Chapter Text
The corridors outside the Queen’s bedchamber were stiflingly hot, the air thick with the smell of burning incense and the metallic tang of anxiety. Maekar paced the length of the stone hall, his heavy boots grinding against the floorboards.
Baelor stood by the arched window, his mismatched eyes fixed on the city below. He looked calm, but his fingers were rhythmically tapping the hilt of his sword.
"She has been in labor since midnight," Maekar grumbled, stopping to drag a hand through his long, silver hair. He was a broad, muscular youth of eight and ten, practically vibrating with restless energy. "When Dyanna had Aerion three moons ago, it was over in half the time. And Daeron practically fell out of her two years before that. Why is this taking so long?"
"Our mother is older now, Maekar," Baelor said quietly, turning from the window. "Thirty-nine is a dangerous age for a woman to bear a child. This pregnancy was a surprise to them both. A shock, really. We must be patient."
Maekar snorted, leaning against the tapestried wall. "A shock is putting it mildly. Father has been pacing his solar for nine moons muttering about the timing. With Daemon gathering half the martial lords of the realm at his keep and the whispers growing louder every day... a new royal baby is a vulnerability."
"A new baby is a blessing," Baelor corrected softly, though the crease between his brows betrayed his own worries. "Mother prayed day and night to the Mother Above for a girl. A little princess with dark hair and Dornish eyes. She wants a daughter to balance out this keep full of warriors."
Before Maekar could reply, the heavy oak doors groaned open. Grand Maester Malleon stepped out, his robes stained, his face drawn and exhausted.
"My Princes," the Grand Maester bowed stiffly. "The Queen has delivered."
"And?" Maekar demanded, stepping forward. "Is she well?"
"Exhausted, Prince Maekar, but safe," the Maester replied. He hesitated, a strange look crossing his wrinkled face. "The King is with her now. You may enter."
Baelor and Maekar exchanged a look and quickly moved past the old man into the stifling heat of the bedchamber.
King Daeron II sat on the edge of the massive featherbed, looking older than his forty years. The crown of Aegon the Conqueror was absent, his silver hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Queen Myriah lay against a mountain of pillows, her dark hair a tangled halo, her beautiful face pale and tight with a profound, bitter exhaustion.
In the arms of a wet nurse stood the source of the commotion: a tiny, quiet bundle of white linen.
"Mother," Baelor said, approaching the bed with a gentle, reassuring smile. "Praise the Seven you are safe."
Myriah did not smile back. She stared at the ceiling, a single tear slipping from the corner of her eye, disappearing into her dark hair. "A boy," she whispered, her voice cracking with grief. "Another boy. I asked the gods for one daughter. Just one."
Daeron sighed, a heavy, tired sound. "Myriah, please. He is healthy. He is strong. We have five sons now. It is a formidable dynasty."
"He is not mine," Myriah said, her voice dropping into a cold, detached register that made the hair on the back of Maekar’s neck stand up. She slowly turned her head to look at the bundle in the nurse's arms, her dark eyes filled with an eerie resentment. "Look at him, Daeron. He is a stranger."
Baelor stepped toward the nurse, holding out his large, capable hands. The nurse carefully transferred the infant to the Prince of Dragonstone.
Maekar crowded in beside his older brother, peering down at his newest sibling.
The baby was small, but he was not red and squalling like Valarr or Aerion had been. He was impossibly still, looking up at Baelor with wide, alert eyes. And his coloring was a stark, almost startling contrast to the Queen's hopes. The boy possessed a dusting of pure, shimmering silver hair. But it was his eyes that caught the breath in Maekar’s throat.
They were not the violet of the Targaryens, nor the dark brown of the Martells. They were green. A brilliant, piercing, unnatural shade of emerald green.
"By the gods," Maekar muttered. "His eyes. They look like..."
"Like Shiera’s," Queen Myriah spat from the bed, the name of her husband's beautiful, bastard half-sister carrying a venomous sting. "He has the eyes of a sorceress. The blood of old Valyria mocking me. He looks like one of Aegon’s bastards."
"Myriah, enough," Daeron said sharply, though he looked away from the child. He rubbed his temples, a headache clearly forming. "He is our son. He is a Targaryen."
As Baelor held the infant, a strange sensation washed over him. The baby reached up with a tiny, fragile hand and wrapped his fingers around Baelor’s thumb. A sudden, inexplicable wave of profound calm rippled up Baelor's arm. It felt like a warm hearth on a winter night, a faint, thrumming energy that seemed entirely too ancient for a newborn.
