Chapter Text
Chapter 1
"Speech"
"Valyrian"
Arthur I
The corridor was quiet, save for the distant sound of boots on stone somewhere far below. Arthur Dayne stood outside Prince Aenar's chambers, his white cloak hanging still in the stagnant air of the Red Keep's royal apartments. Across the hall, Ser Oswald kept his own vigil outside Prince Rhaegar's door, the older knight's face shadowed and unreadable in the torchlight.
Much further down the corridor, where the stone seemed to swallow the light entirely, Ser Gerold and Ser Barristan stood guard outside the king's chambers. Arthur could barely make out their white cloaks from this distance, two pale ghosts in the darkness. Ser Gwayne Gaunt was stationed outside the queen's chambers, closer to the king's door than Arthur would ever want to be, and Arthur found himself grateful...grateful that the king had not called for her tonight.
The screams when he did were something Arthur would carry to his grave.
He had been a knight of the Kingsguard for over a year now, eighteen namedays old and sworn to protect the royal family with his life. Dawn rested at his hip, the ancient blade of his house, and he wore the white cloak with the pride his father had taught him to carry. But there were things they had not taught him at Starfall, things no one had prepared him for when he took his vows.
They had not told him what it meant to stand guard while a king brutalized his own wife.
The first time Arthur had been assigned to stand outside the king's chambers when Queen Rhaella was summoned, he had nearly vomited. The sounds that came from within...the pleading, the sobbing, the things the king said in that mad, gleeful voice. Arthur had stood there with his hand on Dawn's pommel, every instinct screaming at him to break down the door, to stop it, to do something.
But what could he do? He was sworn to guard the king, not to guard the queen from the king. That was the bitter truth of it, the poison that sat in his gut every time he took his post in this gods-forsaken corridor.
Ser Gerold had found him afterward, retching in a corner of the barracks. The Lord Commander had said nothing, only placed a hand on Arthur's shoulder and walked away. There was nothing to say, nothing that would make it better or easier or right.
It was despicable. All of it was despicable, and Arthur was complicit in it by his very presence, by the white cloak he wore and the vows he had taken.
He shifted his weight, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension that had settled there. The night was late, deep into the hour of the wolf, and the Red Keep felt like a tomb. Oswald had not moved in over an hour, standing like a statue across the hall. Arthur wondered if his sworn brother felt the same sickness, the same helpless rage that-
A scream tore through the silence.
Arthur's hand went to Dawn's hilt on instinct, his body already moving before his mind caught up. The scream had come from Prince Aenar's chambers, high and sharp and terrified. He shoved the door open, the heavy wood slamming against the interior wall as he burst into the room.
The prince was sitting up in his bed, his head turned toward the door. His eyes were wide, bloodshot and wild in the dim light of the dying hearth, and for a moment Arthur saw something in those purple eyes that made his breath catch. They were the same shade as his sister Ashara's eyes, that deep violet that marked the blood of Old Valyria, but there was something else there now...something haunted.
Prince Aenar's hair was shorter than his elder brother's, falling just past his ears in the Valyrian silver-gold that marked him as a dragon's son. At fourteen, he was still growing into himself, all lean muscle and sharp angles.
"Arthur Dayne?" The prince's voice was barely a whisper, as if he were speaking to himself rather than to the knight standing in his doorway. His eyes focused slowly, like a man waking from a deep sleep, and Arthur saw the confusion there...and something else. Recognition, perhaps, but of what?
"Yes, My prince." Arthur kept his hand on Dawn's hilt, his eyes scanning the room for threats even as he knew there were none. "I heard you cry out. Are you hurt?"
The prince blinked, his breathing still rapid and shallow. He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers as if testing that they were real, then back up at Arthur. The confusion in his eyes was fading, replaced by something more guarded.
"I'm...I'm alright, Ser Arthur." The prince's voice was steadier now, though Arthur could hear the tremor beneath it. "It was just a nightmare. Nothing more."
Arthur studied the boy's face, the way his jaw was clenched tight, the way his hands gripped the bedsheets. Just a nightmare. But Arthur had heard men scream in their sleep before, soldiers who had seen too much blood and death, and this had sounded like that. Like something that went deeper than a simple bad dream.
"Are you certain, Prince Aenar?" Arthur took a step closer, his hand finally leaving Dawn's hilt. "I can fetch the maester if-"
"No." The word came out sharp, almost panicked, and then the prince seemed to catch himself. "No, thank you, Ser Arthur. I'm fine. Truly. I just...I need to go back to sleep."
The prince was lying. Arthur knew it as surely as he knew his own name, but what could he do? He was a knight, not a maester or a father or a friend. He was here to guard the prince's body, not his mind or his dreams.
"As you say, my prince." Arthur bowed his head slightly, already backing toward the door. "I'll be right outside if you need anything."
The prince nodded, his purple eyes still fixed on Arthur with that strange, searching look. "Thank you, Ser Arthur. For...for checking on me."
Arthur pulled the door closed behind him, leaving it slightly ajar this time. He resumed his post in the corridor, his hand resting on Dawn's pommel, and tried not to think about the look in Prince Aenar's eyes. Tried not to think about the screams that sometimes echoed through these halls, or the vows he had taken, or the things he was powerless to stop.
The night stretched on, silent and dark, and Arthur Dayne stood his watch.
Arthur II
The morning sun beat down on the Red Keep's training yard, turning the packed dirt into something that would be dust by midday. Arthur stood near the weapon racks, Dawn sheathed at his hip as always, watching Prince Rhaegar work through a series of forms with a practice sword. The elder prince moved like water, each strike flowing into the next with the kind of natural grace that couldn't be taught.
Rhaegar finished his sequence and lowered his blade, his silver-gold hair dark with sweat. He was fifteen now, nearly a man grown, and he fought like one. Arthur had sparred with him often enough to know that the prince would be formidable in a real battle, the kind of warrior men would follow into the Seven Hells if he asked it of them.
"Your footwork is getting sloppy on the backswing," Arthur called out, pushing off from the rack. "You're overextending."
Rhaegar turned, a slight smile crossing his face. "Is that the Sword of the Morning's professional opinion, or are you just trying to provoke me into another round?"
"Can't it be both?" Arthur grinned, and for a moment it was easy to forget the white cloak on his shoulders, the weight of his vows. Rhaegar was...well, he was as close to a friend as a kingsguard could have in a prince. They'd spent enough hours in this yard together, trading blows and jests in equal measure.
"I'm done for the morning." Rhaegar wiped his face with a cloth, his breathing still steady despite the exertion. "I have lessons with the Grandmaester, and if I'm late again he'll spend the entire session lecturing me about punctuality instead of history."
Arthur chuckled, but the sound died in his throat as movement caught his eye. Prince Aenar had entered the yard, his shorter hair catching the sunlight as he made his way toward them. The younger prince wore training leathers, a practice sword already in hand, and there was something...different about the way he carried himself now.
Three months. It had been three months since that night, since the scream that had sent Arthur rushing into the prince's chambers. Three months since those wide, bloodshot purple eyes had stared at him with that strange recognition.
"Ser Arthur." Aenar's voice was steady, polite, as he approached. He glanced at his brother, and Arthur saw it...the way the younger prince's shoulders tensed slightly, the way his grip on the practice sword tightened just a fraction. "Would you have time to spar with me?"
"Of course, my prince." Arthur straightened, his hand moving instinctively to check Dawn's position even though he wouldn't be using it for practice. "I'm at your service."
Rhaegar looked between them, something flickering across his face that Arthur couldn't quite read. "You've been spending a lot of time in the yard lately, brother. I barely see you anymore."
"I need the practice." Aenar's response came quickly, too quickly, and he didn't quite meet Rhaegar's eyes. "I'm not as naturally gifted as you are."
It wasn't said with bitterness, just...fact. But there was a distance in it, a careful politeness that felt wrong between brothers. Rhaegar seemed to sense it too, his smile fading slightly.
"Well. I'll leave you to it, then." Rhaegar nodded to Arthur, then to his brother, and walked toward the yard's exit. Arthur watched him go, then turned his attention back to Aenar.
The younger prince was already moving into position, his stance low and balanced. Arthur picked up a practice sword from the rack, testing its weight. Aenar was fourteen, still growing into his frame, but there was a leanness to him that spoke of recent training...a lot of recent training.
"Ready when you are, my prince."
Aenar didn't waste time with words. He came in fast, his first strike aimed at Arthur's left side, and Arthur blocked it easily. But the second strike came immediately after, and the third, each one precise and economical. No wasted movement, no flourishes or unnecessary steps.
Arthur found himself paying attention in a way he hadn't expected to. The prince wasn't trying to overpower him...he was trying to outthink him. Each strike was a test, a probe, looking for weaknesses in Arthur's defense. It was technical, almost clinical, and far more advanced than Arthur remembered from their last sparring session months ago.
