him, but he swallowed it, letting the echoes of the night swallow any trace of amusement.

He passed another posted knight without incident, nodded briefly in acknowledgment, and finally reached the chamber where he could rest, the White Sword Tower. Though an entrance inside the hallway was only to be seen, outside though was different, everything about the red keep was a sight to behold, even the White sword tower, the place of the Kingsguard, but it was not the time to awe at the sight but to rest.

Opening the door, Ryam quickly found his way to his bed, it was nothing to gawk at, as it was only a resting place fit for the Kingsguard, but it was enough, he thought.

Ryam sat down on his bed, closing his eyes momentarily letting the weight of the long day settle upon him. His limbs, sore beneath the plate even if he didn't see much action, it felt heavy but not unwelcome. It was a good heaviness, the kind earned from duty, one he would welcome.

Ryam drew a slow breath and let his eyes open again. Rest would not come easily unless he shed the weight of steel that clung to him like a second skin. With practiced ease, he reached for the clasps beneath his breastplate, fingers working by memory. The metal was cool to the touch despite the long hours he had worn it, steel, unlike flesh, did not warm with emotion.

The first buckle loosened with a faint click. Then another. And another.

Piece by piece, the armor yielded.

He lifted the breastplate away, setting it carefully on the wooden stand beside the bed. The absence of its weight left his shoulders feeling strangely light, as if he had removed not only metal but the day’s troubles along with it. For a fleeting moment, he felt almost exposed without it, vulnerable in a way he never admitted aloud.

His pauldrons followed. He placed them atop the breastplate, the faint metallic echo filling the chamber briefly before fading into silence again. The White Sword Tower had always been a quiet place, almost reverent in its stillness. The world outside could roar with conflict, but within these walls, the Kingsguard moved like monks, disciplined, restrained, sworn to peace and war in equal measure.

Ryam knelt to unbuckle his greaves. The straps were worn smooth from years of use, shaped by duels, fights, and tourneys alone. As each piece of armor came away, he felt closer to who he was when the cloak and oath wasn't his yet, but rather just a nobleman dreaming to be a knight.

He stood and removed the vambraces next, rolling his wrists to loosen the stiffness that had settled into his joints. A dull throb pulsed along his forearm, a reminder of a training blow taken days earlier. He had ignored it then, ignored it each day since. Pain was familiar. Pain was manageable. It was duty as a Kingsguard, ignore it and move on, but for tonight, just tonight, he would murmur and curse under his breath from the blow

His tunic clung to him with the faint dampness of exertion. The prince had not been difficult to guard, but the unpredictability of his movements had kept Ryam tense, always alert, always prepared for another sudden dash into some forbidden corridor or shadowed corner of the keep. The boy wandered like a restless spirit, curious, troubled, and burdened with a fire in his blood that had not yet learned restraint.

Once his boots were removed, carefully placed side by side beneath the stand, Ryam sat back on the edge of the bed. The chill of the stone floor pressed at his bare feet, grounding him. His fingers worked at the fastening of his tunic, tugging it free.

He reached into the small chest beside the bed, retrieving his sleeping attire, a loose-cut shirt of soft linen, light and worn from countless washings, and trousers suited for rest rather than movement. The linen smelled faintly of lavender. The servants always washed the Kingsguard’s garments with herbs, a small kindness extended to men who rarely asked for any.

He slipped the shirt over his head. It fell gently against his skin, the softness almost startling after a day of rigid armor. The trousers followed, the familiar looseness allowing him to breathe more freely than he had since morning.

Only then, fully shed of steel and ceremony, did Ryam allow himself to sit back fully, his spine relaxing into the rough fabric of the mattress. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing away the strands flattened by the weight of his helm.

A deep, slow exhale passed his lips.

In the quiet, he felt more himself. Not Ser Ryam of the Kingsguard. Not the White Cloak assigned to the restless prince. Just Ryam, an honorable man, dutiful, but tired, contemplative, and grateful for the simple mercy of rest.

Yet even now, with the armor set aside and the world held at bay by stone walls, his mind would not still.

Tomorrow, the duties would begin anew. The prince would rise with that same wild energy he always has. The court full of snakes would whisper. The Red Keep would watch. And Ryam, as ever, would stand between danger and crown.

But for a few moments more, he could simply breathe.

Chapter Text

Barth

Septon Barth rose before the sunlight ever touched his room, as he always did. Old habits seemed to die hard and outlasted his youth, and though his bones ached more than he allowed anyone to see,
the peace of dawn still soothed him. The world was quiet at this hour, too quiet, he often thought, for a court balanced upon whispers.

He lit a single candle on his writing table. The flame steadied after a moment’s protest, its glow revealing the loose sheaves of parchments that had slowly accumulated over the past months. The realm’s laws that needed fixing, reports of several kinds, movement on bandit camps, and notes on Aetherys’ progress. Observations on his temperament. Lingering comments Elysar had left before the prince was thrusted to him

Barth picked up one of the sheets. Aetherys, Prince of the realm. Only four name days old. Curious, but guarded. Intelligent in bursts, distracted in others. A boy who carried the weight of expectation so heavily that he hid from it by pretending not to notice.

He exhaled softly.

Teaching someone depending on their temperament was quite easy, a noble a bit harder, a Targaryen no more a challenge than a noble, but this one was a different breed altogether

It wasn't that it was hard teaching the young boy, it was just that he learned more easily than others, the boy demanded more! He couldn't believe it, and when the subject bored it him, he quickly finished it like a knight jousting for favours, seeing no sense that he should continue it anymore.

There was a fire in Aetherys, something more than his siblings ever inhibited, he couldn't tell if it was pride or something else entirely, but he could see it in the boy, it was like a dragon letting you touch him and not biting you, but once threatened a hell hath no fury.

Barth suspected it was why Elysar was so fond of the boy but also war at times.

Aetherys once delved into his studies, listened too deeply and spoke too little, storing every lesson not in parchment or practice but somewhere far behind the eyes. Barth had lived long enough to know that such children grew into either great men or dangerous ones.

He prayed the Seven would guide the boy toward the former.

A soft knock broke his thoughts.

“Enter,” Barth said, smoothing the parchments.

A servant slipped inside, bowing. “Prince Aetherys has arrived early, my lord Hand.”

Barth blinked. Early. That was not in the boy’s nature at all. Normally he would play around at first then understood it was time for his studies, then quickly enter Barth’s room

“And Ser Ryam is with him?”

“It would not seem so, my lord Hand, though he has a guard with him” The servant said sheepishly.

“Send him in.”

The servant bowed again and departed.

Moments later, Aetherys entered the chamber with the soundless step of one used to moving through corridors without drawing attention. His silver-gold hair was slightly disheveled, as if he had left his bed in haste, and his lilac eyes held that stormy distance Barth had learned to interpret as a sign of too many thoughts, none yet sorted.

“Forgive the hour, Septon Barth” Aetherys said quietly.

“Forgiveness is not needed,” Barth replied. “Only curiosity. What brings you here before sunrise?”

Aetherys hesitated before answering. That, too, was not usual.

“I dreamt,” the prince finally said.

Barth nodded but did not press. He could easily dismiss it as a child’s dream and nothing else, but something itched his mind. Prophetic dreams clung to the Targaryen line like a persistent ghost. Some were nothing more than the imaginings of a restless mind, others shaped kingdoms. Barth had studied too many of them to assume lightly.

“Sit,” he said gently. “If you wish, tell me what troubled you.”

Aetherys lowered himself into the chair across from him. His hands, steady, quiet, folded atop one another.

“It… ” he paused briefly. “It was eerie, I didn't like it.”

Barth’s attention sharpened. It was a dream of bad things then, a bad one, but whether or not it's just a child's dream of omen, or a prophetic dream, he could not assume fast.

“What was it, then?”

“ I saw a lady, she was tall, far taller than anybody I have seen, she had brown hair tied into knots, she wore a crown of some sorts, maybe just a tiara, and a dress of green. She was on a small island in a lake, sitting near a tree. That's all I could remember”

The words hung in the air, heavier than Barth expected.

“Did the lady say anything?” Barth asked.

Aetherys’ gaze lowered. “Nothing. She simply looked at me. As if… as if waiting for me to speak first.”

“And did you?”

“No.” Aetherys swallowed. “I could not.”

Silence filled the chamber, warm but unsettling. Dreams of spirits were common among people, yes, he was glad it wasn't some prophetic dream like a small part of his mind anticipated, but a dream where a spirit expected you to talk was still something.

He folded his hands atop his notes.

“Such dreams are often a sign of trouble inside one's mind, questions we’re afraid to ask ourselves and anyone. So, do you have one?" Barth said.

Aetherys did not answer. His fingers tightened slightly.

Barth studied him, not with the sharp eyes of a maester dissecting a riddle, but with the gentleness of a man who had spent many years guiding troubled minds toward calmer seas.

“Tell me, my prince” Barth said after a moment, “did you feel fear… or simply unease?”

Aetherys pondered for a moment then took a slow breath. “Unease. My skin felt like something was crawling on it, and the lady, she wasn’t threatening. Just… wrong. Out of place.” He hesitated. “Like she had no reason to be there, and yet she was waiting for me.”

“Not all unsettling things are harmful,” Barth said. “Some are merely unfamiliar. The mind often borrows faces from stories, or shapes from half-remembered tales, and places them where we least expect.”

“But I’ve never heard of such a woman,” Aetherys murmured. “Tall, crowned, dressed in green. She felt ancient. Regal like mother.”

He looked up, as if searching Barth’s face for confirmation, for permission to be troubled.

Barth offered none, nor did he dismiss it.

“Dreams draw from depths deeper than memory,” he said. “Sometimes from fear. Sometimes from hope. Sometimes from the old wells of the world no chronicle has yet mapped.”

Aetherys’ eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

“Do you think she was real?”

Barth considered his words. “Real within the dream? Certainly. Real beyond it? I cannot say. The realm is full of things we claim to understand, and yet do not.”

Aetherys shifted, the candlelight catching the faint sheen of unease in his expression.

“It felt as if she expected me to know her.”

“And yet you did not.”

“No,” Aetherys whispered. “I didn’t.”

Barth leaned back slightly, the chair creaking under his weight.

“Then perhaps,” he said, “the dream is not about who she is, but about who you are, and your place in the world.”

Aetherys blinked, startled at the implication.

Barth added gently, “Not every dream is haunted by meaning bigger than you anticipated, my boy. Sometimes the mind simply asks questions before you yourself is ready to answer them.”

The chamber fell quiet again, the silence softer this time. Aetherys seemed to ease, though only by a hair’s breadth, as if reassured merely by the act of being listened to.

Barth then changed the subject after the long moment of silence with the ease of long practice.

“Shall we begin your lessons early, then? The morning is still young, but knowledge does not fear the dawn.”

Aetherys hesitated… then nodded.

Barth reached for a scroll. Not one of the histories or genealogies the court expected him to teach, but a gentler text, The Discourses of Duty by Septon Godwyn, a work Aetherys had shown interest in before.

He unrolled it carefully.

“Today,” he said, “we speak not of kings or thrones, but of the burdens we choose to carry.”

Aetherys sat straighter, listening more fully now.

Barth began to read.

And as his voice filled the quiet chamber, he found himself watching the boy not as a prince, nor a potential king, but simply as a young soul searching for shape in a world that doesn't simply have one.

He prayed again, silently, reverently, that Aetherys would have his mind settled and be free of bad dreams, and hope would grow into the man he was meant to be.

For the realm would one day lean upon him.

And Barth feared the realm did not yet understand how much.

Chapter Text

Jaehaerys

Jaehaerys sat upon a throne forged from a thousand melted swords. Jagged metal jutted in every direction, catching the torchlight in harsh glints. Even from afar, the edges looked hungry, as if the throne itself threatened anyone bold enough to approach with certainty in their heart.

