Chapter Text
Dragonstone - 128 a.C
Rhaenyra Targaryen - Princess of the Blood of Old Valyria, Lady Paramount of Dragonstone, and Queen of the Narrow Sea - woke up to soft, warm kisses being pressed upon the slope of her shoulders and neck, making her sigh contentedly. The strong expanse of her husband's bare chest shook with mirth as he relished her reaction.
"Good morning, nuha daria." Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, whispered in her ear before pressing another kiss to the skin behind it, making her gasp. His hands - scarred and calloused from training and sword-fighting - traced the side of her torso and her front, fondling the curves that formed from carrying and nurturing their babes, their perfect little hatchlings.
And speaking of hatchlings-
A cry from the crib by the foot of their bed interrupted the parents' loving morning, followed by a higher pitched one as both baby and dragon hatchling demanding to be fed.
It was a sort of tradition now, first established by Alyssa the Dauntless when her twins were born and carried on by the Targaryens of Dragonstone. Newborn babes would sleep in their parents' room for their first year of life, where the parents could reach them quickly for late-night feedings and not deal with opening or closing doors as they watched over them. Aemma continued the trend when the surprise that was Arthur Arryn came along, fear and past cradle losses making her spend entire nights watching over her last babe. And when Rhaenyra and Daemon's first babe made their triumphant entrance to the world, screaming and kicking, the parents were no less inclined to hand over their precious little hatchling over to wetnurses and a distant nursery so soon.
That didn't mean there were no complaints, however.
"You could not just wait a few more minutes, could you?" Daemon grumbled without any malice and kissed Rhaenyra once more before rising from the bed and picking up the baby boy, identical purple eyes meeting as the Rogue Prince settled him on his chest. The contact with his father's skin seemed to work in settling him some, which made Daemon smirk as he teased his son. "I did not get my fill yet, hatchling."
"Daemon!" Rhaenyra chastised him, but it only made her husband smirk as he carried their latest babe back to bed with them.
"What?" He said and handed the boy to his mother, who pulled down her nightgown and held him to her breast.
"Do not listen to your kepa, Rhaegar." She whispered to her little son while he drank. "He's just being dramatic."
Rhaegar Targaryen, fourth son and sixth child of Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon Targaryen, could not care less about the teasing and his father's squawk of completely fake indignation as he happily drank his breakfast.
The little hatchling, a pale green thing they had called Vermax, climbed to the top of the crib and glided onto the fine velvet covers, the dragon not too happy about being so far away from his human. Daemon chuckled at the little dragon's behavior and picked him up like one would with a cat, helping him curl up under his future rider's form. Hatchlings were always whiny when they were separated from their riders for too long, especially ones that hatched in the cradle. He still remembered how Syrax would hiss at his own father when Rhaenyra was just born and Baelon the Brave - who earned the moniker by punching Balerion in the snout - recoiling out of fear.
Of course, they only managed maybe five minutes of peace before their other hatchlings decided to crash their morning too.
Gods, Daemon loves them so much.
"Kepa!" Daella cried as she ran into the room and vaulted onto the bed, laughing when Daemon caught her in mid-air before she could crash into her mother (or worse, land on top of the dragon.) She is their second daughter, just turned five years old and filled to the brim with endless energy in a way that reminds him of Rhaenyra at her age. She'd taken Daemon's usual remarks about them being dragons a little too seriously and had tried to jump off tables and benches to test her flying often enough to give poor Ser Harrold ten new wrinkles with each attempt. At least it took just one serious talk for her to cease trying to fly down... only for her to try to fly up. "Again! Again!" Daella clapped enthusiastically.
"No flying before breakfast." Daemon said as pressed a kiss to his daughter's pale gold hair still mussed from sleep and ignoring her adorable pout. "Either on our dragons or with me."
Daella's eyes suddenly lit up in a dangerous manner, and she turned towards the door - or rather, to the approaching sound of plated armor. "Kepāzma! Can I fly with you?"