He pressed forward, forcing Aenar back with a series of quick strikes. The prince gave ground but didn't panic, his blocks coming up at exactly the right angles to deflect rather than absorb the force. Smart. That was the word that kept coming to Arthur's mind. The boy was fighting smart.
Aenar tried a feint to the right, then came in low on the left. Arthur saw it coming and sidestepped, but he had to admit...it was a good attempt. The kind of move that would work on someone less experienced. The prince was learning, and learning fast.
They traded blows for several more minutes, the clack of wood on wood echoing across the yard. Arthur could see the sweat starting to bead on Aenar's forehead, the way his breathing was getting heavier. The prince was good for his age, better than he had been, but he was still fourteen. Still learning. Still a long way from being able to match a knight of the Kingsguard.
Arthur swept the prince's legs out from under him, not hard enough to hurt but enough to end the match. Aenar hit the ground and rolled, coming up in a crouch with his practice sword still raised. For a moment Arthur thought he might try to continue, but then the prince lowered his blade and stood.
"Thank you, Ser Arthur." Aenar's chest was heaving, his face flushed from exertion. "I...I'm getting better, aren't I?"
"You are." Arthur meant it. "Your technique is excellent. You're not trying to rely on strength or speed...you're thinking through each move. That's the right way to learn."
Something like relief crossed the prince's face, and Arthur realized with a start that the boy had been genuinely worried about the answer. As if Arthur's opinion mattered more than it should. As if he needed the validation.
"I've been practicing with Ser Oswald and Ser Barristan as well," Aenar said, wiping his face with his sleeve. "Whenever any of you have time. I want to...to be better."
"Why?" The question came out before Arthur could stop it. "You're a prince, not a knight. You don't need to be a master swordsman."
Aenar's expression shuttered, that careful mask sliding back into place. "I just do."
And that was that. The prince thanked him again, retrieved his practice sword, and headed toward the weapon racks. Arthur watched him go, noting the way Aenar's eyes tracked across the yard...looking for threats, maybe, or just looking. It was hard to say.
Three months. Three months of changes that Arthur had been cataloging without quite realizing it. The prince spent more time in the yard now, sparring with anyone who would take him. He'd requested sessions with every member of the Kingsguard at least once, sometimes more. Arthur had seen him working through forms alone in the early morning, before most of the castle was awake.
But it wasn't just the training. Aenar had been spending more time with Queen Rhaella as well, seeking her out in ways he hadn't before. Arthur had seen them walking in the gardens together, the prince's head bent close to his mother's as they talked. The queen had even mentioned it to him last week, her face lighting up in a way that made Arthur's chest ache.
"He's been so attentive lately," she'd said, her voice soft with joy. "Aenar has always been a good son, but now...now he seeks me out almost every day. We talk about everything and nothing. I'd forgotten what it was like to have someone just...listen."
She'd smiled then, a real smile, and Arthur had seen the hope in her eyes. "I keep hoping Rhaegar will join us sometime. It would be nice to have both my sons together, the way it used to be when they were small."
Arthur had nodded, said something appropriate, but he'd been thinking about the distance he'd noticed between the two princes. The way Aenar seemed to avoid his brother when he could, and when he couldn't, the way he spoke to Rhaegar with that careful, polite reserve. As if they were strangers instead of brothers who'd grown up together.
Something had changed that night three months ago. Arthur didn't know what, couldn't even begin to guess, but he knew it as surely as he knew the weight of Dawn at his hip. Prince Aenar had woken from that nightmare a different person, or at least...a person who saw the world differently.
Arthur sheathed his practice sword and headed toward the barracks. He had another watch tonight, another long stretch of standing in that corridor while the Red Keep settled into its uneasy sleep. Another night of trying not to think about the things he couldn't change, the vows he'd taken, the screams that sometimes echoed through the halls.
But he'd be thinking about Prince Aenar too, about the careful way the boy moved through the world now. About the technical precision of his swordwork and the way he'd looked at Arthur that first night, as if seeing him for the first time.
Whatever had happened, whatever had changed...Arthur had a feeling it was only the beginning.
Arthur III
The throne room was quieter than it had been in months, and that should have been a comfort. Arthur stood at his post near the base of the Iron Throne, Dawn at his hip, watching the meeting drag through its third hour. King Aerys sat slumped in his seat, his hair lank and unwashed despite the walk of repentance, despite the vows, despite everything.
The walk had changed nothing. Arthur had watched the king make that grueling journey across King's Landing, barefoot and fasting, and he'd wanted to believe it meant something. That the horror of what had been done...the wet nurse's head rolling across the stones, the screams of that girl and her family as they were tortured to death...that maybe it had finally broken through the madness.
But madness didn't break. It just found new shapes to wear.
Aerys had sworn to sleep only with his lawful wife, as if that was some grand gesture of redemption. As if the vow made up for the blood, for the innocent lives snuffed out because a baby had died and someone had to pay. Arthur's jaw tightened, and he forced himself to breathe slowly, evenly. These were the thoughts that came in the small hours of the night, the ones he couldn't afford to let show on his face.
What would it be like, he wondered for the thousandth time, to serve a king worthy of the throne?
The thought was treason, and he knew it. But it came anyway, persistent as a wound that wouldn't heal. He looked at Aerys, at the way the king's fingers drummed against the armrest, at the suspicious glances he threw at his own councilors. Then he looked at Prince Rhaegar, standing to the side with his hands clasped behind his back, his face a mask of patient attention.
Rhaegar would be better. Gods, anyone would be better, but Rhaegar...Rhaegar would be worthy of the throne. Arthur had seen it in the way the elder prince moved through the court these past eleven months, the way he spoke to lords and ladies with genuine interest, the way he tried to smooth over his father's erratic decisions. The prince was sixteen and already more of a king than Aerys had ever been.
But there was a cost to it. Arthur could see it in the tightness around Rhaegar's eyes, in the way his shoulders never quite relaxed even when he smiled. The prince was holding everything together through sheer force of will, trying to be the glue that kept the realm from fracturing further. It was exhausting work, and Rhaegar was still just a boy, no matter how much he tried to be a man.
The meeting finally ended, and Arthur watched as Rhaegar approached his father, speaking in low, soothing tones about something Arthur couldn't quite hear. The king waved him off irritably, and Rhaegar bowed, his expression never changing. Perfect courtesy, perfect patience, perfect control.
Arthur wondered how long the prince could keep it up before something broke.
He followed at a distance as Rhaegar left the throne room, heading toward the royal apartments. The prince's steps were measured, unhurried, but Arthur had learned to read the small signs. The way Rhaegar's hand flexed at his side, the slight tension in his neck. The prince was wound tight as a bowstring, and Arthur didn't blame him.
They passed through the corridors, and Arthur caught sight of Prince Aenar and Queen Rhaella in one of the gardens visible through an archway. The younger prince was walking beside his mother, his hand hovering near her elbow as if ready to steady her at any moment. The queen was speaking, her face animated in a way Arthur hadn't seen in...gods, he couldn't remember how long.
Rhaegar slowed, his gaze following Arthur's. For a moment the elder prince just watched his brother and mother, something unreadable crossing his face. Then he continued walking, and Arthur fell back into step behind him.
"He's been good for her," Rhaegar said quietly, not looking back. "Aenar. He's...he's been spending time with her. Making her smile again."
"Yes, my prince." Arthur kept his voice neutral, professional. "The queen seems happier when he's near."
"I should do the same." Rhaegar's voice was soft, almost to himself. "I should be there more. But there's always...there's always something that needs attending to. Someone who needs reassurance, some crisis that needs managing."
Arthur said nothing. What could he say? That the prince was right, that he was carrying a burden no sixteen-year-old should have to bear? That his brother had found a way to help their mother while Rhaegar was busy holding the entire realm together?
They reached Rhaegar's chambers, and the prince paused at the door. "Thank you, Ser Arthur. For...for everything."
Arthur bowed. "I serve at your pleasure, my prince."
Rhaegar's smile was tired, and he disappeared into his rooms. Arthur took up his post outside, settling into the familiar stance, and let his mind wander where his body couldn't.
Eleven months. Eleven months since Prince Jaehaerys had died, since the king had gone mad with grief and rage, since innocent people had been butchered to satisfy Aerys's need for someone to blame. Eleven months since the walk of repentance that had changed nothing, since the vow of celibacy that was supposed to mean something.
The court had settled into a new rhythm, uneasy and fragile. Rhaegar held it together with diplomacy and charm, smoothing over the king's worst impulses when he could, managing the fallout when he couldn't. And Aenar...
Arthur had watched the younger prince these past months, had seen the way he'd attached himself to Queen Rhaella like a shadow. Where Rhaegar was trying to be glue, Aenar had become something else entirely. A wall. A shield. A rock for his mother to lean against when the weight of being Aerys's wife became too much to bear.