It was a damnable thing, forged by Aegon the Conqueror, his grandsire by blood and succession, with the help of Balerion the Black dread’s dragonfire.

Today, he, in small words, was stuck here. A petition from small folk, small lords, and religious figures around the realm was here for several actions that only he could grant. A cold winter was set upon them just a few moons past, the sudden onset of it caused mild panic in some parts of the realm, especially those unprepared, some folk even retreated to the capital itself to seek shelter from the winter.

But if one looked closely at His Grace, the truth became harder to ignore. He shifted in his seat more often than usual, fingers brushing the arm of the throne as if seeking reassurance. He misheard simple words, asking for them to be repeated, and every so often his gaze flicked around the hall in quick, unfocused glances, never resting long, as though something unseen pressed at the edges of his mind.

Truth was, Her Grace, Queen Alysanne, was with child, only now seeking to rear its head, far from the great hall where she could be heard, her screams were ever present to all passing by.

Jaehaerys was here fulfilling his duty to the realm, one he would gladly have done every time, except for this moment, where he could be at the side of his wife. Damn the winter altogether.

The next supplicant stepped forward, a minor lord from Crackclaw Point with a complaint about frozen stores and starving smallfolk. Jaehaerys tried to listen, Seven knew he tried, but the man’s words blurred, drowned beneath the echo of Alysanne’s distant cries reverberating through his skull.

“…my people suffer, Your Grace—”

Another voice overlapped it.
“…grain shipments delayed—”

Then another.
“…people without fire—”

The throne room did not grow louder. The voices did.

Jaehaerys blinked hard, focusing, but their words tangled in his ears until they no longer seemed like separate pleas. They became a single, pounding wave, a tide of needs, fears, demands, all clawing at him at once. Every courtier's whispered thought seemed to rise above the din, as if the very stones murmured their worries.

The Iron Throne pressed against his back, the cold of it seeping through his robes. His hand tightened on the armrest. He caught himself breathing shallowly, too fast.

Focus. You are the realm’s shepherd. Listen. Judge. Rule.

Alysanne’s scream tore faintly through the corridor.

His heart jolted.

His own instincts screamed louder.

Another petitioner was ushered forward, a septon this time, speaking of failing orphanages and half-frozen mothers seeking shelter in septs. His voice merged with the others, a rising storm of sound that battered Jaehaerys’ temples.

“…Your Grace must decree—”

“…Your Grace must send—”

“…Your Grace must—”

Must. Must. Must.
Always must.

The Iron Throne suddenly felt too small, too sharp, too alive with voices that were not his own. He shifted again, unable to still his foot, unable to quiet the restless tapping of his fingers.

Father. Husband. King.

Which was he now?

Alysanne’s pain rippled again through the distant halls, this time clearer, closer, as if the walls themselves carried it to him.

The lords before him continued speaking. Their mouths moved, their petitions grew more urgent, more desperate. Or perhaps that was only in his mind, frayed and stretched thin. He could not tell anymore.

The realm needed him now.

But she needed him more.

He drew in a sharp breath, the weight of the sword-throne cold and merciless beneath him.
He felt as though he were standing on the edge of a blade, one side duty, the other love, and whichever he chose, something would be cut away.

Jaehaerys steadied himself, but the steadiness was a fragile veneer over a storm.

He could not be in two places at once.

Not even a king could do that.

Right? Not even a king.

Jaehaerys raised his forearm and hand, thumb outwards, along with his index and middle finger, a gesture meant for silence, for order, for the realm to remember itself.

“Quiet.”

The voices obeyed, as did the great hall. Footsteps slowed, murmurs faded, and a brittle hush settled between the banners and torches. Even the flickering flames seemed to bow in acknowledgment.

His mind, now relaxing from the moment, let the storm of voices settle just enough to regain control. The pulse of urgency still throbbed in his chest, but clarity returned, measured and deliberate.

“Lord Hand,” he said, his voice steady despite the echo of chaos in his thoughts, “you may proceed with the petition by representing the king.”

The murmurs of assent rippled through the hall as the Lord Hand stepped forward, bowing slightly. The petitioners’ concerns now found a surrogate, a voice to carry their pleas while Jaehaerys’ own attention drifted inward, back to the distant halls where Alysanne fought through the winter and labor alike.

As he left the great hall, accompanied by the Lord Commander and several knights, his legs carried him swiftly, almost as if the stone beneath him burned. He did not run, not yet, but each step was urgent, purposeful, driven by the principles that demanded he be a king, and the heart that demanded he be a husband.

The corridors stretched long and cold before him, banners and torches a blur. Every echo of his boots seemed to count down the moments, reminding him that time was slipping, that every second mattered. The chill of winter seeping through windows and entrances, passed by him, but he barely noticed it, his mind was consumed with the one thing that burned brighter than duty, sharper than the Iron Throne itself.

Alysanne awaited him.

The sound of her cries grew sharper as he neared, cutting through the corridors like steel. Each step brought him closer, but the stone halls seemed to stretch endlessly. The knights at his sides kept pace, but Jaehaerys barely noticed them, the world to him had narrowed to the voice of the queen, commanding his attention more surely than any council, any throne.

He reached the chamber at last. The door was flung open, and there she was, his partner, his wife in vow and duty, Queen Alysanne, seated upright in her labor, her posture rigid and unyielding. Sweat sliced her brow, her gown clinging damply, but there was no weakness in her, only the strong will of a woman who had already brought thirteen children into the world and advised the stubborn head of the seven kingdoms.

Her eyes met his, calm yet sharp, and in that glance, he saw the command of a mother, a queen, a woman who would bend neither labor nor life to pity.

He approached cautiously, not to interfere, only to offer support. “I’m here,” he said softly, though it was unnecessary, she did not need him to direct her, only to witness, to share the burden beside her.

She gave him a faint nod, almost imperceptible, the kind of acknowledgment a sovereign grants another in understanding, not need. In that moment, Jaehaerys understood, she was commanding the very air of the chamber. He was king, yes, but here, now, she wielded her own power, sharper than any scepter, steadier than the Iron Throne.

The petitions, the halls, the realm, all of it fell away at this moment. There was only Alysanne, resolute, enduring, and fierce, and Jaehaerys at her side, awed, anxious, and utterly devoted.

Chapter Text

​Rodrik

Rodrik Arryn was a man with thirty-six name days to his name, and the years sat plainly upon him. His hair had begun to thin at the crown, leaving a balding patch that caught the torchlight’s vicinity, thick sideburns framed his face in an attempt to draw the eye elsewhere, though even they were more salt than pepper now. A slight belly pressed against the clasp of his doublet, never enough to mark him as indulgent, but enough that on a rare, unguarded day it betrayed a fondness for warm meals and long councils over cold marches of fighting.

He was not an old man, not by any means, but neither was he as fruitful as he was back in his early days, what strength he’d lost to time, he had gained twice over in mind, proving himself as an asset in the small council and as a friend to His Grace, though it probably helps that he is pleasant to talk to and to be around with.

Though as of the moment, Rodrik found himself outside the great hall. The petitions were almost finished anyway, minor disputes over fisheries, a request for additional guards on the King’s Road, a tiresome quarrel about grain tariffs. Nothing that required his utmost counsel now that the king had departed, and the Lord Hand, Septon Barth, could handle himself with the rest. And so, with a turn, Rodrik quietly nodded to the Lord Hand, bidding himself out of the hall, instead of announcing himself.

Rodrik could've stayed in the great hall, have a conversation with the smalls and great lords alike, maybe small folk too, ease their worries about the winter and their thinning stores. He was good at that sort, if he wasn't, he wouldn't be even in the small council or a trusted Lord of the Vale, lending an ear, measured words, easing the fears without false promises. His young self could've done exactly that, lingering among them till the last anxious face found comfort.

But today… Today he found himself wanting a quick rest.

Not a sleep, not a retreat to his chambers, but simply a pause, a moment away from the press of voices, from the unending requests, from the murmurs speculating about the queen’s labor. His mind felt stretched thin like old parchment, and the buzz of the hall had begun to cling to him like an unwelcome chill.

So he walked. Quietly. Purposefully.

And now the breeze cooled his face on the balcony, giving him precisely the kind of rest he needed, the sort that required no chair, no goblet of wine, no words exchanged. Only a bit of clean air.

Along the stone rail, his palm pressed lightly, thumb rubbing at the cold edge, his weight shifting into the stone before he even realized he’d done so.

Rodrik found himself closing his eyes briefly, as if letting the weight of his duties go into the quietest corner of his mind.

“You look as though the railing offers counsel, Lord Rodrik.”

Rodrik, as if not expecting company, quickly opened his eyes, glancing around the balcony. A few meters away stood the young prince Aetherys. The boy’s posture was deceptively relaxed, hands tucked neatly behind his back, yet there was a quiet attentiveness in the way his silver-white hair caught the fading light. His eyes were fixed on Rodrik with an intensity that made the man shift slightly, aware that he was being measured, assessed, not as a lord or a counselor, but as a man of substance in the boy’s eyes.

Rodrik cleared his throat. “I did not think anyone would join me here.”

The prince, tilted his head lightly, amused probably, Rodrik thought.

“Nor did I, my Lord. One has barely been at this place, and ponders even less. It is… an enjoyable delight, looking out, I mean.”

Rodrik inclined his head slightly, listening as the boy gathered his words.

“The air here,” Aetherys continued, “it is more… relaxing than one might have thought. Much more so than the great hall’s.”

Rodrik let a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Aye, the great hall is hardly made for quiet reflection,” he said, resting his palms lightly on the stone rail again. “Voices rise, tempers flare, and the air grows thick with worry and ambition alike. Up here… it is easier to remember that the world moves on, even if the keep trembles beneath its own cares.”

Rodrik examined the boy carefully. He had not met him often, only the occasional glimpse of Aetherys darting through the Red Keep or playing in the courtyards. Beyond that, there had been little opportunity. Yet what he had heard painted a striking picture, the boy was a surprise even to the King himself. Faster, sharper, and more perceptive than his age might suggest, he moved with a natural ease. Despite being the youngest of his siblings, though soon to become second should Her Majesty’s current child prove healthy,he held his own in both stature and demeanor. His elder brothers and sister may have outshone him in some ways, but if the whispers of those in the keep were true, Aetherys might soon prove himself an asset of no small importance.

“If I might ask, how fare the court today?”

Rodrik snapped out of his thoughts, his gaze returning from the distant rooftops to the boy standing before him. He blinked, a small smile tugging at his lips, and straightened his posture.

“The court fares as it always does,” he said carefully, choosing measured words. “Lords squabble, petitions are made, and the world seems intent on testing patience at every turn. Nothing that cannot be managed, though it has been… trying at times.”

“I see. To think holding court might be interesting, to say the least, is a fun thought.”

“I have always wondered… that you answer to nearly everything, some even below your own position. One might say it befits a lowly lord, not one of your stature. Would you say that we lack a defined system of governance? Clearly fit for a Dothraki’s ruling instead. I meant no offense, of course, Lord Rodrik.”

Rodrik blinked, momentarily taken aback. The boy’s words were sharper, more pointed than he had expected. He knew Aetherys was perceptive, yes, but what on earth would a child of his age ask about court politics? The question hung between them, almost daring, and Rodrik felt the weight of both amusement and concern at the boy’s curiosity.

By the Seven… this conversation has taken a turn I did not anticipate, he thought, studying the young prince closely, weighing the intellect behind those pale eyes.