Ser Harrold Westerling, member of the Kingsguard and fierce protector of Princess Rhaenyra and her brood of hatchlings, appeared at the door, holding the hand of three-year-old Maekar Targaryen. The first time their eldest child called the old knight Kepāzma, both Rhaenyra and Ser Harrold felt their eyes water - and only one of them could blame it on the babe in their belly making them emotional - and yet neither ever corrected him or the others. The oldest ones were vaguely aware of their mother's actual sire - King Viserys Targaryen - but he might as well be a character in a story to them, and none of the stories about him painted him in a good light, to be honest. As far as the children of Rhaenyra Targaryen were concerned, Ser Harrold and Benedict Fowler were their grandfathers in every way that mattered.
He bowed to his charge and Prince Daemon and then smiled kindly at the latest demanding little princess. "I am afraid that depends on what your mother decides, my princess."
"Daella, Ser Harrold is a person, not a beast you can saddle and mount whenever you fancy." Rhaenyra said sternly as Rhaegar finally unlatched and Daemon fixed her sleeping shift back in place, his eyes never leaving the milk-sleepy infant as he took him from his mother's arms and started to bounce him. The Lady Paramount of Dragonstone and the Narrow Sea reached for her daughter and her other son, so Ser Harrold led them both to her loving arms and she held them close to her chest. "After your morning lessons, we shall go to the Dragonmont to visit your dragons and you can come with me on Syrax if you want."
Maekar was still a little groggy from sleep, but he recognized the name of his mother's dragon well-enough. "S'rax!" He cheered, throwing his little hands in the air.
Rhaenyra smiled at his attempt and nuzzled his round cheek. "Yes, sweet boy! We are going to see Syrax." She made sure to enunciate her dragon's name slowly and grinned when Maekar tried again and got much closer, which earned him another nuzzle and kiss. "Come along, children - it's time for all good little hatchlings to have breakfast so they can grow strong and fierce."
Rhaenyra got out of bed with Maekar in her arms, but Daella refused to come down and instead extended her arms to the only adult with available hands. Every weapon in her arsenal - the pout, the pleading eyes, and the tilted head - was deployed against Ser Harrold, whose resolve against certain silver-haired children grew weaker with every babe and every time one of them called him grandfather. Of course, the knight allowed the little princess to climb on his back and wrap her arms around his neck to hang on to him. Daella pointed onwards like a general conducting a battle and directed the knight forward to breakfast.
"We shall have to talk with Daella once more." Rhaenyra quipped at her husband as he finished settling Rhaegar (and his hatchling) back in their crib. "Poor Ser Harrold has been carrying little princesses on his back for over twenty years."
"I believe that spoiling one's grandchildren is a grandfather's main duty." Daemon pointed out and embraced her from behind, taking the chance to kiss her again and ruffle Maekar's hair. "We shall trust that Ser Harrold will decline if being a Royal Pony becomes too hard on his back."
There was a knock on the door and Elinda Massey appeared to take Maekar and allow them to get dressed.
The young woman had recently reached her twentieth nameday and was the last remaining lady from Rhaenyra's first entourage to remain in her service, the others having married and moved away. There had been plenty of agreeable proposals for the young lady, but the soft-spoken woman refused them all. "I have no need of a different keep or another family, my lady," Elinda had reassured Rhaenyra when the Lady Paramount asked why she kept rejecting proposals. Elinda had been keeping Visenya entertained on her lap so Rhaenyra could sign their latest contracts, and she cooed back at the little girl smiling up at her. "I quite like being in the dragon's nest." The sincerity with which Elinda had pronounced herself made Rhaenyra set protocol aside and embrace the younger woman.
Even after so many years, it still struck Rhaenyra that so many people loved her.
Courtiers in the Red Keep in her distant youth were always quick to praise how peaceful King Viserys' reign to his face and then insult him behind his back, and Rhaenyra remembers getting compliments for her beauty and not much else in the same breath that they offered condolences for her mother's most recent loss. The gentle words of her father and Alicent's prayers ring hollow in her memory - pretty, but meaningless.