The prince still trained with Arthur and the other Kingsguard, still pushed himself with that same technical precision. But the rest of his time...the rest of his time belonged to his mother. Arthur had seen them in the gardens, in the library, walking the corridors together. Aenar never strayed far from her side, and the queen...the queen looked at her younger son with such gratitude, such relief, that it made Arthur's eye blur.
The brothers had grown further apart. It wasn't deliberate, Arthur didn't think, just...inevitable. Rhaegar was pulled in a thousand directions, trying to hold the realm together. Aenar had chosen one person to protect, one person to shield from the horror of their lives. They were both coping, both surviving, but in ways that left little room for each other.
Arthur shifted his weight, his hand resting on Dawn's pommel. He thought about the question that haunted him, the one he could never speak aloud. Which of them would be better? If the gods were merciful, if some miracle occurred and Aerys was no longer king...which prince would wear the crown better?
Rhaegar was the obvious choice. The elder son, the heir, the one who already acted like a king in all but name. He was diplomatic, thoughtful, skilled in both war and peace. He cared about the realm, about the people, about doing what was right. He would be a good king, maybe even a great one.
But there was something about Aenar that made Arthur wonder. The younger prince was only fifteen, still growing into himself, but there was a...a focus to him that Rhaegar lacked. Rhaegar tried to make everyone happy, tried to hold everything together, and it was tearing him apart. Aenar had chosen what mattered most to him and devoted himself to it completely.
A king needed to be able to make hard choices. Needed to be able to say no, to draw lines, to protect what was important even if it meant letting other things fall. Rhaegar would try to save everyone and break himself in the process. Aenar...Aenar would save who he could and accept that he couldn't save them all.
Arthur didn't know which approach was better. Didn't know if either of them would survive long enough for it to matter. But he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that either prince would be better than the man currently sitting the Iron Throne.
The thought was treason. The thought could get him killed, could get his entire family killed if Aerys ever suspected. But Arthur couldn't stop thinking it, couldn't stop wondering what it would be like to serve a king who deserved the title.
He'd sworn an oath. He'd knelt before the Iron Throne and pledged his sword, his life, his honor to the king and the royal family. He'd meant every word, had believed in the sanctity of those vows with everything he was.
But the oath said nothing about which king he served. Nothing about whether that king was mad or sane, cruel or kind, worthy or unworthy. Just...the king. Whoever sat the throne.
Arthur closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. These were dangerous thoughts, the kind that led good men to dark places. He was a knight of the Kingsguard, sworn to protect and serve. His feelings about the king didn't matter. His opinions about who would wear the crown better didn't matter.
All that mattered was the oath.
But gods, what he wouldn't give to serve a king who deserved it.
The corridor was quiet, the Red Keep settling into its evening routine. Somewhere in the gardens, Prince Aenar was still with his mother, still acting as her shield against the world. Somewhere in his chambers, Prince Rhaegar was probably reviewing reports or correspondence, still trying to hold everything together. And somewhere in the royal apartments, King Aerys was...
Arthur didn't let himself finish that thought. He straightened his shoulders, adjusted his grip on Dawn, and settled in for another long watch. Another night of standing guard over princes who would be better kings than their father, of serving a man who had no right to the throne he sat upon.
Another night of wondering what it would be like if things were different.
If the gods were merciful.
If the realm had a king worthy of its people.
But the gods weren't merciful, and the realm had Aerys, and Arthur had his oath. So he stood his watch, and he kept his treasonous thoughts to himself, and he wondered if either of the princes knew how much better they already were than the man who had sired them.
He suspected they did. He suspected that was part of what made it all so hard to bear.
Arthur IV
The small council chamber felt smaller than it should have, as if the walls themselves were pressing inward. Arthur stood at his post behind Prince Rhaegar's chair, Dawn at his hip, and tried not to let his gaze linger too long on the king. It had been a month since Duskendale, a month since Ser Barristan had pulled Aerys from that cell, and the change in the king was...
Arthur didn't have words for it. Well and truly mad, perhaps, though even that felt insufficient.
The king's hair hung lank and greasy past his shoulders, unwashed despite the maesters' attempts. His nails had grown long and yellowed, curling slightly at the tips like claws. He'd refused to let anyone cut them since his return, had screamed that they were trying to make him weak, to leave him defenseless. The small council had learned to simply...endure it.
But it was the eyes that were worst. Aerys's eyes darted constantly around the chamber, suspicious and wild, seeing threats in every shadow. He'd accused Lord Chelsted of poisoning his wine twice already this meeting, and Grand Maester Pycelle of plotting with the maesters to replace him with Rhaegar. Both men had denied it with the careful, measured tones of people who knew their lives hung by threads.
Arthur's hand rested on Dawn's pommel, and he wondered, not for the first time, what would happen if he simply drew the blade and ended this. One stroke, clean and quick, and the realm would be free of its mad king. Rhaegar would take the throne, or Aenar, and either would be better than...this.
But he wouldn't. He was a knight of the Kingsguard, sworn to protect, and his oath didn't allow for exceptions no matter how much he wished it did.
"The Darklyns are dealt with," Tywin Lannister was saying, his voice cool and precise. The Hand of the King sat to Aerys's right, his expression revealing nothing of what he thought of the king's deterioration. "House Rykker has taken possession of Duskendale. The transition has been...smooth."
Smooth. Arthur nearly laughed at that. Smooth, as if the screams of Lady Serala as they'd torn out her tongue and her womanly parts hadn't echoed through the Red Keep for days afterward. Smooth, as if the pyres hadn't burned for a week, consuming the bodies of an entire house and their goodkin. Smooth, as if young Robin Hollard hadn't died on the rack, his screams audible even in the training yard.
Only Dontos Hollard had been spared, and only because Ser Barristan had asked for his life. Arthur glanced at his Lord Commander, standing at attention near the door. Ser Gerold's face was carved from stone, revealing nothing, but Arthur knew the weight the man carried. They all did.
"Good," Aerys hissed, his fingers drumming against the armrest of his chair. "Good. Let them all burn. Let them all see what happens to those who dare...who dare lay hands on their king."
Lord Steffon Baratheon shifted in his seat, his discomfort visible for just a moment before he smoothed it away. "Your Grace's justice was...thorough."
"Justice." Aerys's laugh was high and sharp, like breaking glass. "Yes. Justice. They thought they could keep me in that cell, thought they could...but I showed them. I showed them all."
Prince Rhaegar sat perfectly still, his hands folded on the table before him. Arthur could see the tension in his shoulders, the careful blankness of his expression. The prince had been like this since Duskendale, since his father had returned more monster than man. Holding everything together through sheer force of will, trying to keep the realm from fracturing further.
Arthur wondered how much longer Rhaegar could sustain it.
"If there is no further business regarding Duskendale," Lord Lucerys Velaryon said carefully.
The door opened.
Every head turned as Prince Aenar entered the chamber, his steps measured and unhurried. The younger prince had grown in the past year, Arthur noted, though he was still shorter than Rhaegar, still filling out into the man he would become. His hair was cut shorter than his brother's, practical rather than ornamental, and his purple eyes swept the room with careful assessment before settling on the king.
"Your Grace," Aenar said, bowing. "My lords. I apologize for the interruption."
Aerys's eyes narrowed, his fingers stilling on the armrest. "Aenar. What do you want?"
There was no warmth in the king's voice, no acknowledgment that this was his son. Just suspicion, as if Aenar were another potential threat to be evaluated and dismissed. Arthur's jaw tightened, but he kept his expression neutral.
"I wish to request permission to travel to Dragonstone," Aenar said, his voice steady and formal. "To inspect the fortress and ensure all is in order. It has been some time since a member of the royal family has visited, and I believe it would be...prudent to assess its current state."
Tywin's eyes sharpened with interest. Lord Lucerys leaned forward slightly, his expression thoughtful. Even Wisdom Rossart, the alchemist who made Arthur's skin crawl with his talk of wildfire and burning, seemed to consider the proposal with approval.
"Dragonstone," Aerys repeated slowly, as if tasting the word. "Why? What are you plotting, boy? What schemes are you-"
"No schemes, Your Grace." Aenar's voice remained calm, patient. "Simply a desire to serve the crown and ensure one of our most important fortresses is properly maintained. I would also request that my mother, Queen Rhaella, accompany me. The sea air might do her good, and-"
"No."
The word cracked through the chamber like a whip. Aerys surged forward in his seat, his yellowed nails digging into the armrests. "The queen stays here. She is needed here, to give me more sons, more heirs. She will not go gallivanting off to Dragonstone to...to plot with you against me."
The way the king spoke of his wife, of the queen...as if she were nothing more than a broodmare, a tool to be used. The crudeness of it, the casual cruelty, made something hot and sick coil in Arthur's gut.