Baelor blinked, shaking his head slightly dismissing the strange warmth.
"What will you name him?" Baelor asked, his voice deliberately loud and cheerful, trying to banish the coldness in the room.
"Haerys," Daeron said, standing up from the bed. "Prince Haerys Targaryen."
At that moment, the door opened again. A Kingsguard knight stepped inside, his white cloak snapping behind him. "Your Grace. A raven from the West. Lord Bracken and Lord Peake have officially traveled to Daemon's keep. They are massing men."
King Daeron’s face hardened, the weary father instantly consumed by the desperate monarch. He looked back at his wife, then at the baby in Baelor's arms. There was no joy in his eyes, only the crushing weight of the realm.
"I must go," the King said, his voice clipped. "Myriah, rest. Baelor, Maekar, join me in the Small Council chambers as soon as you have greeted your brother."
Daeron swept from the room, leaving a chilling void in his wake.
Myriah closed her eyes, turning her face toward the wall. "Take him to the nursery," she told the wet nurse. "I am too tired to look at him. And keep him away from the sun; he looks as though he would burn to ash in the lightest heat."
The dismissal was absolute. Baelor felt a surge of pity, mixed with a sudden, fierce protectiveness. He looked down at Haerys. The baby was still staring at him with those ancient, emerald eyes, entirely unbothered by the rejection of his parents.
"Come, Baelor," Maekar said gruffly, though he reached out and gently stroked the baby's silver hair with a massive, calloused finger. "The King calls. Let the nurses handle him."
"Just a moment," a soft, wavering voice drifted from the doorway.
Prince Rhaegel, their nine and ten brother, wandered into the room. He wore a tunic that was buttoned unevenly, and his violet eyes were wide and dreamy. Aerys, the twenty-year-old scholar of the family, trailed behind him, a heavy, leather-bound tome clutched in his hands, his nose practically buried in the parchment.
"Is the dragon hatched?" Rhaegel asked, drifting toward Baelor like a leaf on the wind. He smiled, a sweet, fragile expression, and leaned over the bundle.
"Yes, Rhaegel. This is Haerys," Baelor said kindly.
Rhaegel reached out and touched Haerys’s cheek. Suddenly, Rhaegel giggled, pulling his hand back. "He tickles," Rhaegel whispered, his eyes widening in delight. "Like a thunderstorm trapped in a glass jar. Do you feel it, Baelor? He has a secret."
Baelor exchanged a concerned look with Maekar. Rhaegel’s madness was soft, but it was always present. "It is just a baby, Rhaegel."
Aerys finally looked up from his book, squinting at the infant through his Myrish glass. He noted the silver hair and the bright green eyes, gave a noncommittal hum, and looked back down at his text. "Unusual color. But of no historical significance. If you will excuse me, the Maesters of the Citadel have just sent me a treatise on the Rhoynar migrations."
Without waiting for a response, Aerys turned and walked out, already lost back in his ancient histories.
Rhaegel patted the baby’s head once more, humming a tuneless song, before wandering toward the corner of the room to stare at a tapestry.
Baelor looked down at little Haerys, who let out a tiny, soft yawn. The boy was entirely surrounded by family, yet utterly alone. His mother resented him for not being a girl. His father was too consumed by the looming threat of civil war to hold him. Aerys didn't care, and Rhaegel lived in a world of his own.
"He is ours to watch, it seems," Baelor murmured, handing the child gently to the waiting wet nurse.
Maekar grunted, adjusting his sword belt. "I have my hands full with Daeron and Aerion. Valarr takes up all your free time. We are preparing for war, Baelor. Daemon is going to crown himself, I can feel it. We don't have time to play wet nurse to a prince."
"We will make time," Baelor said, though his mind was already shifting toward the troop movements in the West, the logistics of the royal army, and the heavy burden of the Hand's chain that awaited him.
They walked out of the Queen's chambers, the heavy oak doors closing behind them with a definitive thud. Inside, little Haerys lay quietly in his crib. He did not cry. He just watched the shadows play across the ceiling with bright, impossibly green eyes, a soul from another world trapped in the brewing storm of the Targaryen dynasty, waiting for the magic in his blood to wake.