In a sharp contrast, her ladies-in-waiting knew her as an intelligent, empathetic, protective woman that granted them means to forge their own paths.
(Sabitha Vypren, now Frey, teaching girls how to fight; Johanna Westerling, now Lannister, being the actual ruler of the West while Lord Jason drank and whored; Catelyn Strong, now Beesbury - and wasn't that a joyous union - using the knowledge she gained from their House of Learning to upgrade the storages and hives; Celaena Celtigar, now Strong, liaising with Qohorik smiths to rebuild Harrenhal and repurpose the burnt old stones. Maris Baratheon marrying Lord Blackmont, a Dornish lord whose house sat almost on the border Dornish Marshes, and suing for peace between the Marcher lords and the Dornish.)
Rhaenyra Targaryen had given them power, and that bred a kind of loyalty that no whispers from King's Landing or ravens from the Hightower Queen or Hand could break. The smallfolk of Dragonstone clamor for her and mean it. They do not see a pretty princess or a tyrant ruler, they see the woman that fought to protect them from pirates, gave them means to earn coin and feed their families, and brought pride to their home. She would never forget the many gifts that were brought to Dragonstone after the birth of their firstborn, Aenar - bouquets of wildflowers, a crudely carved wooden dragon, knitted booties and gloves of ashwool. Nothing like the silk swaddles and gold adornments and veritable mountain of toys that had been sent by the King and other noblemen, but all the more valuable to Rhaenyra.
With a shake of her head, Rhaenyra wiped away the tears that were starting to form in her eyes and got ready for the day.
...
Aenar Targaryen was the firstborn son of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen.
He had white pearlescent hair and pale lilac eyes and resting solemn expression even as a young boy - something that reminded both Vaegon and Rhaenys of the late Aemon Targaryen. Like he knew even as a babe that he would be held to certain standards as the Heir of Dragonstone and carried himself as such. He rarely cried and looked at everything with quiet attention, as if he was making assessments. It was unsurprising that many began calling him the Pale Prince, both in reference to his late uncle and to his pale complexion.
After his first year of life, he and his uncle Arthur shared the nursery at Dragonstone - having been born only six moons apart - their mothers and nurses often noting that the two would babble at each other in low voices. Planning future mischief - and one should never discuss such plans out loud, Daemon said with amusement.
That unfortunately would be the first thing he and the Targaryen women would remember when Rhaenyra went to check on them one night and found Aenar's favorite plushie pushed against the corner of the crib and Arthur using it as leverage to try and get himself over the railing of their crib. Suffice to say, neither Aemma nor Rhaenyra were happy Daemon's comment after this - but they were pleased that the uncle and nephew were working together as a team. As brothers.
When each of Aenar's siblings came along, Arthur and Aenar took the duties of being the eldest very seriously. Gaemon came after Aenar, then Visenya, then Daella, then Maekar, and now Rhaegar was the latest babe to join the ever-growing nest at Dragonstone, though only Daella and Maekar remained in the nursery, with the eldest three having been granted their own rooms as they grew older.
There was rarely a day where Aenar did not watch over his younger siblings as the nurses fed and dressed them, or Arthur did not attempt to hold them when they cried. There were fights over some beloved toys and more than one tantrum over who got to fly with a certain dragonrider and one time Aenar and Arthur themselves got into a short but intense fight over who was the best dragon, Syrax or Dreamfyre, each one wanting to defend their mother's mount, but there was no doubt in anyone's mind that the children growing up in Dragonstone were close with each other.
Though that may not be obvious right now, as Visenya and Gaemon threatened each other with their butterknives over the last sweetbun.
(Gods, I hope Lady Aemma and young Arthur come back soon, Ser Steffon Darklyn thought as he intervened in the quarrel before blood was drawn, but this is still better than King's Landing.)
Aenar took the offending sweetbun and ate it whole, earning him glares and gasps from his siblings. "There, now you can stop fighting." He said with his mouth full.