Rodrik cleared his throat, letting the chill of the balcony steel his nerves. “You ask questions beyond your years, young prince,” he said carefully. “Governance is… not a simple matter of command or law. It is a web of obligations, responsibilities, and, yes, compromises. One must listen to those beneath them, as well as those above, for both can teach a lesson, if only we take the time to hear it.”

Aetherys’ gaze did not waver, unblinking and intent. “So you would rather be buried beneath petitions and disputes over customs that differ from lord to lord, rather than creating a single, unified code of laws for the entire realm? One that all lords would be compelled to follow, instead of answering to their own local customs? Surely it would prevent quarrels and make governance clearer.”

Rodrik exhaled slowly, allowing a faint smile despite the sharpness of the question. “Ah, you would simplify the realm with a single law, a single voice of authority.” He leaned lightly on the balcony rail, watching the city stretch below. “In theory, yes, it sounds perfect. Clear, efficient, neat. But the world rarely conforms to theory. Laws may be written, but people interpret them differently, and ambition, fear, or prejudice often colors their understanding.”

Aetherys’ lilac eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Then… surely there must be a way to write a law, a decree, that can be applied fairly, even if interpreted differently. One that addresses disputes but also fixes the damage done, no matter who misapplies it.”

Rodrik smiled, a slow, faint curl of lips that betrayed both amusement and admiration. There was a boldness in the boy’s reasoning, a clarity of thought that might catch even a seasoned lord off guard.

This child… Rodrik thought, watching Aetherys with a new awareness, he is not like his age. Not simply curious, but… calculating, deliberate. He sees far more than most at his age, and he asks questions that could unsettle men twice his years. He may yet be something the realm will have to reckon with.

Rodrik’s smile lingered, thoughtful and measured. “My prince, your idea is… noble,” he said carefully, letting each word carry weight. “It is ambitious, but admirable. Perhaps it is best, if you bring this forward to His Grace, your father. He alone has the authority to consider such a proposal, and the wisdom more than mine to temper it.”

Aetherys’ eyes brightened, a faint spark of pride crossing his youthful features. “Do you think… he would listen?”

Rodrik inclined his head. “If any king would, it is Jaehaerys. You have asked the right questions, and now it is time to place them before the one who bears the crown. But remember, my prince, even the noblest ideas must be measured against the realm’s needs, not only their perfection on parchment.”

Aetherys considered this, his gaze drifting toward the distant spires of the Red Keep. “Then I will… try. Carefully.”

Rodrik allowed himself a soft chuckle, the wind tugging at their cloaks. “Carefulness is a good start. And courage, as you have already shown, will carry you far.”

Chapter Text

Cay & Bed

It was winter, though the cold seemed to be easing, a gentle reprieve compared to the harsh winds that had gripped the city a few moons past. Frost still clung to the corners of the courtyard and the rooftops of the Red Keep, but the sun, weak though it was, caught the ice in sparks of gold. The chill in the air did not bite as sharply as it once had.

But the unusual thing was the streets of King’s Landing. Even in the midst of winter, the usual quiet was replaced by the clatter of hooves and the rattle of carriages. Merchants and guards alike hustled to make way, while banners fluttered in the brisk wind. The cause of such commotion was no ordinary affair.

Daella Targaryen, daughter of House Targaryen, had chosen this day to marry Lord Paramount Rodrik Arryn, Master of Laws of the realm. The union had brought nobles from all corners of Westeros, filling the city’s stables, streets, and even the ports with glittering banners and riding parties. Every alley seemed touched by preparation, lanterns hung from posts, courtyards swept, and the air smelled faintly of winterfire and roasted meats from kitchens preparing for the celebration.

In all of this commotion, one Aetherys Targaryen moved quietly through the streets, accompanied by Ser Ryam of the Kingsguard. The prince wore simple clothes, a plain cloak pulled tight around his shoulders to conceal his identity, while Ser Ryam was clad in a white-grey gambeson, the muted color blending against the frost-touched stones of King’s Landing.

Though that wasn't the attention in this particular street, for it was a group of children, playing around, what looked like a duel of sorts? A child's imagination could only tell, wooden swords were clacking out and about, cries of laughter and annoyance were heard, occasionally bumping to elders beyond their years.

In the group of kids, only two were in the eye of attention, as if the others had already been “slain” in their pretend battle. The fallen lay scattered about, laughing on the cobblestones or dramatically clutching their chests, while the last two combatants circled each other like miniature knights of legend.

One boy stood out at once, extraordinarily tall for his age, broad-shouldered in a way that made him look as though he had been carved from a block of timber. Oak-brown hair fell in a rough mane about his head, and a narrow scar traced the apple of his cheek, a mark earned, no doubt, from some reckless game rather than any true battle. His voice boomed across the area, loud enough one might mistake him for a grown man arguing in a tavern rather than a boy scarcely ten.

He swung his wooden sword with a ferocity entirely unbecoming of children’s play, each strike cutting the air with a sharp thwack, each step heavy, determined, almost knightly.

“Bedifer!” The other children cried from the sidelines,some in awe, some in mock terror, some merely eager to see who he would best next. The name was said with affection, pride, and the faintest fear, for Bedifer swung as though every match were a war he fully intended to win.

Opposite him stood the only challenger left.

The other boy, Cay, as the shouts named him, seemed younger or at least smaller than his towering counterpart. His hair was a wild shade that could not decide between blond and ginger, catching gold in the sunlight and copper in the shadow. He had the sly grin of a boy who knew he was quicker than most, and perhaps smarter too, or so he liked to pretend.

Bluster clung to him like a mantle. Confidence too, though it was a thinner, sharper thing than Bedifer’s brute certainty. Cay danced around each heavy swing with reckless delight, wooden sword darting like a wasp. He taunted, japed, laughed, and when he leapt aside from a particularly wild blow, he stuck his tongue out like a fox cub teasing a hound.

It was clear why the other children watched with such rapture, Bedifer fought like a charging bull, Cay like a darting sparrow.

And both boys, for all their youth, held the field as though it already belonged to them.

For all their bluster and bravado, the duel might have lasted longer, Cay darting and weaving, Bedifer thundering after him, if not for the collision.

Not with each other.

Not with a passerby shouting at them to mind their steps.

But with a silver-haired child who had stepped just a little too close.

Cay, spinning away from one of Bedifer’s sweeping strikes, darted backward without looking, and crashed squarely into the cloaked boy behind him. The impact sent both stumbling, Cay yelped, the other children gasped, and the hood that had been drawn neatly over the stranger’s head slipped back in a flutter of fabric.

The alley fell silent in an instant.

Even Bedifer froze mid-swing, his wooden sword hanging in the air like a banner paused by a sudden still wind.

With most of the children instantly running away from the signs, and the nearby tall knight. Those who didn’t flee remained rooted where they stood, wide-eyed, breath caught, as if the wrong movement might summon the wrath of all seven gods at once.

Cay pushed himself upright with a startled grunt. Kicked the leg of which he collisioned with “Oi, watch where you—”

The words died halfway out of his mouth.

Because as he looked at who he collided with, ready to scold whatever clumsy fool had stepped into his path, he found himself looking at a boy with silver-white hair, illuminated by the weak winter sun like a shard of moonlight fallen to earth. The hood that had hidden him lay pooled around his shoulders.

Violet eyes, unmistakable, unforgettable, enchanting even, blinked once at him.

Cay’s mouth hung open soundlessly.

Bedifer, a heartbeat behind in comprehension, lowered his wooden sword with a gasp.

The prince did not react with outrage, nor even surprise. Instead, he simply regarded Cay with a mildly curious expression, as if collisions in alleys were a perfectly ordinary part of his day.

Behind him, Ser Ryam stepped forward moving towards the two assailants, not threatening, but unmistakably present, like a wall that had learned how to walk and defend royalty.

Cay swallowed.

Very quietly, very humbly, he muttered, “…Seven bloody hells.”

“That was rather bold,” Aetherys said at last, the corners of his mouth lifting in a small, unmistakably amused smile. “And… entertaining, I must admit.”

Cay wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or doomed.

Bedifer made a noise like a dying goat.

Aetherys turned slightly. “Ser Ryam,” he said, still watching the boys with that soft, curious amusement, “would you please have them accompany us?”

Ser Ryam inclined his head, the movement crisp as drawn steel. “As you command, my prince.”

The children who hadn’t fled earlier peeked from behind barrels and doorways, whispering like mice witnessing the capture of two fellow mice by a very polite cat.

Cay stiffened. “A–accompany?” he echoed, voice cracking just enough to betray every ounce of his panic.

Bedifer stared at the prince, then at Ryam, then at Cay, then at the sky, as if praying for it to open and swallow him whole.

Aetherys simply continued to smile, calm and unbothered.

“Do not fret,” he said gently, as if speaking to spooked horses. “I only wish to speak.”

Which, somehow, terrified them even more.

“Do you know what day it is?” Aetherys asked, brushing a strand of silver hair back as though the earlier collision had never happened.

Cay blinked. “Uh… a— a cold one?”

Bedifer elbowed him sharply.

Aetherys’s smile only grew. “It is my dearest older sister’s wedding day. She is to marry Lord Rodrik Arryn.” His voice softened, a mix of pride and something gentler beneath it. “A spectacular event. One I would very much like to give a gift for… to my dearest sister.”

“I have requested something to be made by a blacksmith, a few nights past,” Aetherys continued, eyes glinting with quiet excitement. “One I would already have picked up and ready to be given—but you,” he added, stepping closer, “will be accompanying me on my return.”

Cay and Bedifer exchanged a glance, hearts suddenly racing. Accompanying a prince? Surely this was either a great honor, or the end of their lives as they knew them.

Aetherys turned slightly, as if remembering something. “Oh, and say hello to Ser Ryam of the Kingsguard,” he said, voice light but firm.

Ser Ryam inclined his head, his expression as calm and unreadable as stone. “Greetings,” he said, and the weight behind the single word pressed down on the boys’ shoulders like a wall of ice.

Bedifer gulped audibly. Cay swallowed so hard it sounded like crunching snow underfoot.

The prince, however, smiled serenely at them, the faintest curve that promised mischief without malice. “Come now,” he said, “we have little time to linger on introductions.”

And with that, the three of them, two awestruck or fearstruck boys and one silent knight, set off through the streets of King’s Landing, the winter sun catching on the silver of Aetherys’ hair like a herald of small adventures yet to unfold.

By now, two hours have since then, what seem like ice, have thawed quickly.

Cay, ever brash and prideful, quick to leap before thinking, was showing the first sparks of what might later be called courage or folly, depending on the telling. He darted to every corner, daring to where his counterpart wouldn't. He was the one to push the boundaries, making small jests where one shouldn't at all, tugging at the prince’s cloak like it was some sort of toy to keep him entertained. He was the boy who would the cause of mischief and unbound pride.

Bedifer, on the other hand, was the polar opposite, where Cay wouldn't hesitate to do and act without thinking, Bedifer would calculate what he should do, reserved for the situation mostly. His towering height for his age, and broad shoulders gave off a brash and ever presence protector, but was the complete opposite. He would step in to shield Cay when his recklessness carried him too close to trouble, or intervene with a calm word when the prince’s instructions risked being misinterpreted. His laughter was rarer, deeper, the kind that came from a boy confident in his own strength and security, yet unafraid of mirth.

By now, the streets of King’s Landing had grown quieter, the bustle of the wedding fading into the background as the small trio entered the Red Keep. Cay’s energy hadn’t waned, he darted from flagstone to flagstone, eyes wide at the soaring banners and carved reliefs that lined the halls. Bedifer, as ever, moved with steps that could be described as calculated as he had the task of keeping a protective watch on his more impulsive companion.

Aetherys, lilac eyes glittering, walked a few paces ahead, watching them with a faint, approving smile. “You two were enjoyable to be with,” he said lightly. “I’ve decided that you shall serve as squires while you are here. Ser Ryam will assign your duties and instruct you. You will follow him wherever he leads.”