The Penrose apartments, situated high in the Tower of the Hand, were a sprawling labyrinth of chambers that reflected the blended, bustling nature of its inhabitants. Sunlight streamed through high, arched windows, illuminating dust motes that danced above a rich tapestry of Dornish silk and Westerosi wool. There was a chamber for Lord Ronnel and the Princess, a shared room where the three little Penrose girls slept, a room for young Robin, and separate quarters for Viserys Plumm, Jon Waters, and Jeyne Waters.
The true heart of the apartments was the solar. It was a room divided by purpose. On one side, a massive oak desk groaned under the weight of towers of parchment and heavy, brass-bound ledgers. On the other, a plush carpet served as a battlefield for the younger generation.
Princess Elaena Targaryen sat at a massive oak desk, surrounded by towers of parchment. At forty-one, she remained a striking woman. Her platinum hair, marked by that famous, singular streak of gold, was pinned back in a severe, efficient bun. Her sharp violet eyes darted across a ledger of grain taxes from the Reach, her brow furrowed in a look of concentration.
The heavy oak door creaked open, and Lord Ronnel Penrose stepped inside. At forty-five, Ronnel was a pleasant-looking man of sturdy build and gentle disposition. He had warm, light brown eyes that always seemed to be searching for a reason to smile, a thick mustache that twitched when he laughed, and a head of sensible brown hair.
He carried a fresh stack of wax-sealed notes from the morning’s Small Council meeting. Officially, Ronnel was the Master of Coin, but the Red Keep’s open secret was that he was merely the messenger. Ronnel loved his brilliant wife beyond measure, and he was more than happy to sit at the King's table, take meticulous notes, and bring them back to the woman who actually managed the realm's gold.
"The King is concerned about the tariffs from the Arbor, my love," Ronnel murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble. He leaned over the desk, carefully placing the papers beside her inkwell before pressing a lingering, affectionate kiss to the crown of her head. "Lord Redwyne was particularly vocal today. I believe he thinks his vintage is worth more than the crown’s favor."
"The King should be more concerned about the cost of maintaining the Red Keep's kitchens—half the larders are walking out the back door in the pockets of the cooks," Elaena replied without looking up. Her quill scratched furiously against the page, a sound like a tiny, rhythmic drum. "I will fix the Arbor tariffs. Tell Redwyne if he grumbles again, I’ll tax the barrels as well as the wine."
Ronnel smiled warmly, the expression crinkling the corners of his eyes, and backed away, mindful not to disturb her focus. The solar was not quiet, however. He turned his attention to the center of the room. Upon a carpet, his children were playing. Robin, seven, possessing his mother's violet eyes and his father's brown hair, was trying to build a fortress out of carved wooden blocks. He was a serious boy, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he balanced a spire. His sisters—Laena, six, Jocelyn, five, and little Joy, four—were playing the role of the "Dragon." They giggled as they lunged at the fortress with plush toys, their silver and brown heads bumping together.
Sitting by the window in a high-backed chair, the beautiful Jeyne Waters of twenty and one was the picture of elegance. With her striking silver hair and blue-purple eyes, she looked more like a queen than a bastard-born daughter. She was quietly embroidering a handkerchief, her needle moving with practiced grace, though she occasionally looked up to shoot a warning glance at the children when their play grew too boisterous.
Ronnel lowered himself onto the carpet, his knees popping with a loud crack that made the girls giggle. "Easy now, little ones," he whispered, his eyes twinkling. He began to help Robin rebuild a fallen rampart, his large, calloused hands moving with surprising gentleness, whispering softly to the girls to keep their giggles down so their mother could work. He adored the children—all of them. It mattered little to Ronnel whether they bore the name Penrose, Plumm, or Waters; they were Elaena’s, and that made them his.
As he stacked a cedar block, Ronnel paused, a thought finally surfacing through the fog of the morning's politics. He looked over to the desk, where the scratching of the quill had momentarily ceased.
"Elaena, my dear?"
"Mmm? Yes, Ronnel?" she answered, finally setting the quill in its stand and rubbing the bridge of her nose.
"When I was in the council chambers, Baelor mentioned the nursery," Ronnel said softly, keeping his voice below the roar of the children. "He said the Queen's new child... Prince Haerys... is thriving. He has seen three moons now. It occurred to me—have you had the chance to go down and see the babe yet?"
The silence that followed was heavy. A single drop of black ink fell from the quill, staining the parchment like a dark omen. Elaena slowly looked up, her violet eyes wide with a sudden, rare flash of genuine guilt.