Gaemon said something that had Ser Steffon clearing his throat at him and Visenya was about to shout something when the oldest man at the table cleared his throat. "Kill each other after breakfast, I wish to read in peace." Archmaester Vaegon Targaryen complained loudly behind his book. With Rhaella having gone to deliver blankets to the orphanages, he was the designated keeper of the peace. He put the book down and eyed them sternly. "It is poor manners to interrupt a meal with senseless violence."
"Oh, does that mean we can interrupt a meal for justified violence?" Daemon Targaryen shot back at his Uncle as he walked up to the table with a dressed Maekar in his arms, upside down. The boy had decided that he also wanted to be carried around and refused to come down for breakfast unless Daemon carried him - so Daemon complied... only to throw him back and hang his ankles over his shoulders, the little boy dangling behind him like a sack and laughing the entire way. "I hauled us a shark this morning."
Daemon bent back with more effort than he would have liked and set him down on the floor as gently as he could, not wanting to risk his wife's wrath so early. Maekar giggled as his silver hair met the cold stone floor, clapping excitedly and jumping up to his feet. "'m a shark!"
"No, you're a dragon." The father corrected and pinched his cheek. "And dragons eat their porridge before it grows cold."
Rhaenyra joined them a second later, dressed in a black ashwool dress embroidered with red and gold dragons along the waist and shoulders. Over the years, the production of ashwool had grown exponentially, with an entire village of weavers and dyers and looms dedicated only to the making of it. It had become the most successful export of Dragonstone, the thicker bolts well-loved in the North with its summer snows and the finer, more delicate drapes desired by highborns and smallfolk alike for their light weight. On Dragonstone, many women had even taken to wearing dresses styled after the Targaryen women's riding habits, with slim long sleeves and calf-length skirts.
"Good morning, all." The Lady Paramount of Dragonstone greeted each of her children with a kiss to their heads, her husband with a peck on the lips, and Vaegon and Ser Steffon with a nod.
The children calmed down some with their parents' presence, with Visenya begging their mother for a chance to have a new sword, Gaemon insisting that he was promised a sword first, Ser Harrold quietly arriving to relieve Ser Steffon from his post and engaging in conversation with Aenar about his training, and Daemon trying to wrangle a few more spoonfuls of porridge into Maekar's mouth while Daella tried to climb onto the table to reach for Vaegon's book.
It was chaotic and noisy and perfect in a way no royal meal would ever compare to and maybe that should have been the first sign that something was about to go wrong.
It was Johanna Swann, remaining in Dragonstone while Aemma and the rest of her household went to the Eyrie, that came in running into the solar with an equally frantic Laena Velaryon behind her.
"Laena? What is it?" Rhaenyra asked immediately as she got up, her eyes looking to Daemon and his steady strength as he placed his hand on the pommel of Dark Sister on instinct.
"I was on my patrol when I spotted a ship inbound for Dragonstone." Laena said as she caught her breath. "It had Targaryen sails... and I saw four small white-haired people on board and along with several people in green."
Rhaenyra drew in a sharp breath and Daemon bit out a curse in High Valyrian. The children looked at their parents with confusion clear in their faces.
Aenar, ever the voice of reason, looked up at their mother. "Muña? Are we under attack? Guests are not supposed to arrive before the end of the week."
Daemon sensed how Rhaenyra's chest tightened and immediately came to her side, resting a hand on the small of her and another on her shoulder to lend his support. Rhaenyra grabbed his hands and squeezed them back in thanks before softly smiling at her son in an attempt to reassure him. "No, my darling, we simply have to deal with... unexpected guests."
"Uninvited pests." Daemon growled under his breath and hid his face in Rhaenyra's hair so his children would not see him baring his teeth like an animal.
Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, Lady Paramount of Dragonstone and the Narrow Sea, reminded herself of who was on that ship and steeled her spine.
Whatever the Queen and the King and the fucking Hand wanted from them... they would not get it.
And they would not get the jump on them either.
"Ser Steffon, please see that Daella and Maekar are kept in the nursery with Rhaegar - no one besides their nurses and Elinda are to enter. Great Uncle Vaegon, please go to the Dragonmont and see to the hatchery and alert the keepers - I want every entrance and exit to the caves guarded."