And then he saw it.
It was there and gone in less than a heartbeat, so fast that Arthur almost thought he'd imagined it. Prince Aenar's face, which had been carefully blank and respectful, twisted into an expression of such pure, concentrated hatred that Arthur felt his hand tighten on Dawn's pommel. The prince's purple eyes burned with a fury so intense it seemed to scorch the air between him and his father.
Then it was gone. The mask slammed back into place, smooth and expressionless, as if that moment of rage had never existed. Aenar bowed his head slightly, accepting the king's decree with perfect courtesy.
Arthur's heart hammered in his chest. He glanced around the chamber, searching the faces of the other councilors, looking for any sign that someone else had seen what he'd seen. But Lord Lucerys was frowning at the table, Lord Steffon was studying his hands, Tywin's expression remained coolly neutral. Even Ser Gerold, standing at attention with decades of experience reading men's faces, showed no reaction.
No one else had seen it. Arthur was certain of that with a bone-deep certainty that left him shaken. Whatever had flashed across Prince Aenar's face, whatever hatred burned in the boy's heart for his father...Arthur alone had witnessed it.
And gods, what a hatred it had been. Not the hot anger of youth, not the frustrated rage of a son denied. This had been something colder, deeper, more controlled. The kind of hatred that didn't burn itself out in a moment of passion but smoldered for years, waiting for the right moment to ignite.
Arthur had seen men look at their enemies that way on the battlefield. He'd never seen a son look at his father like that.
"I think it's a sound idea, Your Grace," Tywin said smoothly. "Prince Aenar has shown himself to be...diligent in his duties. An inspection of Dragonstone would be a valuable service to the crown."
"Agreed," Lord Lucerys added. "The fortress is vital to the defense of King's Landing. Having a prince of the blood assess its readiness would be most appropriate."
Even Wisdom Rossart nodded, his thin lips curving into something that might have been a smile. "The prince's attention to detail would serve the crown well in this matter, Your Grace."
Aerys waved a hand dismissively, his nails catching the light. "Fine. Fine. Let him go. But he goes alone, without the queen. And he will report back to me personally upon his return. I will know everything he sees, everything he does. Do you understand, boy?"
"Yes, Your Grace." Aenar's voice was perfectly level, perfectly respectful. "I understand completely. I will depart within a fortnight, if that pleases Your Grace."
"A fortnight. Yes." Aerys's attention was already drifting, his eyes sliding toward the window as if he'd forgotten they were all there. "Go. All of you. I'm tired of looking at your faces."
The small council rose as one, bowing to the king before filing out of the chamber. Arthur followed Prince Rhaegar, his mind still reeling from what he'd witnessed. That flash of hatred, that moment of pure, undiluted fury...
What did it mean? What was Prince Aenar planning?
And more importantly...should Arthur be afraid of what he'd seen, or relieved by it?
They emerged into the corridor, and Arthur watched as Aenar separated from the group, heading toward the royal apartments without a word to his brother. Rhaegar's gaze followed him for a moment, something troubled crossing his face, but then the elder prince was swept up in conversation with Lord Steffon and the moment passed.
Arthur stood in the corridor, Dawn heavy at his hip, and felt the weight of knowledge settle over him like a cloak. He knew something no one else knew, had seen something no one else had seen. Prince Aenar hated his father with a depth and intensity that should have been impossible for a boy of sixteen.
And Arthur...Arthur found himself hoping, with a fervor that bordered on prayer, that he would be chosen as the Kingsguard to accompany the prince to Dragonstone.
He needed to leave the Red Keep. Needed to escape, even temporarily, from the madness that permeated every stone, every corridor, every breath of air. Needed distance from the king he was sworn to protect but couldn't bring himself to respect. Needed time away from the screams and the suspicion and the constant, grinding horror of serving a man who had no right to the throne he sat upon.
And perhaps...perhaps he needed to understand what he'd seen in Prince Aenar's eyes. Needed to know if that hatred was justified, if it was dangerous, if it was something that could save them all or damn them further.
Arthur had always wanted to see Dragonstone. Had heard tales of the ancient fortress, of the dragons carved into its walls, of the power that still lingered in its stones. Now he had a reason beyond simple curiosity.
Now he had a prince to watch, and a secret to keep, and a question that burned in his mind like wildfire.
What would a son who hated his father that deeply be willing to do?
And when the time came...whose side would Arthur choose?
He didn't have answers. But as he took up his post outside Prince Rhaegar's chambers once more, settling into the familiar stance of a Kingsguard on duty, Arthur found himself hoping that the next fortnight would pass quickly.
That he would be chosen.
That he would finally, finally get to leave this place, even if only for a little while.
And that perhaps, on Dragonstone, he might find something worth believing in again.
Arthur V
The dawn air on Dragonstone was different from King's Landing. Cleaner, Arthur thought as he adjusted his grip on Dawn, watching Prince Aenar move through the opening forms of their morning spar. No stench of shit and rot, no screams echoing through corridors, no mad king lurking around every corner.
Just the crash of waves against black stone, the cry of gulls, and the steady rhythm of a prince who'd found something like peace.
Three months. Three months since they'd left the Red Keep behind, and Arthur could finally breathe without feeling like the air itself was poisoned. He'd been chosen, just as he'd hoped, and the relief of it still hit him some mornings when he woke to the sound of the sea instead of distant sobbing.
"Ready, Ser Arthur?" Aenar's voice pulled him from his thoughts. The prince stood across from him in the courtyard, practice sword in hand, purple eyes bright in the early light. He looked...different here. Lighter, somehow, as if the weight he'd carried in King's Landing had been set down the moment they'd crossed the narrow sea.
"Always, my prince." Arthur fell into his stance, and they began.
The first time they'd sparred after arriving, Arthur had expected the same technical precision he'd seen in the Red Keep. The careful, measured movements of a boy trying to be perfect. But Aenar had changed, had grown into something more fluid, more confident. He still fought smart, still avoided wasted movement, but there was a grace to it now that hadn't been there before.
Arthur pressed forward with a high strike, and Aenar deflected it smoothly, stepping inside Arthur's guard with a speed that made the knight adjust his own footwork. The prince was getting faster, his reactions sharper, his understanding of distance and timing improving with every session. He still had a long way to go before he could match a knight of the Kingsguard, but...
But he was sixteen, Arthur reminded himself. And he was already better than most men twice his age.
They traded blows for another quarter hour, the rhythm of it familiar and comfortable. This was their routine now, had been for three months. Early morning sparring, then breakfast, then...then whatever the prince decided to do with his day. And Arthur, sworn to protect him, followed along and tried to understand what in the seven hells the boy was actually doing.
Aenar pressed forward with a clever combination, and Arthur felt the improvement even as he blocked it. The prince was faster than he'd been three months ago, his timing sharper, his understanding of distance and leverage deepening with every session. He nearly slipped past Arthur's guard once, nearly landed a clean strike on the knight's ribs, but Arthur sidestepped at the last moment and spun, bringing his practice sword up to tap Aenar lightly on the shoulder.
"Yield, my prince," Arthur said, his breathing steady. He wasn't even winded yet. "You're getting closer, though. That combination was nearly solid."
Aenar lowered his sword, nodding, and there was no frustration in his expression - just that same acceptance he always had. The prince was learning, was improving rapidly, but he still had a long road ahead of him before he could match a knight of the Kingsguard. They both knew it.
"I have a good teacher." Aenar's smile was genuine, warm in a way Arthur rarely saw directed at anyone. The prince was kind to the servants, polite to the castellan, but there was always a reserve to him, a careful distance. With Arthur, though...with Arthur, he seemed to relax. Just a little.
They sparred again before lunch, as they always did. Then once more before dinner, though that third session was optional, dependent on the prince's schedule. Today, Aenar had time, so they met in the courtyard again as the sun began its descent toward the horizon.
"You're distracted," Arthur observed as he blocked a strike that came a half-second too slow. "Something on your mind?"
Aenar hesitated, his sword lowering slightly. "Just...thinking about what I learned today. From the fishermen down by the docks."
Arthur waited, but the prince didn't elaborate. He never did, not really. Just vague mentions of conversations, of things he'd learned, of people he'd spoken to. It had been like this for two months now, ever since Aenar had finished his obsessive exploration of the dragon caves.
Those first two and a half weeks had been...strange. The prince had spent every waking hour that wasn't devoted to sparring or eating wandering through the old caves beneath Dragonstone. Arthur had followed as far as he could, marveling at the ancient drawings on the walls, the marks left by dragons long dead. It was beautiful, in a way. Haunting.
But the Dragonmount itself...that had been different.
Arthur's hand tightened on Dawn's hilt at the memory. He'd tried to follow the prince inside, had made it perhaps two feet before the heat had driven him back, gasping and sweating. Aenar had looked back at him, surprised, then understanding had crossed his face.