She had spent the last ninety days calculating the cost of the Dornish peace, managing the King's debts, and balancing the grain stores. She had been so buried in the "how" of the kingdom that she had forgotten the "who."
"Three moons," Elaena whispered, her voice tinged with disbelief. She leaned back, the silk of her gown rustling. "By the Seven... I am a terrible aunt. I haven't even laid eyes on him since the midwives dragged him into the light. I've been so busy making sure the boy has a kingdom to inherit that I haven't even greeted him."
Ronnel offered her a comforting, easy smile. "You carry the weight of the kingdom's vaults on your shoulders, Elaena. No one expects you to be a nursemaid. The King and Queen have enough attendants to fill a small village."
"That isn't the point, Ronnel. He is my cousin’s son," she sighed, her gaze softening as she looked at her own children playing at her feet. "And if the rumors are true, my cousin hasn't exactly been a frequent visitor to the cradle himself."
"Then we shall fix it," Ronnel said decisively, standing up and brushing the dust from his breeches. "The younger ones have not met their new cousin. They should see that the family is more than just these walls."
Elaena nodded, a determined spark returning to her eyes. "You are right. We must go. Today."
"We will wait for the afternoon," Ronnel suggested. "Jon’s shift with the Gold Cloaks ends at midday—he’ll want to see the new prince. And Viserys should be finished with his squiring duties by then; the boy needs to spend less time with a lance and more with his family."
He looked at Jeyne, who had paused her embroidery to listen. "We will go together. The whole Penrose family. We'll show that little prince that he has more than just nurses in this castle."
---
The afternoon sun had begun its slow descent, bleeding crimson and gold across the Blackwater Bay and casting long, skeletal shadows through the tall windows of the Red Keep. In the Tower of the Hand, the Penrose apartments were a hive of activity as they prepared for their rare excursion to the royal wing.
Jon Waters stood by the hearth, checking the buckle of his sword belt. At twenty and one, he was the picture of a knight, his silver hair was pulled back in a practical tail, and his golden cloak—the mark of his office in the City Watch—draped elegantly over his polished plate. He moved with a quiet confidence, though his blue-purple eyes remained sharp, scanning the room with the practiced vigilance of a man used to the city’s back alleys.
Beside him, Viserys Plumm was a stark contrast. The fifteen-year-old was still breathing hard from his sessions in the tilt-yard, his face flushed and his silver hair damp with sweat. Despite the grime of the training grounds, the resemblance was haunting; he looked so much like the late King Aegon IV that servants often did double-takes when he passed. He was currently fumbling with a bundle wrapped in soft linen, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"Stop fidgeting, Viserys," Jeyne Waters said softly, stepping over to adjust the squire's collar.
"I just don't want it to look... silly," Viserys muttered, clutching the bundle.
Princess Elaena emerged from her solar, looking regal in a gown of deep violet silk that complemented the golden streak in her platinum hair. Lord Ronnel followed close behind, his hand resting supportively on the small of her back. He looked around at the assembled group and felt a swell of pride.
"Are we ready?" Elaena asked, her voice clear and commanding.
"Ready!" Joy squealed, jumping up and down while Laena and Jocelyn tried to hold her hands. Robin stood at attention, trying to mimic Jon’s stoic posture.
The procession began. It was a formidable sight: a Princess of the Blood, a Lord of the Small Council, a Gold Cloak knight, a squire, a lady-in-waiting, and four energetic children. They marched through the serpentine corridors, the rhythmic clack-clack of Jon’s boots and the lighter pitter-patter of the children’s shoes echoing against the stone.
As they crossed the drawbridge into Maegor’s Holdfast, the atmosphere shifted. This was the heart of the fortress, the place where the royal family slept. Yet, as they approached the heavy, gilded doors of the royal nursery, Jon suddenly stopped. His hand instinctively went to the pommel of his sword.
Ronnel noticed it a second later. He frowned, his mustache twitching. "Where are the guards?"
Elaena paused, her violet eyes narrowing as she surveyed the empty hallway. The twin hooks beside the door, usually occupied by the spears of household knights or the white shields of the Kingsguard, were empty.
"There isn't a single blade between here and the King’s solar," Jon muttered, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low register. "This is the Prince's nursery. Even the Gold Cloaks wouldn't leave a merchant’s shop this exposed."