"Of course, my princess. I will guard them with my life." Ser Steffon agreed with a deep bow.
"Of course, send the old man to the rocky underground tunnels, why not." Vaegon grumbled but did not refuse.
Rhaenyra then turned to her eldest, Gaemon and Visenya taking their cue from their eldest brother and straightening up when their mother leaned down to talk to them. "Your grandsire and his family are coming to visit, and we must greet them properly. I want all of you to get cleaned up and comb out your hair and be ready to greet them at the terrace as protocol demands. No complaints."
Visenya frowned in confusion. "Our grandsire? But Kepāzma is right here and Grand Ben is with Mumuña and Art in the Eyrie."
"This is my... blood father - and your father's older brother. The man who your Mumuña was married to before she met and fell in love with Ser Benedict." Rhaenyra explained. "The royal family is here."
The Eyrie - the Vale of Arryn
Ser Benedict Fowler, loving husband to Aemma Arryn for over ten years, inspected the training yard with a hawk's keen eye as the squires practiced their stances. Among them was his son, Arthur Arryn, who had just passed his one-and-tenth nameday and had travelled to the Eyrie from Dragonstone for that very occasion.
With Arthur growing taller and stronger and cleverer with every year he lived, those who opposed Lady Jeyne Arryn's choice of successor were scrambling to find valid reasons to discredit him. They had gone after his and Aemma's marriage, citing concerns over "foreign influence"; there were enough rumors about witchcraft when the known barren womb of Aemma Arryn produced a healthy child to have the more devout lords looking nervous; but the main grievance was about a possible heir being raised away from the Vale was that he would not be familiar with their customs and way of life, not to mention the threats they all faced.
Aemma and Arthur flew to the Eyrie on Dreamfyre's back, clad in Arryn colors from head to toe with the large dragon to remind them of their close bond to the Targaryens of Dragonstone. Lady Jeyne Arryn welcomed them with all the pomp and circumstance their station and their kinship required and they had a grand feast with almost all the houses from the Vale in attendance.
It was obvious to everyone that it was not just a celebration, but a show of power - and Arthur, who is sweet and kind and dutiful, had all the nobility under his spell before the first dance began.
Benedict might be a little biased in his thinking that his son is the most handsome boy alive, but he has Aemma's eyes and angelic face and several older noblemen remark upon Arthur's chin and ears, claiming that they were similar to the late Elbert Arryn - who had been Jeyne's father - and other Arryn relatives. Arthur only really took his hair and the shape of his eyes from Benedict, which would have made a lesser man bitter, probably, but Ben was too busy being happy that his son was healthy and thriving to worry about that. Besides, how could he be jealous when his son's mother was the most beautiful woman alive?
Out of curiosity, Arthur asked for any stories the lords could give him about his departed kin, explaining to them that he did not ask his mother or cousin because it did not sit right with him to poke at deep, old wounds for the sake of satisfying his curiosity. More than one noblewoman swooned when he expressed not wanting to upset the women of his family, and the noblemen appreciated him wanting to know about his ancestors. The lords and ladies closer to his age fell just as fast too. Having been taught by Aemma herself, Arthur complimented the young ladies' dresses and asked after their interests, as well as talked about different fighting styles and weapons with the boys that were already squires.
Back to the present, Ser Benedict Fowler watched as the master-of-arms at the Eyrie paired the boys off for sparring practice - some fought with swords to simulate Westerosi combat, some with axes to simulate a warrior from the Mountain Clans. Ser Darklyn and Prince Daemon were the ones in charge of training back at Dragonstone and Arthur often fought against his eldest nephews and niece, who were close in age, so it would be good for him to practice with new opponents while they were visiting the Eyrie. It would be a learning opportunity for the other Vale boys, as well.