Cay blinked. “Serve… as squires? To Ser Ryam? Really?”

“Yes,” Aetherys said with a shrug, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “You will learn, you will follow, and you will observe. There is much to do, and the prince’s word is sufficient to bind the instruction.”

Bedifer inclined his head, calm and composed as ever. “As you command, my Prince.”

Cay, however, could barely contain himself. “And… and he’s actually going to teach us?”

Aetherys’ smile widened faintly. “He will. I leave the matter entirely in his hands. Your first lesson begins when he sees fit.”

Ser Ryam, who had been silent until now, stepped forward, white-grey gambeson blending against the stone hall. His gaze swept over the two boys, narrowing ever so slightly at their wide-eyed anticipation. “Very well,” he said, voice low but firm. “You will serve, yes, but I am not known for patience with fools. If either of you wastes my time, you will find this Red Keep far less entertaining than you imagine.”

Cay swallowed, muttering under his breath, “…Seven hells.”

Bedifer, however, simply straightened, shoulders broad, eyes steady, and said nothing. His composure alone seemed to earn Ser Ryam’s faint approval.

Aetherys watched the exchange, still smiling, the faint glimmer of amusement in his gaze betraying how pleased he was with the dynamic unfolding. “Follow him,” he said. “Learn, and perhaps, one day, you will prove yourselves worthy.”

And with that, Ser Ryam led the boys through the labyrinthine corridors of the Red Keep, the halls echoing with their footsteps. Cay bounced at every corner, tugging Bedifer along and occasionally craning his neck to glimpse the prince ahead, while Bedifer’s cautious stride and protective watchfulness kept both of them grounded.

This would be their world now, a place of instruction and discipline under Ser Ryam’s exacting eye, and though neither could know it yet, the lessons they learned here, of loyalty, courage, and judgment, would shape them in ways far beyond any street duel or playground scuffle.

Chapter Text

Ryam

It was a sunny day, one of the first true ones in weeks, warm enough that the stones of the Red Keep drank in the heat and exhaled it back in soft breaths beneath one’s boots. A day that would, under kinder circumstances, demand rest from even the hardest of men.

Winter had ended only recently, short in its duration but wrathful in temperament, the kind that cracked lips, stiffened joints, and chilled bones even during its brief stay. Now, at last, the sun shone over King’s Landing with something like generosity.

Ser Ryam, however, did not appreciate generosity. Not today.

Not with two children newly placed under his charge.

Not when His Grace the Prince had decided, on a whim or divine mischief, that Ser Ryam, already drowning in duties, should now take on two squires as well.

The prince had asked politely, yes. That had somehow made it worse.

Ryam’s days were already filled with orders from the Hand, from the King, from the Queen, and from whatever emergency the day brought forth. Now the prince wished to add this to the ledger? Two boys who could not stand still for more than a breath between them?

And yet…

He did appreciate, though he would never admit it aloud, that the prince at least required little protection in most of his escapades, if one could call them that. Aetherys moved like a boy wrapped in duties: quietly, deliberately, vanishing into the library tower, pestering scholars, scribes, or Lord Hand Barth with endless questions on subjects no child had any business knowing.

And, to Ryam’s quiet dread, swordsmanship.

The prince had pestered the King and Queen for moons before they relented. Only a little practice, though it was up to the Gods if this rule would hold intact. Only supervised. Only in the yard. Only under Ser Ryam’s eyes.

Which meant, of course, more work for him.

Ryam exhaled heavily, resting his hand near the pommel of his sword as he watched the two newest thorns in his side.

Cay, and Bedifer,

Ryam for all his life, could not figure out why the prince chose these two runts they found in the streets of King's Landing.

There were choices, Seven save him, plenty of choices, in all the realm for the prince to befriend.

Great lords’ sons, heirs polished like tourney steel.
Second sons with manners beaten into them by septons.
Even third sons eager to curry royal favor.

Any of them would have fallen over themselves for the chance to stand at the prince’s side.

But why, in all the gods’ many and questionable designs, would he choose smallfolk?

Not that he cared much for politicking, Seven knew that circus was best left to lords and those who dare to trifle with the court, nor did he hold any particular opinions about the smallfolk beyond the basic truth that they were people he was sworn to protect.

But for a child like the prince, he had assumed, quietly, sensibly, that the boy would follow the pattern of all royal children before him.

That he would cling to those of high birth.
That he would seek the company of those raised to bow, speak prettily, and flatter.
That he would naturally drift toward the circles that had shaped him.

But he hadn’t.

Aetherys Targaryen, with all the dragon’s blood behind him, had walked through a crowded street, collided with chaos incarnate in the form of two unruly boys, and, after barely an hour, chose them.

Maybe, he should have expected it.

He had been with the boy long enough, watched him long enough, to know that Aetherys Targaryen did not think or act like other children of his station. The prince chose where he walked, what he learned, whom he bothered, and whom he blessed with his attention. He questioned everything, accepted nothing simply because it was the way of things, and had a talent for turning expectations inside out with a single innocent look.

So perhaps Ryam should have presumed that the boy would choose anyone he pleased.

And perhaps he should have understood sooner that birth and station mattered far less to Aetherys than a person’s spirit.

Now that he thought about it, Ryam remembered it far better than he tried to admit, the prince’s handling of the situation he caused. Cay and Bedifer’s absences on their homes.

The day the prince brought Cay and Bedifer back to their homes to “ask” their parents’ permission.

Gods, what a spectacle that had been.

The boys had been jittering with excitement the entire walk through the lower streets, like pups barely held on leashes. Aetherys walked beside them with the serene calm of someone who believed wholeheartedly that his actions were entirely reasonable.

Ryam walked behind them, armored, armed, and followed a pair of Targaryen household guards.

Subtlety had died on that street.

The reaction of the parents had been… memorable to say the least.

Cay’s home was first, and his mother had opened the door first. A small, wiry woman with flour coating her hands and a toddler clinging to her skirts. She blinked once at her son.

Twice at the prince beside him.

Then her gaze fell upon the entourage, a knight of the kingsguard, guards, a silver-haired royal child standing as if the entire street belonged to him.

Her face cycled through three expressions in the span of a heartbeat:

Awestruck.
Fearful.
And then, nervously trying to remember if she should kneel, bow, speak, or simply faint.

“M-m’lord—Your Grace—your—your…” she stammered, bobbing what might’ve been a bow or a collapsing curtsey.

Ryam had seen grown knights hold formation in battle with less terror than this woman held her own knees.

Aetherys, to his credit, only smiled gently.

“Good afternoon, mistress,” he said, voice warm, mannered courtly in a way no one had taught him. “I’m here to ask if Cay might squire for Ser Ryam.”

The woman stared at her son, then at the prince, then at the guards, then back at her son.

Cay, Seven save the boy, puffed up with pride like a rooster.

“He means me, Ma!”

Her mouth opened.
Closed.

Then, in a whisper:

“Seven preserve us…”

Bedifer’s father had been little better.

A burly man with broad shoulders and the kind of hands shaped by labor rather than ink, he froze mid-step outside his own doorway when he found a prince standing beside his boy.

His face went white first, then red, then something resembling sickly green.

“My—my prince…” he managed. “Did—did Bedifer do something? Did he—Sweet Mother, what did he break?”

“Nothing,” Aetherys replied pleasantly. “I would like him to be Ser Ryan's squire.”

The man swayed. Actually swayed.
Ryam had shifted a step forward in preparation to catch him.

It was fear, deep, instinctive fear, that only common folk felt when royalty stepped into their lives unbidden. Fear of punishment, fear of debt, fear of offending a power too lofty to grasp in their minds.

Ryam understood enough of it to recognize the look.

Though he could not quite imagine himself in such a situation, Seven knew he had grown up with a sword in hand and a lord’s halls as familiar as his own breath, he could at least sympathize with the poor man.

He forced himself, briefly, to draw up a comparison. Something far from similar, but close enough in feeling to make sense of it.

The father’s hands trembled as he bowed. His voice broke on a single word of greeting. His eyes darted to Bedifer as though unsure whether to pull him behind or push him forward.

Ryam offered the man a single nod, small, steady, meant to ease the worries about the situation rather than intimidate.

It worked. Slightly.

The man’s breathing evened enough for him to listen as the prince repeated his request, that Bedifer be allowed to squire under a sworn knight of the Kingsguard.

Ryam watched the emotions churn behind the father’s eyes, fear, disbelief, pride so sharp it bordered on pain.

Then, finally, acceptance.

A rough, whispered, “Aye… aye, Your Grace… if—if you truly wish it.”

The man bowed again, deeper this time.

Ryam, now finished wandering through the memory, let out a slow breath. He hadn’t expected it, he truly hadn’t, but he found himself respecting the prince.

Not for his blood. Not for his name. Not for the crown he was destined to bear someday. But for the way he had looked at those parents, with neither arrogance nor pity. The way he had spoken to them, calm, gentle, as if easing frightened horses rather than commanding commoners.

For the way he had shown no embarrassment, no impatience, no frustration at their trembling, nor at the weight of reverence laid at his feet. Aetherys had simply… understood.

The boy had understood what was happening at his sights, their fear, their station, he understood far better than what Ryam thought of his station, age, or blood ever could. He did not recoil from it nor revel in it. Instead, he softened, made himself smaller, lowered his gaze slightly as if to lessen the burden of his own presence.

At that moment, Ryam realized, truly realized, that this was not something easily taught, nor even simply born into. Perhaps some were gifted with it, naturally attuned to command, to presence, to the quiet gravity of influence, but that was besides the point.

The prince he was guarding, he was not merely a curious child to be guided or honed. He was not a boy pretending to be a knight, nor an impish figure flitting through the halls of the Red Keep. No, he was something altogether different.

A king.

What kind of king he would become, Ryam could not say, not yet, not with certainty. But one thing was clear: the boy had the makings of a good one, perhaps far better than those who had come before him. If fortune allowed him the chance, he could surpass even the shadows of the Conqueror and His Grace themselves.

And his siblings? By the measure of his own observation, by the spark in the boy’s deep lilac eyes and the weight in his small hands, he might well outshine them too. Probably so.

_________

As Ryam lingered in his thoughts, the clash of wooden swords rang out, clack! followed by a sharp thwack!, splinters flying from each strike. Boots scuffed against the courtyard stones, sending up clouds of dust with every hurried step.

The courtyard was lively to say the least, knights and guards alike dueling, or training with blood, sweat, and tears running down their skin. Banners of the Targaryen dragon, swept by the wind, hitting castle stones with each rest.

The stones of the Keep, shaped by hammer and chisel, drank in the spring sunlight after winter’s chill, radiating their warmth down onto the courtyard below.

A voice soon carried across the yard, clear and light, coming from the gatehouse entrance of the middle courtyard. Down the stone pathway, a boy could be seen walking toward them, his steps purposeful against the sun-warmed stones.

It was the prince, Aetherys, to be exact. His silver hair now reaching his shoulders, flowed back, height now half of an adult man, although young, his deep lilac eyes ever present, and observant of his surroundings.

A black and red gambeson that could fit his body, leather locks from his necks down to waist, ashen coloured pants, accompanied by long leather boats surrounding his shins. A leather sheath could be seen around his waist, with a sword present, although not sharp, could still injure a man.

Ryam knocked out his thoughts, quickly looking at the direction of the prince.

"Ser Ryam! How fare the bout?" Aetherys repeated as if he wasn't heard the first time.

"It fared well, my prince" Ryam quickly responded, now ever present and thoughts subdued, "though... I may have lingered with my thoughts for a while. I would struggle to recollect what may have transpired in the past seconds."