"The blood of the dragon," the prince had said softly. "I forget, sometimes, that not everyone can...I'll be fine, Ser Arthur. Wait here."
So Arthur had waited. For hours, sometimes, standing outside the entrance to the Dragonmount while his prince disappeared into heat that should have killed him. It had made Arthur's skin crawl, that helpless feeling of not being able to follow, not being able to protect. He was supposed to guard the prince, and instead he was standing outside like a useless fool while Aenar did...whatever he was doing in there.
He'd never asked. Partly because it wasn't his place, partly because he wasn't sure he wanted to know. The prince had his secrets, and Arthur...Arthur had learned to live with that.
But then Aenar had stopped exploring the caves. Had shifted his focus entirely to the people of Dragonstone, and Arthur's confusion had only deepened.
"Tell me about House Velaryon," Aenar said one evening as they walked along the battlements after dinner. The sun was setting, painting the sea in shades of gold and crimson. "What do you know of them?"
Arthur blinked at the sudden question. "They're an old house, my prince. Valyrian blood, like your own. They've served the Targaryens for generations, held Driftmark and commanded the royal fleet. Lord Lucerys is Master of Ships on your father's small council."
"And before that? Before the Conquest?"
"I...I'm not sure, my prince. They came from Valyria, I know that much. One of the families that escaped the Doom."
Aenar nodded slowly, his gaze distant. "And the other families? The ones who came with Aegon the Conqueror? Not the great houses, but...the smaller ones. The ones who served."
Arthur frowned. "I don't know all their names, my prince. Some died out, I think. Others married into other houses, lost their names. Why do you ask?"
"Just curious." Aenar's smile was quick, almost apologetic. "I've been thinking about history lately. About what was lost, and what remains."
It was always like this. Questions about families, about history, about the people who'd served the Targaryens in the old days. Aenar would ask, Arthur would answer as best he could, and then the prince would fall silent, clearly thinking about something Arthur couldn't quite grasp.
And then there were the common folk.
Arthur had lost count of how many times he'd followed the prince down to the docks, or into the market, or through the narrow streets where the smallfolk lived. Aenar would stop and talk to anyone who'd give him the time of day. Fishermen, craftsmen, servants, old women selling vegetables. He'd ask them about their lives, their families, their work. He'd listen with genuine interest, his face open and kind in a way that made people trust him.
"My grandfather was a stonemason," one old man had said, his weathered hands gesturing at the fortress walls. "Worked on the repairs after the last storm. His father before him did the same, and his father before that. We've been here since...well, since before I can remember."
"Since the Conquest?" Aenar had asked, leaning forward slightly.
"Aye, maybe even before. Family's always been here, always served the Targaryens. It's in our blood, you might say."
Aenar had thanked the man, pressed a coin into his palm despite his protests, and moved on. But Arthur had seen the way the prince's eyes had lit up, the way he'd filed that information away like it meant something.
What was he searching for? Arthur couldn't figure it out, couldn't piece together the pattern. Old families, people who'd been on Dragonstone for generations, histories that stretched back to the Conquest or before. It meant something to Aenar, something important, but the prince never explained.
And Arthur...Arthur didn't push. Partly because it wasn't his place, partly because he was just grateful to be here, away from the Red Keep's horrors. But also because he'd come to respect the prince, had come to see the careful intelligence behind those purple eyes. Aenar wasn't doing this for no reason. Whatever he was searching for, it mattered.
"What do you think of the realm, Ser Arthur?" Aenar asked one afternoon as they sat on the battlements, watching the waves crash against the rocks below. They'd finished their midday spar, and the prince had invited him to sit, to talk. It was becoming a habit, these conversations. Arthur found he didn't mind.
"The realm, my prince?"
"The Seven Kingdoms. The way things are run. The...the state of it all." Aenar's voice was careful, measured. He was nervous, Arthur realized. Nervous about saying the wrong thing, about revealing too much.
Arthur considered his words carefully. They'd avoided talking about the prince's family, about the king, about the horrors they'd both witnessed. It was an unspoken agreement between them, a line neither crossed. But the realm...that was safer ground.
"I think," Arthur said slowly, "that the realm is held together by good men doing their best in impossible circumstances. I think there are lords who care about their people, and lords who don't. I think...I think we could do better."
Aenar nodded, his gaze still fixed on the horizon. "And if you could change things? If you had the power to make the realm better, what would you do?"
"I'm just a knight, my prince. I don't have that kind of power."
"But if you did."
Arthur was quiet for a long moment. "I'd make sure the smallfolk were protected. That they had food, safety, justice. I'd make sure the lords who abused their power were held accountable. I'd...I'd try to build something that lasted, something good. Something worth defending."
The prince turned to look at him then, and there was something in his eyes that made Arthur's breath catch. Gratitude, maybe. Or recognition. Or...hope.
"Thank you, Ser Arthur," Aenar said softly. "Your opinion...it matters to me. More than you know."
And that was the thing, Arthur thought as they sat in comfortable silence. The prince genuinely cared what he thought. Genuinely wanted to know his opinions on politics, on families, on the world. It was strange, being valued like that. Being seen as more than just a sword, more than just a white cloak standing guard.
He'd come to care about the prince, Arthur admitted to himself. Had come to respect him, to want to protect him not just because of his oath, but because Aenar was...good. Thoughtful. Kind in ways that mattered. The boy had been shaped by horror, had grown up in the shadow of a mad king, but he hadn't let it break him. Hadn't let it make him cruel.
Instead, he'd come here. To Dragonstone. And he was searching for something, learning something, building toward something Arthur couldn't quite see.
But he was certain, absolutely certain, that whatever it was...it was important.
"My prince," Arthur said as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of purple and gold. "May I ask you something?"
Aenar glanced at him, curious. "Of course."
"What are you looking for? Here, on Dragonstone. With the people you talk to, the questions you ask. What is it you're trying to find?"
The prince was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he smiled, small and sad. "Something that was lost, Ser Arthur. Something that needs to be found again, if we're going to survive what's coming."
"And have you found it?"
Aenar's smile widened, just a fraction. "I'm getting close."
Arthur didn't press further. He'd learned to read the prince well enough to know when a subject was closed. But as they stood and made their way back inside the fortress, as the stars began to emerge overhead, Arthur found himself hoping that whatever Aenar was searching for...he'd find it soon.
Because the prince was right about one thing. Something was coming. Arthur could feel it in his bones, in the way the world seemed to be holding its breath. And when it arrived, they'd need whatever Aenar was building here.
They'd need it desperately.
Maeyr I
The dawn came cold and gray, the way it always did when the wind blew in from the east. Maeyr rolled out of the bed he shared with Naesa, careful not to jostle her too much, though she was already awake and watching him with those pale violet eyes. The babe in her belly made sleep difficult these days, and he felt a pang of guilt every time he left her to manage Daeya and the house while he was out on the water.
"Be safe," she murmured in Valyrian, her hand resting on the swell of her stomach. "The sea is restless today."
"Always am," he replied, leaning down to kiss her forehead. The silver of her hair caught what little light filtered through the shutters, and he thought, not for the first time, how lucky he'd been to marry her. A dragonseed marrying a dragonseed, his father had said. Keeping the blood strong, the old ways alive.
Not that it mattered much when you spent your days hauling nets and gutting fish.
He moved through the cramped house as quietly as he could, stepping over his father's boots by the hearth, past the corner where his grandparents slept, past the narrow stairs that led up to where great-grandfather Taegar kept his room. The old man was probably already awake, sitting by his window and muttering prayers to the Fourteen Flames like he did every morning. Maeyr had grown up with those prayers, had learned to speak the old tongue because Taegar insisted on it, had listened to stories about dragons and fire and blood until he could recite them in his sleep.
Stories. That's all they were now. Pretty words for a world that didn't exist anymore.
He was reaching for his coat when the knock came at the door.
Maeyr froze. Nobody knocked at this hour, not unless something was wrong. A death, maybe, or a fire, or...he crossed to the door and pulled it open, already forming apologies in his head for whatever neighbor needed help.
Prince Aenar Targaryen stood on his threshold.
For a moment, Maeyr's mind simply refused to process what he was seeing. The silver-gold hair, the purple eyes, the fine clothes that probably cost more than Maeyr would earn in ten years. Everything about him screamed royalty, from the way he held himself, straight-backed and composed, to the quality of the fabric that draped his shoulders. And behind him in all white, tall and silent and carrying a sword that seemed to drink in the dawn light...
The Sword of the Morning. Holy shit.
"Forgive the intrusion," Prince Aenar said in flawless Valyrian, his voice quiet and...polite? "I am Prince Aenar Targaryen. May I come in and speak with you and your family?"