The master-of-arms of House Arryn was a formidable knight from House Hardyng, but Ben still caught Arthur looking around the courtyard once, expecting to see Ser Darklyn's white cloak or Prince Daemon's confident cocked hip. Sadly, the Kingsguard had to remain back in Dragonstone to assist Ser Harrold with herding Aemma's adorable grandchildren... and to keep up the farce that Ser Steffon had been called to Dragonstone ten years ago to assist only with Princess Rhaenyra's children. No one in King's Landing needed to know that the knight was the first person outside of immediate family to be notified of Arthur's existence... or that he immediately started packing his things before he even wrote a reply for the invitation.
Ben remembered how drained Ser Steffon Darklyn had looked as he disembarked from the ship that brought him from King's Landing along with gifts from the King to his daughter; how the knight had seemed both exhausted and ecstatic as he came down on one knee before Aemma and pledged himself as her sworn shield once more; how happy the man was to meet Arthur and see Aemma healthy after yet another childbed. He had glared at Ben for that too, just like Rhaenyra had done.
Footsteps echo close and Benedict is taken out of his head by the appearance of his wife, who settles next to him to watch their son. Aemma's silver-blonde hair is in an elegant updo, having just come from meetings with Lady Jeyne and other lords of the Vale, and her blue and black dress is all proper and matronly to conduct business with the uptight Andals. It must have been a vexing meeting, judging by how she slinks into his side and drops her head on his shoulder.
"How is our little hatchling?" Aemma asked with a kiss to his greying beard. Age - along with Arthur's birth and every one of Rhaenyra's children, if he was honest - had painted his hair a dark grey and the stubble on his face was catching up too.
"Making friends and learning from them." True to his word, Arthur was helping his opponent get up and gesturing with the practice sword to show him something. Judging by the fact that he was using the wooden sword to point at his groin and neck, Ben knew his son was sharing fighting tips he learned from Ñamar Alyssa. "Perhaps I could get down there, show them how a Dornish lancer fights - that would certainly surprise the mountain clans next time they tried to attack."
Aemma narrowed her beautiful eyes at him, which made the wrinkles that were starting to appear at the corner of her eyes deepen in distrust. "Huh, I seem to remember you whining about your shoulder pinching and the healers instructing you to rest, old man."
"I did not whine, I was appropriately complaining." The dornishman corrected pedantically only to drop his gaze to her lips and lower his voice as his eyes darkened. "And I do not think an old man could do that thing that had you crying my name to all the gods last night."
Aemma smirked at what he was implying, but there was something that stopped her smile from reaching her eyes - and that worried him.
"Who must die for the crime of making you sad?" Ben asked and went to cup Aemma's face. "Tell me."
"Do not reach for your lance, my hawk." Aemma takes his hand from her face and presses a grateful kiss to the palm. She holds onto the hand and threads her fingers through it, taking a deep breath and looking out at her little - not so little - son practicing his stances. "Jeyne suggested that Arthur fosters here until he comes of age, so he can be familiar with the Vale lords and customs... and find a bride from one of the bannermen."
It was something they had been expecting at some point. With Jeyne declaring Arthur her heir after he passed his second name-day and the unrest about the succession of the Vale, they knew that at some point it would be expected of Arthur to begin fostering in the Eyrie to begin acquainting himself with the duties of a Lord Paramount. He was educated at Dragonstone along with his nieces and nephews by several tutors, including Great Uncle Vaegon himself, and was an excellent student, but there were particularities to the Vale that could not be easily taught away from its mountains and peaks.
Not to mention, it would only cause more uproar if they were to be ruled by someone who had the blood but not the upbringing of a Lord of the Vale.
"I can send a letter to Lady Johanna so she can begin the arrangements for our move, if it please you and Lady Jeyne." Benedict offered. "Our things can be here by the end of the week."
Aemma blinked hard at what he had said - at how quickly and effortlessly he was willing to gather their lives and relocate to where their son was. "You would be willing to move from Dragonstone... all the way here? You hate the cold winds."
"Aye, but my love for you and our son is stronger than any mortal affliction." Ben professed easily. "I understand that fostering is done away from the home, but it would be remiss of me if I did not ensure good diplomatic relations between the Vale and Dorne if my son is to rule - and for that I must be here."