“Well, no worries, then.”

Ryam inclined his head toward the prince, his posture rigid, careful, a sentinel ever aware. Then his gaze drifted to the two boys, squires now in title though not yet in habit. Cay and Bedifer had frozen mid-motion the instant they had heard the prince approaching, wooden swords still raised, dust clinging to the hems of their breeches.

Cay’s eyes widened, chest puffing out with a mixture of pride and nerves, the kind of bravado that only a boy of his recklessness could muster. He tried to square his shoulders, to appear composed, though a faint tremor betrayed his excitement. “My prince,” he blurted, bowing with what he clearly thought was proper respect, “we—we’ve been… training!”

Bedifer, in contrast, lowered his sword slowly, methodical as always. He gave a controlled, measured bow, eyes steady and unflinching, though his jaw tightened with suppressed laughter. The difference between them was striking. Where Cay sought to dazzle, Bedifer seemed determined to show competence without the need for showmanship. Ryam could see the same instinct he himself had once learned, that raw talent and quick thinking could impress, but composure carried weight in the long term.

"Once again, call me Aetherys," Aetherys quickly responded,
"There's no need for formality, after all, we're friends" the prince puffed out his chest slightly, as if to reinforce that notion, though his serene gaze never left the boys. There was a faint spark of mischief in his lilac eyes, the kind that suggested he understood more than most gave him credit for.

Cay blinked once, then twice, caught between awe and confusion. “F-friends, Your… Aetherys?” His stammer was short-lived, replaced by a grin that dared the world to question him. “Well, alright then, friends!” He gave a dramatic bow, though it was more show than substance, clearly hoping to impress.

Bedifer’s bow was subtler, as though acknowledging the sentiment without needing to perform. “Friends, Your Grace,” he said evenly, though the smallest twitch of a smile betrayed his approval.

Aetherys chuckled softly, a sound that seemed too old for one so young, carrying warmth yet edged with quiet command. “Good. Then let us continue, shall we? I have plans for both of you today.”

The two boys straightened, gripping their wooden swords with renewed focus, energy tempered by the knowledge that the prince would be watching every motion. Cay practically vibrated with anticipation, eager to prove himself, while Bedifer exuded steady resolve, ready to follow both orders and instinct.

Ryam, walking slightly behind, allowed himself a small exhale. Watching them, he noted the delicate balance between impulsive enthusiasm and careful control. These boys, though unruly in spirit, could be shaped into something remarkable under proper guidance.

His eyes flicked briefly to the edges of the courtyard, as ever alert, noting movement that did not belong, a cloaked figure lingering at a distance. Ryam’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. He did not move toward the stranger, but the sense of unease coiled in his chest. One did not ignore potential threats, and yet, he remained patient, waiting for a better vantage, or a clearer signal.

The prince led the way, the boys following close behind, their wooden swords now at ease at their sides. Sunlight glinted off the polished metal of Ryam’s armor as he kept pace, silent, vigilant, every step measured.

Ryam’s eyes narrowed, noting every subtle motion the man made. The figure moved deliberately, each step measured, as though he were weighing the distance to the children, the prince, and the armored knight behind them. There was nothing overtly threatening about him, yet Ryam’s instincts, honed through years of guarding royalty, screamed caution.

As laughter between the three boys could be heard, silly faces, and exaggerated noises formed. Ryam, following behind, kept his gaze locked onto the hooded figure, as he, and the kids approached the stone pathway of the gatehouse.

The cloaked figure soon took off their hood, an elderly man could be seen, though not yet dominant of salt appearance, one could clearly see the strands if looked closer, lines adored the man's face, but not much compared to that of maesters, a beard though knotted into a strand and kept fine, one could imagine the beard approaching the abdomen.

The strange elderly man now locked gaze with Ryam, simply smiled at him, as if the sight of Ryam amused his mind and body.

The elderly man quickly bowed at Ryam, then turned away in another direction. Ryam still with a locked gazed at the sight, waited for the figure of the man to appear the gatehouse of the outer yard, but never came.

Ryam’s eyes lingered on the empty path where the man had vanished, every instinct on edge. The courtyard continued as if nothing had happened, wooden swords clacking, laughter ringing, the spring sun warming the stones. Yet beneath the mundane, the thread of unease coiled in Ryam’s chest.

He exhaled slowly, letting his shoulders drop just a fraction. The man was gone, and for now, there was nothing Ryam could do but remain vigilant. He reminded himself that not every unusual sight demanded immediate action, sometimes patience was the sharper weapon.

The prince’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Ryam! Are you coming, or do you intend to watch the shadows all day?”

Ryam didn't once realise he stopped walking, inclined his head, and with a final glance toward where the cloaked figure had disappeared, he fell into step behind the boys. The moment passed, but the shadow of caution remained, a quiet note Ryam promised himself to remember.

The sun climbed higher, lighting the courtyard fully. Laughter and training filled the air once more, and Ryam allowed himself a small, measured smile. Today, the prince had chosen his companions, and the work ahead could wait. For now, the danger was unseen, and the children’s joy was enough.

Chapter Text

On a dark, stormy night, a woman’s scream tore through the wind like a blade. Anguish and terror mingled in her cry, carried across the narrow streets by the lash of rain and the howl of the storm. Thunder rattled the shutters of nearby homes, and the flash of lightning illuminated the scene.

The woman was atop a bed, blood soaking the sheets and her clothes, the sight both shocking and grotesque. Her eyes were wide with horror, reflecting the flickering candlelight, and her hands trembled as they tried to staunch the wound that crimsoned her fingers. The room reeked of iron and fear, the storm outside seeming to echo the chaos within.

The woman, gathering every ounce of her remaining strength, let out a sound that was part scream, part wail, part the raw effort of bringing life into the world. Her body convulsed, sweat and rain mingling with the blood that stained the sheets, and the storm outside seemed to echo the rhythm of her labor.

Her hands gripped the damp linens, knuckles white, as another shudder passed through her. The room smelled of iron, rain, and the tang of fear, yet beneath it all, something far more primal, the promise of new life, cut through the horror. A head could be seen exiting out through her, with a swift act, she grabbed hold of the tiny head with one hand and with all her strength tried to pull it out.

With a final, shuddering effort, the child emerged fully into her grasp. The woman gasped, barely able to breathe, sweat and rain dripping into her eyes as she held the tiny, wriggling form. At first, her exhaustion left her only able to stare, but the sight froze her entirely.

The baby was… unlike any she had ever imagined. Its skin had the gray, ashen hue of cold stone, mottled with faint scales that caught the flickering candlelight. A small, twisted horn jutted from the side of its head, and along its back, tiny stubs, like the beginning of spines, pricked through the skin, each one sharp and unnatural.

A shiver ran down her spine, half fear, half awe, as she instinctively pulled the child closer, shielding it as best she could from the storm’s fury. Its tiny eyes blinked, shimmering faintly in the dim light, and a soft, eerie cry slipped from its throat, a sound at once human and not, fragile yet piercing.

The woman’s hand trembled on its scaled back, the warmth of life a strange contrast to the unnaturalness of its form. She could feel its pulse beneath her palm, strong and insistent, and despite the terror that coiled tight in her chest, a small spark of wonder and protectiveness kindled.

The woman’s strength ebbed away like water through her fingers. Her arms shook as she clutched the strange, ashen infant to her chest, its horned head and stubbled back pressing faintly against her own trembling body. Each ragged breath felt like fire through her lungs, pain lancing sharper with every heartbeat, yet she could not let go. She held the child close, clinging to its fragile warmth even as the world blurred around her.

From the shadows, a figure stepped forward, the cloak dripping with rain and darkness. The dim candlelight barely touched the edges of its hooded form, leaving the face hidden, inscrutable.

“Excellent work, my dearest,” the figure said softly, each word slow, deliberate, like a blade drawn across silk. “But I’m afraid this is our last day.”

The words fell into the room with a cold finality. Her heart jumped, eyes not filled with fear, but as if begging to her saviour, but her body could not respond. Pain wracked her chest and limbs, a cruel reminder that she had given all she could. She opened her mouth, but only a rasping gasp escaped.

The voice lingered in her ears, echoing with promise and menace. And then, as if the weight of its presence pressed down upon her very soul, her heart faltered.

Her eyes fluttered once, twice, focusing on the ashen infant whose tiny fingers clawed weakly at the air. The candlelight flickered over the horn, the stubbled back, and the unreal pallor of its skin. And then darkness claimed her.

She exhaled one last breath, a whisperless surrender to pain and exhaustion. Her body slumped, the infant still clutched to her chest, the storm outside pounding against the windows as if mourning the life that had been so violently spent.

The cloaked figure stepped closer, calm, deliberate, watching the small chest rise and fall one final time before the silence settled, absolute, in the room.

Outside, the storm raged on, indifferent to the death and the secret life cradled in the dying mother’s arms.

Before the cloaked figure could step closer to the woman’s still form, or reach for the ashen infant cradled against her chest, a voice cut through the storm outside, low, rough, grating against the howl of the wind. Another voice answered it, softer but just as demanding, each syllable a weight pressing against the thin wooden door.

Then came a loud bang, echoing through the room like a hammer striking stone.

“Hark, let me in!” the first voice roared, a harsh command that carried authority and threat both. “We know you've hid yonder, open the door at once!”

The second voice muttered something that couldn’t quite be understood over the pounding rain and clatter of the storm. Another blow reverberated against the door, splinters flying, each strike making the candlelight tremble and flicker in its holders.

The cloaked figure paused, head tilting slightly as if listening to the intrusion, unperturbed by the violent demand. The storm outside mingled with the pounding of the door, yet the figure remained still, its presence in the room more unsettling than the wind and rain combined.

The infant stirred weakly, a soft rasping cry that barely rose above the thunder, as if sensing the menace both inside and beyond the room.

Outside, the voices grew louder, more impatient, and the door shook once more under the force of another strike. Whatever intentions had been planned by the cloaked figure would now have to contend with an immediate, pressing danger, and the storm inside the room was nothing compared to what was coming through the door.

The cloaked figure paused mid-step, shadowed by the flickering candlelight. Its head bent slightly toward the ashen infant, eyes narrowing in something between calculation and… contemplation.

A soft, almost inaudible whisper escaped the figure’s lips, words so faint that even the roar of the storm and the pounding on the door seemed to falter for a heartbeat.

Then, without another glance at the lifeless woman, the figure moved with sudden, fluid precision, vanishing toward the shadows of the room’s far corner. In that instant, the storm outside and the urgent pounding at the door seemed distant, irrelevant, as if the world had narrowed down to the fragile, ashen child and the dark shape disappearing into the night.

The pounding on the door grew relentless, each strike echoing through the small, storm-lashed room. Hinges groaned, locks splintered, and with a final, violent crash, the door gave way entirely.

A group of figures spilled into the chamber, torches casting flickering shadows on the walls slick with rain and blood. Their eyes scanned quickly, weapons raised, hearts racing against the storm outside.

But there was nothing. No cloaked figure, no trace of the intruder, only the lifeless body of the woman, sprawled across the blood-soaked sheets. And beside her, a normal infant, crying softly, swaddled and unharmed, utterly unaware of the terror that had passed.

The intruders exchanged glances, confusion and unease rippling through their ranks. The storm’s fury outside seemed to mock them, the wind howling around the broken doorframe like the laughter of unseen witnesses.

Someone stepped forward, voice low and tight. “Where… where are they? Where is the—”

But the room offered no answers, only the stark, eerie quiet of death and a child, innocent and unknowingly extraordinary.

As the storm raged outside, the small shack seemed to shrink beneath the roar of wind and rain, the shadows twisting unnaturally in the torchlight. An uneasiness clung to the air, thick and oppressive, as if the very walls had absorbed the tension of what had transpired.