Maeyr's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "I...of course, my prince. Of course." He stepped back, nearly tripping over his own feet, and gestured them inside. "Please, please come in."
The prince was asking permission. Not demanding, not commanding, but asking. Like Maeyr had a choice in the matter, like a prince needed permission to enter a fisherman's house. It didn't make sense, but Maeyr's brain was still trying to catch up with the fact that there was a prince standing at his door at all.
The prince stepped inside, moving with the kind of grace that came from years of training, and Ser Arthur Dayne followed like a shadow. Maeyr heard Naesa's sharp intake of breath from the bedroom. She appeared a moment later, one hand on the doorframe to steady herself, her eyes wide with shock. She tried to curtsy, her balance already precarious from the pregnancy, and her foot caught on the edge of the rug.
She stumbled forward.
Prince Aenar moved faster than Maeyr would have thought possible, catching Naesa by the arm before she could fall. "Careful," the prince said gently, helping her regain her balance. "Are you alright?"
"I...yes, my prince, thank you, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to..." Naesa's face had gone red, her free hand pressed against her belly as if to protect the babe inside.
"No apologies necessary." The prince's smile was kind, and he released her arm once she was steady. "Congratulations on the child. When are you due?"
"Two months, my prince." Naesa looked like she might faint from sheer mortification, and Maeyr moved to her side, taking her other arm.
By now, the rest of the house was stirring. His father emerged from behind the curtain that separated their sleeping area, his mother right behind him. His grandparents appeared from their corner, and from upstairs came the slow, careful sound of Taegar descending the stairs, one hand on the wall for balance.
Maeyr's mind was reeling. The prince had caught her. Had spoken to her like...like she mattered. Like she wasn't just some pregnant fisherman's wife who'd nearly fallen at his feet. Princes didn't do that, did they? They didn't concern themselves with smallfolk stumbling, didn't ask about due dates like they actually cared about the answer.
The house suddenly felt very, very small. The prince stood in the center of it, somehow managing to look perfectly at ease despite the cramped space and the low ceiling and the smell of fish that probably clung to everything. He didn't wrinkle his nose, didn't look uncomfortable. He just...waited, patient and composed, while the family assembled.
"I apologize for the early hour," Prince Aenar said, his gaze moving across the assembled family. There was something measured in the way he looked at each of them, assessing but not unkind. "But I have come seeking knowledge that I believe your family possesses. Specifically..." His eyes settled on Taegar, who had reached the bottom of the stairs and was staring at the prince with an expression Maeyr had never seen on the old man's face before. "I would like to speak with you, if I may. You are Taegar, yes?"
"I am, Your Highness." Taegar's voice was steady despite his age, and he bowed as deeply as his old bones would allow. "I am honored beyond measure by your presence in our home."
"The honor is mine." The prince inclined his head, a gesture of respect that made Maeyr's stomach twist with confusion. Why was the prince being so...so polite? He could have walked in here and demanded whatever he wanted, and they would have given it to him. That's how it worked. That's how it had always worked. "I have been searching for families like yours. Families who remember the old ways, who carry the blood and the knowledge of those who once served the dragons."
Maeyr felt his stomach drop. How did the prince know? How could he possibly...
"Your ancestors," Prince Aenar continued, his eyes still on Taegar. "They were dragonkeepers, were they not? In the days before the dragons died?"
Taegar's breath caught. "Yes, Your Highness. My great-great-grandfather served in the Dragonmount. His father before him, and his father before that, all the way back to the Conquest. We have...we have kept the knowledge, passed it down, even though..." His voice wavered. "Even though there are no dragons left to keep."
The prince nodded slowly, and Maeyr saw something flicker in those purple eyes. Satisfaction or relief. "I need to ask something of all of you," Prince Aenar said, his gaze sweeping across the room. His voice carried natural authority, the kind that came from being raised to command, but there was no harshness in it. "What I am about to tell you must remain secret. You cannot speak of it to anyone, not your neighbors, not your friends, not even other family. Do you understand?"
"Of course, my prince," Maeyr's father said immediately, and the others echoed the sentiment. What else were they going to say? He was the prince. If he asked them to keep a secret, they'd keep it. Though the fact that he'd asked instead of simply commanding...that was still throwing Maeyr off balance.
Maeyr glanced at Naesa, saw his own confusion reflected in her eyes. What could the prince possibly want with them?
"Naesa," Maeyr said quietly. "Take Daeya outside for a bit. Let her play by the garden."
Naesa nodded, understanding immediately. Whatever this was, it wasn't for a three-year-old's ears. She collected their daughter from where she'd been peeking around the bedroom door, whispering reassurances as she guided her outside.
When the door closed behind them, Prince Aenar spoke again. "I know how to hatch dragons," he said simply, and the words hung in the air like smoke. "But I cannot do it alone. I cannot care for them alone. I need help. I need people who understand what dragons are, how they think, how they live. I need the knowledge that your family has kept alive all these years."
Silence.
Maeyr stared at the prince, trying to process what he'd just heard. Hatch dragons. The prince thought he could hatch dragons. Dragons had been dead for over a century, their eggs turned to stone, their bloodlines extinct. Everyone knew that. Everyone...
"My prince," Maeyr's father said carefully, "with all respect...the dragons are gone. The eggs are stone. Even if you had a living egg, the knowledge of how to hatch them was lost when the last dragons died."
"I know it sounds impossible." The prince's voice was calm, patient. He didn't bristle at the doubt, didn't take offense. He just...explained, like he was discussing the weather or the tides. "But I have studied the old texts, explored every cave and crevice of this island. I know what was lost. And I know how to find it again."
Maeyr wanted to believe him. Gods, part of him desperately wanted to believe him. But he was a fisherman, a practical man who dealt in nets and tides and the weight of a good catch. Dragons were stories, legends, things that belonged to a world that didn't exist anymore. And princes, no matter how educated or determined, couldn't just...bring them back. Could they?
His grandmother was shaking her head slowly, his grandfather's face was skeptical, his father looked like he was trying to figure out how to politely tell a prince he was wrong without getting them all thrown in a cell.
But Taegar...
Taegar's face had transformed. The old man's eyes were bright, almost feverish, and his hands were trembling as he clutched at the key that hung around his neck. The key he'd worn for as long as Maeyr could remember, the key he'd never once taken off, not even to bathe.
"You...you truly believe this, Your Highness?" Taegar's voice was barely a whisper. "You truly think the dragons can return?"
"I know they can," Prince Aenar said, and there was certainty in his voice, the kind of certainty that came from knowledge, not faith. "With your help."
Taegar made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. Then he turned and moved toward the stairs with a speed that shouldn't have been possible for a man of ninety-two name days. "Wait," he said, his voice cracking. "Wait, please, I must...I must show you..."
He disappeared up the stairs, his footsteps surprisingly quick, and Maeyr exchanged bewildered glances with his father. What in the name of the Fourteen...
Taegar returned a few minutes later, breathing hard, carrying a chest that looked almost too heavy for him to manage. It was large, made of dark wood reinforced with iron, and it rattled slightly as he set it down on the floor with a heavy thunk.
His hands shook as he lifted the key from around his neck, the chain leaving a faint red mark on his skin where it had rested for decades. He fitted the key into the lock, turned it with a click that seemed to echo through the small house.
The lid opened.
Inside were books. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds, their pages yellowed with age, their covers worn and cracked. Journals, Maeyr realized. Journals filled with cramped handwriting in Valyrian script, with drawings of dragons and diagrams of...of things he didn't understand.
"My great-great-grandfather's journals," Taegar said, his voice thick with emotion. "And his father's before him. And his father's before that. Every dragonkeeper in our line wrote down what they knew, what they learned, what they saw. We kept them safe, kept them hidden, because..." He looked up at Prince Aenar, and there were tears on his weathered cheeks. "Because it was our duty. Because someone had to remember. Because the knowledge was too important to let die."
His voice cracked. "I never thought...in my lifetime, I never thought anyone would need them again. I thought I would pass the key to my grandson, and he would pass it to his son, and we would just...keep carrying them. Keep the duty alive even if the dragons never came back."
Prince Aenar knelt beside the chest, his movements careful and deliberate. "May I?" he asked softly, and gods, there it was again. Asking. A prince asking a fisherman's great-grandfather for permission to touch journals that had been kept in trust for generations.
"They are yours, Your Highness," Taegar said, and his voice was steadier now, filled with something that might have been relief. "Not because we were keeping them for you specifically, but because...because you are Targaryen. Because you can use them."
He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. "We kept them safe because it was our duty to keep them safe. Because our ancestors were dragonkeepers, and that meant something, even when there were no dragons left to keep. And now..."
"Now they have purpose again," Prince Aenar said quietly, and he carefully lifted one of the journals, opened it to a random page, and began to read. The expression on his face was focused, intent, the look of someone who understood the value of what he was holding.