"They will complain about undue foreign influence."
"They can stick their influence in their uptight arse, I'm not leaving my son."
Aemma sighed. She knew Ben was being sensible and she did not want to leave Arthur alone either, no matter how much she trusted Jeyne. He was her last baby, her little miracle. Arthur was almost as old as she was when she first married, and she did not wish to be like her grandmother, pushing a chick into a foreign nest for the sake of politics and alliances, but there was truth to what Jeyne planned too.
"We should speak with Arthur before making any decisions." Aemma Arryn finally sentenced. "If he agrees, then we will return to Dragonstone for Aenar's nameday celebration and give him time to properly say goodbye to his nieces and nephews while I speak with Rhaenyra. The rest... we can solve later."
"As you wish, my Queen of the Skies."
An acolyte found them shortly after, bearing an urgent scroll from Dragonstone.
Aemma read the message, cursed in a way that had even Benedict Fowler in shock (and not really displeased), and commanded that their household start packing to head back to Dragonstone immediately.
Volantis
Baelon Targaryen, son of Alyssa Targaryen and Marcus Maegyr, thought he was doing a pretty good job at hiding from his sister's wrath when he crawled from under the desk and crashed straight into his mother.
"Baelon Targaryen - what did I say about trying your inventions on your sister?” Alyssa asked with her hands on her hips.
“To aim correctly?" He said in an attempt to be adorable, looking up at Alyssa Targaryen, the rider of the Cannibal and the protagonist in several people's nightmares, with an impish look in his amethyst eyes.
“Incorrect. I said that about trying your weapons on the dummies.”
“Talisa is a dummy.” Baelon said under his breath as he rolled his eyes and then looked defeated at the ground and grumbled at his mother’s raised eyebrow. “To not try weapons on my sister, or the staff, or our dragons, or our cousins, or on small animals, or any person that is not aware and willing to actually be an experimental subject.” He listed off.
“Correct.”
Baelon had never quite taken to fighting with blades like Alyssa and Marcus did, but when he got his hands on more complex weapons, like a crossbow gifted to him by his grandfather, he began obsessing over the mechanism and engineering of it all. By the time he was eight, he was pulling the entire thing apart and putting it back together with his eyes closed and tinkering with it to find a way to make it faster, sharper, deadlier. The last time they visited Dragonstone, Baelon practically lived in the House of Learning and had to be dragged back to his rooms every night by Roqo, so Alyssa ended up asking one of the resident engineers to come to Volantis with them and teach Baelon personally.
It turned out that he was very good at designing and building mechanisms.
Unfortunately, that also meant testing said mechanisms.
The east wall of the garden had to be completely rebuilt after his cannon prototype worked a little too well and Yasir still has not forgiven Baelon for killing the lemon plant (yes, the lemon plant that had replaced the one crushed by Caraxes all those years ago - it was agreed upon that they would not try another one).
It was a stern lecture that was so far holding him back from trying out his saddle designs on Shrykros, his cradle-born dragon.
Alyssa leaned down and ruffled her son’s dark curls, the white streak at the front standing out among them. “Go apologize to your sister.”
“Yes, muña.”
She grabbed the side of his face and kissed his head, which made him squirm against her grip. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” Baelon brushed off his face and patted his hair back how he liked it.
Alyssa smiled down at her son and then turned towards the door just as Baelon was walking towards it. "You can come in, Tali!"
Talisa Targaryen, having been listening to them, kicks the door open and pounces on her brother.
Even though they are growing into their own features, they so far remain the same height and weight and Talisa is more serious in her fight training, so it doesn’t take long for Talisa to have her brother in a headlock, the rest of his body pinned down. Talisa's blonde hair was in a woven braid earlier that morning, but half a daay of running around had made a few pieces begin to slip out, making her look a bit more feral as she beat up Baelon.
Alyssa watched the match with equal parts pride and amusement.
“Muña!” Baelon cries for help, but she does not step in.