“The lady is dead,” one of the figures spoke, voice grim and steady, eyes scanning the room as if expecting something to move. “Send word to the lord at once.”

Another stepped closer to the infant, lifting the small bundle carefully. “She has given life to a babe,” he said, voice softer now, almost reverent. “But the man… he has vanished. Gone without a trace.”

A shiver passed through the room, not from the cold or the storm, but from the weight of unanswered questions. Outside, lightning split the sky, illuminating the ashen clouds, and for a moment, it felt as if the world itself held its breath, waiting to see what would come next.

Chapter Text

A Knight of the New & Old

Tales of old. Myths. Epics.
Stories whispered before hearth-fires and carried on the breath of wandering singers.
Stories that stirred the young to dream of glory, and burdened grown men with the weight of duty.
Stories of icons and swords, of Gods who watched unseen, of heroes who walked the narrow path between the divine and the mortal.

Long before the Conqueror’s name,
and ages after the heroes of old from whom the great houses claim their line,
there walked a different breed of line.

Knights of the Old and the New.
Knights who bore neither sigil nor banner,
who bent the knee to no scheming lord
and swore no fealty to gold-hungry courts.

Their vows were older than keeps,
older than crowns,
older than the very names men now cling to in pride.

They served the Gods above them.
And The people below.
The heavens above, the roots below.
Not to lordly summons.
But Godly prayers.
Carried nothing but justice through their sword.

Where lords warred for land, and kings legacies.
The folk prayed for protectors.
And the knights answered upon thee.
Resolute as an ox.
Unwavering like a stone in sea.
Bright as stars.
But too humble to be.
Binding wounds, ending feuds.
Stood between the innocent as they should be.

For a tale this be for a knight whose name is forgotten.
But deeds and ideals which had been set in stone.
This tale should not be of The Knight of Green, or Ser Mern “The Just”
But a tale for the knight whose name unjustly forgotten.

This is the tale of the nameless one.
The one unclaimed by song or sigil.
The one history misplaced,
though the Gods remembered.

A knight who rose when the world was fraying,
when old faiths trembled,
and new ones had not yet found their voice.

A knight who walked alone,
bearing no heraldry but conviction,
no armor but faith,
no companions but the prayers of the desperate.

A knight of the New and the Old.

And though the years have swallowed his name,
the echo of his deeds endures—
in whispers carried by septons,
in oaths murmured beneath heart-trees,
and in the quiet hope of every soul who believes
that virtue, once sworn, need not fade.

So listen now,
and let the telling breathe life into what time sought to bury.

For a forgotten name is still a name.
And a forgotten knight…
is still a knight.

His origins not said.
Buried in ashes or dirt, no one knows.
For he only appeared upon the throne of rock and vale,
where the Falcon-King sought him
yet found only rumor,
and a trail cold as last winter’s frost.

He appeared wherever the Gods willed.
First in the North, among the wolves,
where frozen winds carried whispers of a lone rider
who stood between a village and a pack of raiders.
Some swore the storm that howled that night
bent itself around him
that the snow parted at his steps,
and the raiders’ arrows veered as if swatted aside
by unseen branches.
The Old Gods, they said, had laid their hands upon him.

Then in the Riverlands, torn by ceaseless warring,
he walked into a battlefield thick with mist.
Men claimed the fog itself followed him,
cloaking the wounded from further slaughter
and chilling the rage in the hearts of the living.
A septon who survived the carnage insisted
he saw a faint light in the gloom,
soft as candle-glow,
hovering at the knight’s back
a lantern held by no earthly hand.
Surely, the Seven had guided him.

Then came the Rock, seat of gold and greed.
A lion-lord’s men later whispered
that when the knight spoke his charge,
torches guttered though no wind touched them,
and the hall felt suddenly smaller
as if the very stones listened.
Was it truth or tale?
For by the time the bards arrived,
he had vanished once more.

But it was in the Reach
the land of many petals, of harvests and plenty
that his legend rooted deepest.

For there, wonders followed him plainly.

Crops blighted by drought greened overnight
after he walked their borders in silent prayer.
A fever that gripped a village broke
the morning after he laid his palm
upon the brow of the first stricken child.
A river swollen with rain
calmed the moment he stepped into its flood,
the water parting just enough
to let a trapped family cross.

Smallfolk had no words for such things.
So they reached for every name they knew.

Some called him the Seven’s Mercy.
Some whispered a chosen of the Heart Trees.
Some said he walked with both lights
the Seven above,
and the Old Gods beneath.

Thus the name was born,
first spoken in awe by a miller’s wife,
then repeated by a hostler,
then sung by traveling singers
until it settled upon him like a mantle:

The Knight of the New & Old.

And still he asked for nothing.
He left no sigil carved,
no banner raised,
no song claimed as his own.

Only the path the Gods set.
Only the prayers he heard.
Only justice, carried in the edge of his blade.

Chapter Text

Baelon

The clamor of the yard, where the Targaryen banners get swept and strike the stone walls of the keep, stood a silver-haired man, taller than most in the yard, and bigger too.

Prince Baelon Targaryen, a man so brave he could be called mad as a child, hit the dragon, Balerion the Black Dread, on the snout, thus named the brave since.

Having entered a tourney early in his life as a mystery knight on the lists, unhorsed much of his competition before he himself got unhorsed by an opponent, by one Ser Rickard Redwynne, brother of Ser Ryam.

Though those weren't his highest achievements in life, for as he is the second son of the King, an honour given only by being born in the right place at the right time.

But at the moment that wasn't the focus of his attention; it was his wife, and his newborn. Only birthing their child nearly a fortnight ago, his dearest wife Alyssa decided to fly on dragon back with their new born Daemon, at any other point in life he could've laugh at the sight and simply enjoyed the revel, but as it stands his only has gave birth and now flying again.

For now, however, he ought to calm down and possibly talk with dearest later on to understand the madness that he couldn't figure out in his mind.

“You're quite troubled, brother.” A voice behind called out.

Baelon, in all his life, could instantly recognise the voice, he had dueled against it, with it, and stood with it.

“Brother!” Baelon chuckled, instantly turning around to meet his brother face to face.

“Baelon.”

Prince Aemon’s voice carried warmth even through the clamor of the yard. His brother turned, sweat still clinging to his brow from training, and the ghost of a grin touched his lips before he strode forward. The two embraced, Baelon thumping Aemon’s back with the calm strength of a man who had never feared anything in his life.

Aemon held tight.

When they parted, Baelon raised a brow.

But before he could speak, Aemon said softly, “I came as soon as I heard.”

“Dragonstone for the past moons has been a thorn in my side.”

Baelon inclined his head, “Understood well, brother, but worry no longer, you're here.”

“Last I heard, I had now a nephew.” Aemon said, then quickly questioned, “But I had the impression you were to be at the side of our sister in case of complications, and your son… but you're not?”

“Of course I would be, if not because Alyssa decided to recover hastily and went on dragon back,” Baelon with the voice of a man who could've done better.

Aemon at the moment was agape hearing it, then recollected his thoughts. “Considering dear sister, one could've expected worse.”

“I suppose.” Baelon said sheepishly, rubbing his nape.

Aemon shook his head faintly, though a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Still, you might at least have tried to convince her to stay. Alyssa is fierce, yes, but she is not a dragon.”

Baelon’s sheepishness deepened. “Tell that to the maesters she chased off.”

Aemon snorted. “She would.”

But then his expression changed—quieted, sharpened.

“And the child? He’s well?”

Baelon’s smile softened in a way only a father’s could. “Aye. Loud as a hatchling, strong as one too. Viserys almost bursted with pride.”

“And you?” Aemon asked gently.

Baelon hesitated—just a heartbeat.

“I am… relieved,” he said at last. “And gratefully the gods gave her strength enough to see it through.”

Aemon placed a hand on Baelon’s shoulder. “Relief is good. It means you care more for them than for your pride.”

Baelon huffed, half a snort, half a laugh. “Since when did you become a maester?”

“Since my brother started aging himself with needless worry.”

Before Baelon could answer back, a sound of which the unprepared and uneasy could not hope to hear at all, one which you weren't supposed to hear, the feel of it alone could make the hairs of an adult man stand up in fear, one could hear way above the skies.

A shadow then engulfed half the yard of its embrace, knights and guards alike looked far above, and saw the sight, a blood crimson dragon flew, then it descended in a tight turn, far too fast for its own good, its wings beating so close to the battlements that the banners whipped and snapped like they feared for their lives.

Then, before worse comes to worst, in a sharp left, flew toward the dragonpit, where one could see the many weapons and symbols of the Targaryens.

Aemon, looking at the direction of the dragonpit, a tiny figure of the red dragon could still be seen, “She’s back.”

Aemon returned his direction at Baelon, a hand resting casually on his hip, a faint trace of amusement in his eyes. “Quite fearless, as usual,” he said, tone measured. “Though I confess, the sight unsettles even me.”

Baelon’s jaw clenched. “Unsettled? Aye… that is one word for it.” He could feel the heat of the dragon’s passage, even from this distance, and the impossible calm with which Alyssa controlled her mount both infuriated and awed him. “I have faced Balerion himself, Aemon, and yet I cannot breathe while she rides like this.”

“She is mad,” he hissed. “And brilliant. And mad.”

Aemon allowed himself a small smile. “Perhaps that is the Targaryen way. The child will not lack courage, at least.”

Baelon’s hands tightened into fists. “Courage,” he spat the word, “does not mean I wish to see him hurled through the air on a dragon, barely two weeks old!”

Aemon chuckled softly, a sound more observant than mocking. “Nor would I, but… see how she rides. Not a scale on Meleys’ body scrapes the stone. Not a beat wasted. Even fear, it seems, has limits to her control.”

Baelon exhaled, the tension in his chest easing slightly, though only slightly. “Limits? Gods, she has none! None, Aemon! And yet, I cannot turn away. I cannot.”

The dragon dipped lower, wings stretching wide, brushing near the battlements. The banners snapped, the flags whipped violently, and a few men lost their balance. Baelon’s heart thudded painfully in his chest. His gaze returned to the tiny figure held aloft, the very embodiment of both audacity and vulnerability.

“She dares all things,” Baelon muttered, voice barely audible over the rush of air, “and yet she makes it seem simple. Like walking or breathing. Gods above, Aemon… how is it that she frightens me so?”

Aemon’s hand rested lightly on his brother’s shoulder, a grounding presence. “Because you care,” he said softly. “Not for your pride, not for appearances, not for glory—but for them. She is reckless, yes… but inside of you loves that about her.”

Baelon’s jaw worked, a muscle twitching on the side of his face. He wanted to reply, to argue, to call her names and fight the sky itself. And yet, even in the heat of terror and frustration, he could not deny it. A part of him thrilled at the sight, awed by her mastery, and painfully proud that the child cradled against her chest carried the blood of both.

“They will tell tales of this,” Baelon muttered, almost to himself. “Of a mother who flew with fire and wind, and a father who could do nothing but watch.”

Aemon nodded faintly. “Tales will be told. And yet, here you stand, alive, still watching. The child lives, your sister survives, and the yard remains largely intact. Perhaps you have not done nothing, Baelon.”

Baelon’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Perhaps. And yet…” before continuing. “…yet I would give all my skill, all my courage, every breath I have, to keep them from danger.”

He swallowed hard. “The gods have not yet allowed me that chance.”

Aemon gave a quiet hum of agreement, watching his brother pale in the heat of awe and fear. “Patience, brother,” he said. “Sometimes witnessing is enough. Sometimes it is the only measure of care you may offer.”

Baelon’s fists loosened slightly. He exhaled, shivering though the sun struck warm across his back. “Witnessing…” he repeated, voice tight. “Is not enough for a father.”