Maeyr watched the prince's eyes move across the page, watched the way his fingers traced the faded ink with something close to reverence. This was real to him.
And standing there in his cramped house, surrounded by his family and a prince who asked instead of commanded and the Sword of the Morning who stood silent witness, Maeyr felt something shift in his understanding of the world.
The duty his family had carried for generations, the knowledge they'd preserved out of obligation and fading hope, finally had someone who could use it. Someone who needed it. Someone who understood what it meant.
Maybe dragons were more than just stories after all.
Maybe the duty had been worth carrying.
Maeyr II
The path to the hidden entrance was one Maeyr had walked a hundred times as a boy, back when he and the other children used to dare each other to go deeper into the caves before the heat drove them back. He'd never made it far, none of them had. The mountain didn't want them there, or so his grandmother used to say, and after a certain point the air itself felt like it was trying to push you out.
His father, Aerion, walked beside him in silence, his weathered face set in an expression Maeyr couldn't quite read. Nervous, maybe. Or excited. Or both.
Two weeks. Two weeks since the prince had sat in their house and spoken of dragons like they were real things, living things, things that could be brought back. Two weeks since Taegar had opened that chest and wept over journals that suddenly mattered again. Two weeks since the prince had looked Maeyr in the eye and promised him coin, real coin, more than a fisherman could earn in five years of good catches.
"You'll be paid for your work," the prince had said, his voice steady and certain. "Paid well. This is not a favor I'm asking. This is employment."
Employment. Maeyr had never been employed by anyone in his life, much less a prince. He caught fish, sold them at market, and tried to keep his family fed. That was the extent of his ambitions, the limit of what he thought possible for someone like him.
But now...
They reached the entrance just as the sun was starting to climb over the eastern hills, painting the sky in shades of gray and pale orange. There were others already there, maybe ten or twelve of them, all standing in small clusters and speaking in low voices. Maeyr recognized most of them. Daemon and Vaelon, Naesa's older brothers, stood together near the cave mouth, their silver hair catching the early light. Beside them was young Jaerys, barely sixteen and looking like he might bolt at any moment.
Everyone had the look. Silver hair, pale eyes, the blood of Old Valyria running through their veins even if it had been diluted by generations of living as smallfolk. Dragonseeds, all of them. The prince had chosen carefully.
"Maeyr." Daemon nodded to him, his voice tight.
"Daemon. Vaelon." Maeyr moved to stand with them, and his father followed. "Jaerys."
The boy managed a jerky nod, his hands clenched at his sides. He looked terrified, and Maeyr couldn't blame him. They were all terrified, even if most of them were better at hiding it.
"Anyone know what we're actually doing here?" Vaelon asked quietly, glancing around at the others. "The prince said to come, so we came, but..."
"We're here to work," Aerion said, his voice low but firm. "That's all we need to know."
Work. Right. Work that paid more coin than any of them had ever seen, work that involved dragons, work that...
Maeyr's thoughts cut off as a figure appeared at the cave entrance, stepping out of the darkness like he'd been part of it. Prince Aenar, dressed simply in dark clothing that wouldn't have looked out of place on any of them. He looked calm, composed, like this was just another morning.
He raised one hand and gestured for them to follow, then turned and disappeared back into the cave without a word.
For a moment, no one moved. Then Daemon took a breath and started forward, and the rest of them followed like fish caught in a net, unable to do anything but go where the current pulled them.
The entrance was cool, almost pleasant after the morning sun. Maeyr had been this far before, had explored these outer chambers as a child. But as they moved deeper, following the prince's steady pace, the temperature began to change. Slowly at first, just a gradual warming of the air, then faster, hotter, until Maeyr could feel sweat starting to bead on his forehead.
He glanced around, looking for the Sword of the Morning, but the legendary knight was nowhere to be seen. Strange. The man had been at the prince's side constantly during his visit to their house, a silent white shadow that made Maeyr nervous just by existing. But now...
Of course.
The heat. It was already uncomfortable, and they'd barely gone a hundred feet into the mountain. A man without the blood wouldn't be able to make it much further, not without collapsing or worse. That's why the prince had come alone. That's why he'd chosen dragonseeds.
The path sloped downward, winding deeper into the mountain, and the heat continued to build. Maeyr's shirt was soaked through now, clinging to his back, and his breathing had gone shallow and quick. Around him, the others were in similar states. Young Jaerys looked like he might be sick, his face pale despite the flush of heat, and even Daemon had stopped trying to look composed.
No one spoke. The only sounds were their footsteps on stone and the harsh rasp of their breathing, echoing off the walls in a rhythm that felt almost like a heartbeat.
Maeyr thought about the coin again, about what it would mean for Naesa and Daeya and the babe on the way. Thought about how he could fix the roof properly, buy a new boat, maybe even add a room to the house so they weren't all sleeping on top of each other. Thought about how his father could finally rest, how Taegar could live out his last years in comfort instead of scraping by on fish and pride.
If this is real, he thought, wiping sweat from his eyes. If the prince can actually do what he says...
The path opened up.
Maeyr stopped walking, his breath catching in his throat, because the cavern before him was...it was...
Gods.
The space was massive, so large he couldn't see the far walls in the dim light that seemed to come from the stone itself, a faint reddish glow that pulsed like embers. The heat here was almost unbearable, pressing down on him like a physical weight, making it hard to think, hard to breathe. But that wasn't what made him stop.
It was the eggs.
Hundreds of them, scattered throughout the cavern in clusters and piles, resting on stone shelves and nestled in carved alcoves. Some were small, no bigger than his head. Others were massive, easily the size of half a man. They came in every color he could imagine and some he couldn't, deep reds and brilliant golds and blues so dark they were almost black. Pale cream and forest green and silver that seemed to shimmer in the low light.
Dragon eggs. Real dragon eggs, not stories, not legends, but actual physical things that he could see with his own eyes.
"Watch your step," Prince Aenar said, his voice cutting through the stunned silence. He was already moving deeper into the cavern, navigating between the eggs with practiced ease, and after a moment the rest of them followed, stepping carefully around the precious stones like they might shatter at a touch.
Maeyr couldn't stop staring. Every egg was different, unique, beautiful in a way that made his chest ache. Some had patterns etched into their surfaces, swirls and scales and designs that seemed to shift when he looked at them too long. Others were smooth as glass, reflecting the red glow of the cavern in their depths.
How long have they been here? he wondered. How long have they been waiting?
The prince led them to the far side of the cavern, where a space had been cleared and prepared. A pyre had been built there, carefully stacked wood arranged in a specific pattern that Maeyr didn't recognize. And in the center, resting on a bed of what looked like black sand, was an egg.
It was huge. Easily two, maybe three times the size of the other eggs they'd passed, and its surface was a deep, rich purple that seemed to drink in the light. Veins of emerald green ran through it in intricate patterns, pulsing faintly with the same rhythm as the glow from the stone.
"Stand back," Prince Aenar said quietly, and they all obeyed, forming a loose circle around the prepared area. The prince moved to the pyre and knelt beside it, his movements deliberate and precise.
He pulled a knife from his belt, the blade catching the red light, and without hesitation drew it across his palm. Blood welled up, dark and red, and he held his hand over the egg, letting it drip onto the purple surface.
Then he began to chant.
The words were High Valyrian, old and formal, nothing like the everyday speech Maeyr used with his family. The syllables rolled off the prince's tongue like music, like poetry, like something that had weight and power beyond mere meaning. Maeyr didn't understand all of it, couldn't follow the complex grammar and archaic phrasing, but he felt it. Felt the way the air seemed to thicken, the way the heat intensified until it was almost painful.
The prince's voice rose, steady and strong, and he pressed his bleeding hand directly against the egg's surface, his blood mixing with the emerald veins and spreading across the purple shell like cracks in ice.
The egg moved.
Just a twitch at first, so small Maeyr thought he'd imagined it. Then again, stronger, a definite shift that made the black sand beneath it scatter. The chanting continued, the prince's voice never wavering, and the egg began to rock back and forth, slowly at first, then faster.
A crack appeared in the shell, thin and dark, running from the top down toward the base. Then another. Then a dozen more, spreading across the surface like a spiderweb, and the egg was shaking now, trembling with whatever was inside trying to get out.
The shell split.
A piece fell away, then another, and Maeyr saw...he saw...
Purple. Deep, rich purple scales that gleamed in the red light, still wet from the egg. A head emerged, small and delicate, with eyes that glowed like molten gold. Wings followed, translucent membrane stretched between delicate bones, and the membrane was green, that same emerald green as the veins on the egg.
The dragon opened its mouth and made a sound, high and piercing, and Maeyr felt something in his chest crack open, something he hadn't known was there.
It was real.
Dragons were real.
And he was watching one be born.