“Consider it a lesson, tresy. Don’t try your weapons on someone that can overpower you in a physical fight… and lives in the same house.” Alyssa advises from her perch on her desk, her arms crossed over her chest as she acts as both mother and instructor. “Be mindful of his other arm, Tali - if he wrenches it free he can shift his weight and reach for a weapon.” Talisa follows her advice and slams down on Baelon’s hand just as manages to sneak it free.
Baelon’s other arm was twisted painfully behind his back and he cried out again. “AAAH! I’m sorry! I’ll fix your stupid coat!” Talisa pulled tighter. “I’ll clean Morghul's mouth for a month!"
Talisa hummed with satisfaction and let go of his arm, jumping off her brother’s back with a graceful leap. “I accept your apology." She then kicked at one of his legs. "Race around the Wall?"
"You're on."
Baelon picks himself up and starts running into the hallway, intending to beat his sister to the corner of the garden where the Cannibal and her hatchlings are nesting, but Talisa has another idea. She runs to the balcony right behind the desk and whistles sharply, making Morghul's head peek out from under its mother's wing, blood-red eyes open and alert.
"Soves, Morghul!" Talisa calls and the dragon immediately slithers out of its mother's embrace and jumps up, beating its wings to gain altitude and speed as it took off a started flying around the manse, gaining speed and power.
Alyssa was unfortunately a second too slow in figuring out what her daughter was about to do, so she didn't get the chance to stop Talisa and her fingers closed on thin air instead of her daughter's tunic.
Most of the people who knew Alyssa as a child agreed that Talisa is a mirror image of her mother as a young girl: fearless, impulsive, and cleverer than she let on. Normally, Alyssa Targaryen would beam with pride at that comparison, but this time that brightness is cloaked in heart-stopping panic as Talisa jumps over the railing of the balcony at the precise second and lands on Morghul’s saddle, the young dragon barreling to compensate for the weight before going upright again.
The twelve-year-old’s laughter rings clear and loud as crystal - as do Baelon's claims of cheating as he hastens to get on his own mount and chase after her.
As she heads to the garden, Alyssa wonders if this strange combination of terror and pride is what her father felt when she claimed the Cannibal and arrived in the capital with blood smeared on her face and atop a dragon that had been known to eat people and dragons. She also knows that Alysanne is laughing at her right now, wherever that old hag is.
On her way, Alyssa sees Tael going over the ledgers, an abacus next to him to carry out sums and a quill in his hand as he wrote down the numbers. After having learned to read and write, Tael began helping Marcus at managing the manse's expenses, essentially becoming their castellan. Now that he was a man, Lorna had become slightly less overprotective and began insisting on him finding a wife... which led to Tael often willingly becoming Baelon's test subject to avoid accompanying his mother on market runs, where she would essentially throw him at whatever available woman she found. Accidentally catching fire was better than that.
She passes Lyna and Kaya - Pili's daughter with her husband Xolo, now Captain Xanda's lieutenant - pulling herbs from the garden. Lyna had taken the girl as an apprentice and now that Kaya was almost eight-and-ten, she was being slowly inducted into more complex procedures and surgeries. Kaya was going to join the House of Healing on Dragonstone, and Pili had asked if she could be moved to the keep to be near her daughter - something Rhaenyra agreed to with no hesitation.
The Cannibal is looking with critical eyes at the two small shapes flying away, her muscles tense to take flight at the slightest sign of distress, much like Alyssa is. The dragon only relaxes slightly when Alyssa comes to her side and leans her forehead against her hide. "I hope your hatchlings are also giving you grey hairs." She frowned for a second. "Grey scales?"
The Cannibal growled in something of an understanding and rolled her head as if she was rolling her eyes. "Hatchlings will be hatchlings."
They would be heading to Dragonstone tomorrow to celebrate Aenar's nameday, and Alyssa could only imagine what all the cousins together were going to come up with. They so far have not caused any grand diplomatic incidents or destroyed the entirety of Dragonstone, so she had... just enough faith in them to not break that record during this visit.
The gods must have heard that - because they would definitely laugh at her later.