Aemon’s expression softened. “It is difficult. But they have the blood of the dragon.”

Baelon’s head lowered slightly, jaw set. “Then I shall have to be braver than any dragon I have faced,” he mumbled, more to himself than to his brother, “if I am to live with the sight of them.”

And so he stood, pale but unyielding, chest heaving, eyes locked on the crimson streak above, the yard a blur around him, and Aemon beside him, calm as ever, watching the audacity that was their sister, and the tiny spark of a future heir cradled in her arms.

Chapter Text

Aetherys

It was a pleasant thing.

It was special to be a noble, and more so to be a prince of the realm; it was a privilege beyond measure. For a boy, it was the dream of becoming a warrior-prince—sword in hand, felling bandits and churls with effortless skill. For a girl, it was the dream of a prince who was more than merely chivalrous: brave, noble, radiant with promise—someone who would love her dearly.

For dear Prince Aetherys, it was something far grander that he sought—more than the simple, fabled prince so often described in tales. With a firm push, the door swung open, its hinges moving with such haste one might think they feared the shame of hesitation. Stride poised between hurried purpose and measured composure, a face masking efforts, his brow furrowed.

The reason only a few could know, though many suspected it, had something to do with the incident in the yard just minutes before. Regardless of who the assailants were or what had caused it, the Prince focused solely on resolving the situation—and swiftly ensuring that repercussions followed.

The last hall stretched before him, the main entrance at its end separating him from the yard. Though the hall and entrance lay between him and the scene, the faint clatter of movement and raised voices carried to his ears, betraying the commotion beyond, as the distance between him and the entrance hastily reduced.

As his foot rested on the stone, weight shifting from one to the other, he straightened, every muscle taut, the voices and clatter approaching his ears with growing insistence.

His body turned instinctively, drawn toward the voices and the clatter of activity beyond.

As his last steps fell upon the sun-warmed stone, light struck his eyes, forcing him to raise a hand instinctively to shield them. Silhouettes and shadows danced across the yard like lovers in motion, while the raised voices grew sharper, approaching his ears with the wail of a banshee.

“Aether!” a voice shouted, to people passing by, a boy trying to sound bigger than he was, but to Aetherys, a dear friend he called Cay.

“Aether,” Cay said, as he approached Aetherys, closing the distance between them, “I am glad you are present; those sword swallowers are a nuisance!”

“You've got to say something to your sister.”

“I will, Cay, after it’s resolved,” Aetherys said, meeting his friend’s gaze with genuine sincerity.

As Cay led Aetherys into the yard, he could see several guards and Ser Ryam already present, likely addressing the situation.

Aetherys’ gaze swept over the yard. Guards moved with brisk efficiency, their armor catching the sunlight in fleeting glints. Ser Ryam stood at the center, his posture rigid, hands clasped behind his back, eyes sharp and assessing.

“He hit me first! Ser Ryam! How many times do I have to tell you! That scheming, greedy—shit did it!” The voice tore through the yard like the shriek of a monster, raw and frantic.

Aetherys turned his gaze to the source of the shouting. Though the youth was twice his age, Aetherys’ presence made him seem the larger of the two. The boy—red-headed, known as “Red” Roy Connington—stood there, his hair a bright flame, his face even redder, streaked with blood from a recent blow. A broken nose and the beginnings of a black eye were clearly visible, evidence of the earlier scuffle.

Next to him, Aetherys spotted Jonah Mooton, another so-called ‘friend’ of Saera, his hand resting firmly on Connington’s shoulder.

Across from them, Aetherys spotted Bedifer. He stood with a rigid calm, but there was a subtle sharpness in his posture, a barely restrained annoyance in the set of his shoulders. One fist hung at his side, streaked with blood from the earlier scuffle, the knuckles still raw and swollen. His eyes flicked between Red Roy and Jonah Mooton, sharp and assessing, as if weighing their next move, and the slight flare of his nostrils betrayed the effort it took to remain composed.

Ser Ryam’s voice cut through the yard, sharp and commanding. “From your own recollection, perhaps, but the accounts tell a different story.” He stepped forward, shoulders squared, eyes fixed on Red Roy and Jonah Mooton, daring any defiance. Every word carried urgency, as though he wished the matter settled before the lords themselves arrived to witness it.

“Shout bias, if you dare,” Ser Ryam said, his voice sharp and unyielding. “Unless you have a supporter who can back your claim, my squire—Bedifer—may strike you. That does not change the fact that you provoked him. Placing your hand on him, even lightly, was enough to fan the flames and invite further chaos.”

Aetherys, scarcely six name-days old, stepped forward, each movement deliberate, his boots silent against the sun-warmed stone. Were he a lowly boy, his presence might have been overlooked—but he was no common child. He was a prince, and he made sure it showed, standing with a quiet radiance that spoke of dignity and authority beyond his years.

Cay fell in step slightly behind and to the side, his eyes alert, a supportive presence that mirrored his friend’s calm. Beside him, Bedifer stood closer still, fists unclenched but ready, a silent show of solidarity with the Prince. The three of them formed a subtle wall of control, their combined presence tipping the balance in the yard.

“If I may, Ser Ryam,” Aetherys said, calm but firm, his voice carrying across the yard and cutting through the tension. “I believe there is an answer to resolve the matter—one that, if handled carefully, could add insult to injury for some, while providing enough satisfaction for both sides.”

Red Roy’s chest heaved, blood streaking his face, fiery hair glowing under the sun, and yet he struggled to find words. Jonah Mooton’s hand twitched at his side, ready to protest, but Aetherys’ unwavering gaze pinned him in place. Bedifer’s quiet presence reinforced the Prince’s authority, while Cay’s eyes tracked every movement, alert for any reckless surge.

“I believe that,” he continued, “it is not enough to strike in anger or speak in haste. Actions have consequences, and a man weighs both the effect and the perception of what he does.”

“Those who are involved,” Aetherys said, calm but firm, his voice carrying the weight of authority, “shall face prohibition from entering the yard, and surrender their swords—if they possess one. The ban shall hold for a fortnight, long enough for the lesson to be learned, and for reflection to take root.”

Red Roy’s chest heaved, blood streaking his face, fiery hair blazing under the sun, but no words came. His jaw tightened, hands clenching at his sides, while the realization of the punishment slowly sank in.

Bedifer, standing beside the Prince, met Aetherys’ gaze briefly and nodded, acknowledging the fairness of the judgment. The squire’s calm presence reinforced the Prince’s authority, a silent signal to Roy that resistance would be pointless.

“I have no intention of shaming,” Aetherys continued, eyes fixed steadily on Red Roy, “but to prevent matters from escalating. A man who cannot temper his anger is unfit to wield steel. You are boys now, training to be knights one day—your strength must be guided by discipline, not impulse.”

Red Roy swallowed hard, the fire in his eyes flickering as the weight of the Prince’s words settled over him. Bedifer’s stance remained firm, a quiet reminder that Aetherys was not alone in this judgment.

Aetherys lifted his chin, letting the last words fall with precision.

“Let the fortnight remind you that a sword is not the only thing that cuts. Consequences do, too.”

The yard fell silent. Even the sun-warmed stones seemed to press down with the gravity of the moment. Red Roy clenched his fists, muttering under his breath, but he did not speak further. Bedifer’s expression remained calm, almost proud, as if acknowledging the lesson had been fairly given.

“Then it shall be,” Ser Ryam said, his voice steady and unwavering. He stepped forward, authority radiating from every measured movement. “Red Roy Connington, Bedifer—surrender your swords.”

Red Roy hesitated, fingers brushing the hilt of his weapon, his pride battling the reality of the command. Blood still streaked his face, and his chest heaved, but the unyielding eyes of both the Prince and his friend left no room for defiance. Slowly, he drew his sword from its sheath and laid it at Ser Ryam’s feet, the clatter of steel on stone ringing through the yard.

Bedifer mirrored the motion with quiet composure, his own sword leaving his grip without protest. There was no anger in him now, only acknowledgment of the lesson taught. His eyes flicked briefly to Red Roy, as if to remind him that restraint was not weakness—it was mastery.

Ser Ryam collected the weapons, nodding once to Aetherys. “The ban will last for a fortnight. Any attempt to enter the yard before that, or to reclaim your weapon, will be considered defiance.”

Red Roy’s jaw clenched. The fire in his eyes had dimmed, replaced by grudging respect, or at least reluctant acknowledgment. Bedifer remained calm, hands relaxed at his sides.

Aetherys’ lips curved faintly, a shadow of satisfaction passing over his young features. The lesson had been delivered—not through brute force, but through command, composure, and consequence. The yard, once brimming with chaos, now held a tense stillness, broken only by the Prince’s measured breathing and the faint clatter of collected swords.

Red Roy moved quickly, dragging his feet slightly, his bloody face streaked in the sunlight. Jonah Mooton fell in step beside him, keeping pace, his hand occasionally brushing against Roy’s shoulder to steady him. Together, they turned toward the palace halls, their boots echoing faintly against the stone as they made for the maester, each step careful over the sun-warmed surface.

A few paces behind, Aetherys stepped forward, strides measured. Beside him, Bedifer walked with calm precision, sword sheathed, hands relaxed at his sides, mirroring the Prince’s pace. Cay fell in line just behind Aetherys, eyes alert to their surroundings, stepping lightly but purposefully across the yard.

The three moved together, leaving the open expanse of the training yard behind, boots scuffing lightly against the stone. The swish of cloaks and the soft padding of leathered boots were the only sounds.

Ser Ryam and the remaining guards stayed behind, standing among the pillars and along the edges of the yard, swords at their sides, scanning the area. Their eyes flicked occasionally to the departing group, ensuring order had been maintained, before returning to their silent patrol.

The yard, once filled with shouting and scuffling, now held only the faint echo of departing footsteps, the sun reflecting off stone and steel, still warm from the day.

“I thought that was fair,” Bedifer said, his voice calm, eyes meeting Aetherys’. “I should’ve been better. He made a comment about my stature—I resisted for a long time, but I could’ve tried harder.”

Aetherys’ gaze remained steady, softening only slightly. “You held your temper,” he said, voice even but firm, a hand resting lightly on Bedifer’s shoulder. “That in itself is no small thing. Temperance can be a sharper edge than any sword.”

Bedifer inclined his head slightly, a faint exhale escaping him. “I suppose there’s truth in that,” he said. His lips pressed into a thin line, but his posture relaxed under the subtle reassurance.

Cay, now sensing the easing vibe, let out a low whistle, a hint of mirth in his tone. “I must say,” he said, glancing over his shoulder toward the yard, “Red Roy looks more like a court jester than a fighter with that streaked, bloody face and tangled hair. One wrong step and he’d trip over his own pride.”

Aetherys’ lips twitched with the faintest trace of a smile, but he kept his gaze forward. Bedifer let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head slightly.

The three of them continued down the corridor, their steps steady, the tension of the yard behind them slowly giving way to calm camaraderie.

Chapter Text

Aemon

Heir to the throne, eldest living, Aemon carried his authority in silence rather than proclamation. Courtiers often fell quiet when he entered a room, not out of fear but because he made stillness feel natural. He listened more than he spoke, weighing words the way other men weighed gold, and when he answered, it was with the careful precision of a man who preferred solutions over spectacle.

Those who knew him well had learned to read the subtle markers of his mind at work—the slight furrow between his brows, the way his thumb brushed once along his knuckles when considering a tough truth. It was a stark contrast to Baelon, whose decisions often arrived swifter than breath and struck with the same force.

Everything, like his father, had to be. The prince of Dragonstone, the right heir to the king. But for now he was just Aemon Targaryen, a son to the king, and a brother who visited.