"It is likely the shift change," Ronnel suggested, though his voice lacked conviction. He looked at Elaena, seeing the growing frost in her expression.
"A shift change does not leave a cradle empty of protection," Elaena snapped, her voice like a whip. "Especially not for a son of Daeron. If this were Baelor’s wing, there would be six men at the door."
She pushed the doors open herself.
The nursery was vast and high-ceilinged, filled with the scent of milk. Several nurses and servants were scattered about the room. Two were whispering near a basket of laundry, and another was dozing in a chair by the hearth. They scrambled to their feet, curtsying frantically as the Princess and her family swept in.
"Where is the Prince?" Elaena demanded, ignoring their panicked greetings.
A nurse, her face pale, pointed toward the far end of the room. "By the window, Your Grace. We thought the light would be... good for him."
The Penrose family moved as one toward the distant cradle. It sat in a pool of golden afternoon light, looking strangely small in the massive room. As they approached, the chattering of the younger children died down into a curious, hushed awe.
Ronnel reached down and scooped up four-year-old Joy, hoisting her onto his hip so she could see. Robin, Laena, and Jocelyn crowded the railing, their eyes wide.
Inside the cradle, Prince Haerys was awake.
At three months old, he was a beautiful babe. He possessed the fine, silver hair of his house, but it was his eyes that stole the breath from the room. They were a deep, vibrant emerald green—vivid as emeralds and startlingly clear.
"Oh," Jeyne breathed, leaning in. "He’s lovely."
Viserys stepped forward, looking uncharacteristically shy. He unwrapped his linen bundle to reveal a meticulously crafted dragon plushie, sewn from scraps of red and black velvet with little button eyes. "I... I brought this," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "The master-at-arms says a prince should know his sigil early."
He carefully placed the toy at the foot of the cradle.
To everyone's surprise, Haerys didn't flinch. He didn't cry at the sudden crowd of faces or the giant squire hovering over him. Instead, the infant’s gaze drifted toward the red plushie and then up to Viserys. A soft, melodic coo escaped his tiny lips—a sound so sweet and innocent that even the stern Jon found himself softening.
Haerys kicked his small feet, his emerald eyes dancing with a strange, ancient light. He reached out a chubby hand, grasping at the air toward Elaena.
"He's very sweet," Ronnel whispered, looking at his wife. "He doesn't have the... the 'fussiness' of Prince Aerion."
"He's too quiet," Elaena remarked, though she wasn't being cold. She reached down, and as her finger brushed the baby’s palm, she felt that peculiar, static warmth again. It wasn't the heat of a fever; it was the hum of a summer hive. Haerys wrapped his tiny hand around her index finger, his grip surprisingly firm, and let out another happy, bubbling chirp.
He looked at them not with the confused gaze of an infant, but with a look of profound, joyous recognition.
Elaena looked from the sweet, cooing babe to the empty doorway they had just walked through. The guilt she felt for forgetting him for three months was being rapidly replaced by a cold, calculating fury. She saw the dust on the floor near the cradle. She saw the servants who had been lounging until she arrived. She saw a prince who was being treated as an afterthought.
"Viserys, your gift is a fine thing," Elaena said, her voice echoing through the nursery. "Every boy needs a dragon to hold."
She turned her gaze to Jon and Ronnel. "But this child needs more than velvet and buttons. He is a Targaryen prince, and he is being guarded by laundry maids and gossips."
"What are you thinking, my love?" Ronnel asked, knowing that look in her eye. It was the look she had right before she re-written the kingdom's entire tax code.
"He needs a shield," Elaena declared. "A man whose only duty is to that cradle. A man who does not care for shift changes or the Queen’s superstitions."
She looked at Jon Waters. "Jon, do you remember Ser Olyvar? The man who served your father during his voyages? The one who has been rotting in the barracks because he’s too 'grizzled' for the King's ceremonial parades?"
Jon nodded slowly. "A good man. Stalwart. He’d die before he let a fly land on his charge."
"Then he is the gift I shall give my nephew," Elaena said, her hand still held fast by the tiny Prince. She looked down at Haerys, who was now smiling up at her, his eyes glowing in the twilight. "I will pay the man's commission from my own accounts. From this day forward, Prince Haerys will never be alone again."
Haerys cooed one last time, a sound of perfect, tiny contentment, as if he understood that the silence of his nursery had just been broken forever.