No princely title weighed on his brow in this moment. No council waited with inked parchments and sharpened questions. Only the familiar corridors, the salt-scented breeze rolling in from Blackwater Bay, and the faint clamor of the training yard below, where steel rang in a rhythm he had known since boyhood.

Aemon tilted his head, sunlight spilling across his features. His lashes met in a brief, quiet meeting, and a small twitch of his lips betrayed nothing—neither fatigue nor thought, neither warning nor welcome.

For a moment, he pictured a life without expectation, without the endless chain of duty. A life of silence and peace, unclaimed by crown or court—a thought so sweet it felt nearly forbidden. A hut of rough-hewn wood and straw, a field of green stretching beyond the horizon, and no steel to worry over, no banners snapping in the wind, no eyes watching, no weight pressing on his shoulders.

‘How I ought to feel the life of freedom and silence.’ Aemon thought, sunlight struck him so, though bombarded with the moment, recollected his composure, and with a swift action, shadow covered half his face.

He stepped off the balcony, sunlight brushing briefly against his shoulders before fading as he crossed the threshold. The cool shadow of the room welcomed him, and his boots echoed softly against the polished stone floor. Without pause, he moved toward the hall, each step measured, carrying him away from the quiet of the balcony and into the wider expanse beyond. Light spilled through the tall windows along the corridor, catching the silver in his hair for a fleeting moment before the shadows of the hall reclaimed him entirely.

Minutes had passed, and Aemon now walked among the royal gardens. The scent of roses and jasmine clung to the air, carried on a light breeze that rustled the leaves of perfectly trimmed hedges. Sunlight dappled the stone paths.

As he walked through the gardens, birds chirped and sang their songs; at the end of the path stood a tree unlike any other, stood bigger than the rest, if one dared to look closely nerves would settle in with haste, an ashen body, with red foliage that blocked the sun's light.

As boot met grass, Aemon slowed, the familiar crunch of dew-soaked blades underfoot replaced by a cautious stillness. He approached the tree with measured steps, senses alert despite the calm of the gardens. Every rustle of leaves and distant chirp seemed louder here, sharper, as if the air itself was aware of his presence.

Met with the tree, eyes thoroughly examined the tree, as a child, he barely looked at the tree’s direction, even as far as not visiting the tree at all once in his youth, but that all of course passed and now sometimes he had visited the tree's area from time to time.

It was a special thing. It was, as far as he remembered, south of the Neck. Weirwoods are a special sight to see, barely amassing in the thousands, or even hundreds in the counting.

As he examined the tree, he couldn't but look at the body of the tree. Another thing that made weirwoods special was the face carved on it, He couldn't remember what carved the faces, but for the unready, it was unsettling at the slightest.

“My dear brother, Lady Jocelyn would call you unfaithful if you keep looking at the tree as if it were a prostitute to fuck,” a voice suddenly said, knocking Aemon out of his thoughts immediately looking around the area.

A voice cut through the quiet of the gardens, flat and unflinching. “My dear brother. Lady Jocelyn would call you unfaithful if you keep staring at that tree as if it were a…” Aemon jolted, eyes scanning the garden.

“Aetherys.”

He turned fully, meeting his brother’s impassive gaze. “It seems I… didn’t notice you.”

Aetherys’s eyes followed the crimson leaves of the tree, unbothered by Aemon’s slight flinch. “The tree suits the garden,” he said simply, voice steady, betraying nothing of judgment or amusement—except for that one remark moments ago.

“Not like what everyone says south of the Neck,” Aetherys added, his tone flat, almost conversational, as if sharing an idle observation rather than a criticism.

“Though I wouldn’t say their suspicions are unfounded,” he continued, still calm, as if weighing a simple truth rather than passing judgment.

“I had hoped to meet you; after all, I have barely seen your presence,” he added, voice still even, carrying no accusation, only fact.

Aemon’s gaze flicked up, tracing the calm line of his brother’s jaw, and for a moment he hesitated, unsure how to respond. “I… I have been occupied,” he said carefully, keeping his tone measured, though a faint tension crept into his shoulders. “The gardens… provide a rare moment of quiet.”

Aetherys inclined his head slightly, regarding him with the same steady composure. “I can understand that,” he replied. The sunlight flickered through the crimson leaves above, casting shifting patterns across the path as they stood in near silence, each aware of the other, yet careful not to disturb the fragile rhythm of the garden.

“You’ve grown bigger since I last heard,” Aemon remarked quietly, eyes sweeping over the figure before him, noting the broadening shoulders and the steady weight of presence that only time could shape.

“Last I saw you, you were only a babe,” he added, voice soft with memory, letting the words hang as he recalled the years that had passed.

“I barely recognized you,” he murmured, a crease forming between his brows as he studied the familiar-yet-changed figure before him.

“I wouldn’t have,” he continued, “if I hadn’t remembered I had a younger brother to regale with.”

“I suppose that is what duty gives us in return,” Aetherys said, voice steady, almost resigned, as he met Aemon’s gaze.

Aemon exhaled lightly, letting the weight of the words settle between them. The surrounding garden seemed to soften, the crimson leaves trembling faintly in the breeze. For a moment, the years of expectation and obligation—the crowns and the councils—felt distant, replaced by the quiet presence of a brother beside him.

“Your handling of Lord Connington and his child, if I must say, was impressive,” Aemon remarked, his voice calm, carrying neither praise nor scorn, only careful acknowledgment.

He let his gaze linger on Aetherys, noting the quiet command in his posture, the steady assurance that had managed what many others might have bungled. For one so young, Aemon thought, the patience and precision were uncommon indeed. The garden seemed to hold its breath around them, crimson leaves swaying gently as if the world itself waited for a reply.

Aemon’s hands remained clasped behind his back, fingers tightening slightly—not from tension, but from the weight of careful consideration. “It is rare,” he added softly, “to see authority exercised with such… precision, with no noise or spectacle. Especially at your age.”

"It wasn't anything impressive, anybody could've thought what I proposed.” Aetherys said.

Aemon smiled faintly at the comment. What had begun as a simple compliment to start conversation had shifted, almost imperceptibly, into a genuine appreciation for his brother. It would have been a lie to say that he had not been impressed with the comment, as humility was rare among the Targaryen boys.

“I suppose,” he mumbled, letting the words linger between them, careful not to overstate, careful not to give more away than necessary.

The garden remained still around them—the crimson leaves trembling gently in the breeze. For a moment, the weight of court and duty seemed to ease, replaced by the quiet acknowledgment of shared blood and shared purpose.

“If it doesn’t hurt your time,” Aemon added, voice even, calm, “I would like to invite you to eat supper with me, Aetherys.”

He let the offer hang in the air, watching for the faintest sign of acknowledgment, the subtle shift of posture or the briefest twitch of expression.

“I would appreciate it, dear brother,” Aetherys replied, voice quiet but steady, carrying a hint of warmth beneath its usual calm.

Aemon inclined his head slightly, a faint relief brushing his features. “Then let us go before the sun fully sets,” he said, stepping onto the garden path, the soft rustle of crimson leaves accompanying their quiet passage.

Aemon led the way along the winding stone paths, his boots whispering softly against the smooth slabs. The garden stretched before them, immaculate in its careful symmetry, yet wild in its occasional overgrowth, where ivy clung stubbornly to the edges of low walls, and the scent of blooming roses mingled with the brine of the Blackwater Bay. Sunlight filtered through the top branches of ornamental trees, casting shifting mosaics across the pathway, chasing them with every step.

Aetherys followed, his movements deliberate, as though each footfall marked a choice rather than a mere continuation of motion. He glanced briefly at the weirwood, its carved face now half-hidden by the shadows of the late afternoon, yet the image lingered in the periphery of his gaze. There was a weight to the tree, a quiet gravity that spoke of long memory and silent observation, and he wondered, fleetingly, whether Aemon felt it as well—or if the prince of Dragonstone could only see the beauty and not the burden.

“Do you ever tire of the gardens?” Aemon asked, voice soft, almost rhetorical. “I have walked these paths countless times, yet they feel new each season. Perhaps that is the gift of care, or perhaps the seasons themselves are kinder than men.”

Aetherys did not answer immediately, only tilted his head slightly, as if weighing the question against invisible scales. The silence between them was not uncomfortable; it was measured, a pause pregnant with thought and observation. Even in the absence of words, Aemon sensed the sharpness of his brother’s mind, noting minor details: the way the sunlight touched the silver strands at Aetherys’s temple, the quiet alignment of his shoulders, the steadiness in the set of his jaw.

“I suppose it depends on perspective,” Aetherys eventually said, voice neutral, yet carrying the faintest trace of thoughtfulness. “To some, gardens are merely decoration, to be admired and then forgotten. To others, they are reminders—of time, of care, of growth that is not against haste.”

Aemon nodded slowly. There was truth in that statement, though he would not call it his own. He preferred order, calculation, and the certainty of measured action; yet there was a pull in the wildness of a garden, in the way life continued unabated despite crowns and decrees. Perhaps, he thought, that was why he often came here, in search not for answers but for perspective.

They continued walking, the conversation flowing in quiet increments, punctuated by the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant call of a bird. Aemon’s eyes wandered over the meticulously trimmed hedges and the scattered blooms, yet his attention remained half on Aetherys, half on the path ahead. There was a rhythm here, a cadence that reminded him of childhood walks with Baelon, of afternoons spent racing through courtyards and gardens, reckless with youth and unburdened by crowns.

“I have heard you always had a way of seeing what others overlook,” Aemon said after a pause, his words carrying more weight than casual observation. “Even now, your mind seems to measure the currents beneath conversation, beneath appearances. I admit… I find it… admirable.”

Aetherys’s lips twitched, the faintest acknowledgment of something resembling a smile, but it passed quickly, as if not meant to linger. “Perhaps it is necessity, nothing more,” he replied evenly. “One cannot rely solely on spectacle or Lucy when the smallest misstep can ripple into disaster. Cautions are to be learned, not given.”

Aemon considered this as they passed beneath a trellis of flowering vines, the petals drifting lazily on the afternoon breeze. He allowed himself a brief reflection—on the years, on duty, on the heavy mantle of expectation pressed upon their shoulders since childhood. “Necessity often breeds skill,” he said finally, voice calm, almost a murmur, yet carrying the weight of observation. “But it is rare that I see it wielded with such… ease.”

There was a pause, filled with the gentle clinking of water from a nearby fountain and the distant echo of training from the yard. Both brothers walked in that quiet, letting the air carry the unspoken acknowledgment of shared blood and responsibility. Even in silence, they communicated, each gesture and step a subtle message of understanding.

At last, they approached the end of the garden, where the stone path opened into a courtyard framed by flowering arches and low walls. Sunlight fell fully upon the marble, warming it, yet shadows pooled beneath the arches, waiting for the day’s end. Aemon slowed, allowing his gaze to sweep the area once more, drinking in the scene before turning slightly to Aetherys.

“Shall we?” he asked, voice even but carrying an uncharacteristic hint of anticipation. The simplicity of the question belied the weight of duty and expectation that followed them everywhere, a reminder that even a walk in the garden could not fully free them from the roles they inhabited.

Aetherys inclined his head in agreement, and for the briefest moment, Aemon allowed himself to imagine that the world outside this courtyard—the councils, the crowns, the judgments—did not exist. Here, walking side by side with his brother, he felt the rarest luxury: a fleeting sense of normalcy, of connection, and perhaps even peace.

Together, they began the short walk toward the keep, the soft rustle of leaves and the gentle crunch of stone beneath their boots marking the rhythm of their passage. Shadows lengthened around them, creeping across the marble and grass, yet neither seemed to notice. For now, there were only the gardens, the afternoon light, and the quiet companionship of brothers.