Arthur VI
Eight months had passed since the dragon hatched, and Arthur still wasn't entirely sure how his life had become this.
Standing guard in the lord's solar at Dragonstone while a sixteen-year-old prince read letters from his mother and complained about marriage prospects wasn't exactly what he'd envisioned when he'd taken the white cloak. But then, nothing about the past year had gone the way he'd expected, and somehow...somehow that had turned out to be a good thing.
He and Aenar had grown close. Closer than Arthur had ever been with Rhaegar, if he was being honest with himself, and that realization still felt strange. Wrong, almost, like he was betraying something. But Rhaegar had been his friend, his sparring partner, someone he respected and admired. Aenar was...different. Aenar had become someone Arthur actually trusted, someone he believed in, and that distinction mattered more than he'd thought possible.
The prince had changed over these months on Dragonstone, or maybe Arthur had just finally seen him clearly. Aenar was decisive in a way Rhaegar had never been, willing to commit to a course of action and trust himself enough to see it through. When Aenar decided something needed doing, he did it. No endless deliberation, no weighing every possible consequence until the moment for action had passed.
It wasn't that Rhaegar's approach was wrong, exactly. The elder prince's careful diplomacy, his ability to see all sides of a situation and find compromise, those were valuable skills. Essential ones, probably, for someone who would one day rule. But gods, it was exhausting to watch sometimes. Rhaegar could spend weeks agonizing over a decision that Aenar would make in an afternoon, and half the time Aenar's choice worked out just as well.
Better, Arthur thought, watching the prince frown at whatever his mother had written. Aenar's choices work out better because he commits to them fully instead of second-guessing himself into paralysis.
The dragon was proof of that. Rhaegar would have spent the next decade studying those journals, consulting with maesters, planning and preparing until everything was perfect. Aenar had taken the knowledge, trusted his understanding of it, and brought a dragon into the world in less than four months.
Onixa.
Named after some Valyrian goddess of sorcery, which Arthur thought was a bit odd, but then Aenar was a bit odd. A good man, truly kind and thoughtful in ways that reminded Arthur of why he'd taken his vows in the first place. But also sure of himself, confident in his decisions, willing to act when action was needed.
The dragon herself was...well. She was a dragon. Arthur still wasn't entirely comfortable with that fact, but he was getting there.
She'd grown considerably over the past eight months, from the size of a large cat to something closer to a small pony. Still growing, too, eating her weight in meat every few days and getting noticeably larger each week. The twelve dragonkeepers Aenar had hired worked in shifts of two, six during the day and six at night, tending to her needs and keeping her contained in the Dragonmount when the sun was up.
At night, though...at night she roamed the island with Aenar, playing and flying and doing whatever it was dragons did when they weren't being fed or studied. Arthur had adjusted his own schedule to match, sleeping through the morning hours so he could stay awake and alert during the prince's nocturnal activities. It was strange, living backwards like this, but he'd gotten used to it.
Onixa had a personality, which was somehow the most unsettling part. She was mischievous, prone to stealing things and hiding them in odd places, and she had a temper that flared hot and fast when she didn't get her way. But she was never hostile, never truly aggressive toward him or the keepers. Just...spirited. Like a particularly willful horse, except with wings and the ability to breathe fire.
Purple and green fire, as of last month. That had been a sight.
Arthur's mind drifted back to the day after she'd hatched, when Aenar had brought him to meet her properly. He'd expected something larger, more imposing, but she'd been tiny. Small enough to fit in Aenar's arms, her scales still soft and her wings too delicate to support flight. She'd looked at Arthur with those molten gold eyes and made a sound like a chirp, curious and unafraid, and then she'd tried to eat his sword belt.
Aenar had laughed, actually laughed, and pulled her away while she squirmed and protested. "She likes shiny things," the prince had said, grinning like a boy with a new puppy. "We'll have to keep the treasury locked."
Arthur had stood there, watching this legendary creature try to gnaw on leather, and thought: This is real. This is actually happening.
It still felt that way sometimes. Surreal and impossible and completely, undeniably real.
"Arthur." Aenar's voice pulled him back to the present, and Arthur straightened slightly, focusing on the prince. "My mother wants to know if I've given any thought to marriage."
Arthur couldn't quite suppress his smile. "And have you, my prince?"
"I'm sixteen." Aenar set the letter down on the desk with more force than necessary, his expression caught between exasperation and amusement. "Nearly seventeen, yes, but still. Marriage. She wants me to start thinking about marriage when I've barely figured out how to keep my dragon alive."
"Being married isn't so bad," Arthur offered, his tone deliberately mild. "Or so I'm told."
Aenar shot him a look that was pure skepticism. "You're celibate. You can't talk."
Fair point. Arthur inclined his head in acknowledgment, still smiling. "True enough. But your mother has a point, doesn't she? Your father is looking for a wife for Prince Rhaegar. It's not unreasonable for her to wonder about your own preferences."
"My preferences." Aenar leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that made him look younger than his years. "I don't...I haven't really thought about it. Not seriously."
"Well." Arthur shifted his weight, settling into a more comfortable stance. "What would you want? If you did think about it seriously."
The prince was quiet for a moment, his gaze distant. Then: "Someone confident. Sure of themselves, but not arrogant about it. There's a difference."
Arthur nodded. There was indeed a difference, and it said something about Aenar that he recognized it.
"Intelligent," Aenar continued, warming to the topic despite his earlier protests. "But not condescending. Not someone who thinks being clever gives them the right to look down on others." He paused, then added more quietly: "And...real. Someone who likes me for me, not because I'm a prince. I know that's probably naive, but I'm the second son. I have more freedom than Rhaegar does. I don't have to marry for pure political advantage."
"That's not naive," Arthur said, and meant it. "That's knowing your own worth."
Aenar's cheeks colored slightly, and he looked away. "And...well. Obviously I'd want her to be attractive. I'm not...I mean, I know that's shallow, but..."
Arthur laughed, the sound genuine and warm. "You're sixteen, my prince. If you didn't care about that, I'd be worried."
The prince's blush deepened, but he was smiling now, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "My mother will be insufferable about this. She'll start parading every eligible lady in the Seven Kingdoms past me."
"Could be worse," Arthur pointed out. "At least you'll have options."
"I suppose." Aenar picked up the letter again, scanning it with a resigned expression. "She mentions a few names. Houses I should consider. Political advantages." He sighed. "It's all very practical."
Arthur watched him, this young prince who'd brought dragons back into the world, who'd found a way to be kind without being weak and decisive without being cruel. Who wanted someone real, someone who would see him as more than his title.
And Arthur's mind was turning, spinning through possibilities he hadn't considered before. Because there was someone. Someone who fit every requirement Aenar had listed, someone who was confident and intelligent and real. Someone who would see the prince for who he was, not what he represented.
Someone with distinctive violet eyes, who had a brother in the Kingsguard and understood what it meant to be bound by oaths and honor.
Perhaps, Arthur thought, keeping his expression carefully neutral. Perhaps that could work.
He didn't say anything. Not yet. The idea was too new, too uncertain, and he needed to think it through properly. But it was there now, planted in his mind like a seed, and he suspected it would grow whether he wanted it to or not.
"Well," he said instead, his tone light. "At least you have time to figure it out. Your mother isn't demanding an answer tomorrow."
"Small mercies," Aenar muttered, but he was smiling again, and Arthur counted that as a victory.
The solar fell quiet, comfortable in a way that would have been impossible eight months ago. Outside, the sun was setting over Blackwater Bay, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold. Soon Onixa would wake, and Aenar would go to her, and Arthur would follow because that was his duty.
But for now, in this moment, Arthur stood guard and thought about possibilities. About a prince who deserved better than the hand he'd been dealt, and a sister who might be exactly what he needed.
Perhaps, he thought again, and let the idea settle.
Perhaps indeed.
Ashara I
Highgarden was as beautiful as the stories promised, and Ashara Dayne had always loved stories.
The castle rose from the heart of the Reach like something out of a bard's song, all golden stone and climbing roses, gardens sprawling in every direction as far as the eye could see. The morning sun painted everything in shades of amber and green, and the air smelled of flowers and fresh-cut grass and something sweet she couldn't quite name. It was the kind of place that made you believe in happy endings, in knights and ladies and love that conquered all.
Ashara didn't believe in any of that anymore, but gods, it was still beautiful.
She adjusted her mask as the carriage rolled through the outer gates, checking the fit one more time even though she'd already checked it a dozen times during the journey. The mask was silver filigree, delicate and ornate, covering the upper half of her face and leaving only her mouth and chin exposed. It had cost a small fortune, but it was worth every copper. For three days, no one would know who she was. For three days, she could be anyone.
For three days, she could be normal.
The thought made something tight in her chest loosen, just a fraction. She'd been traveling for nearly a week to get here, her escort of household guards trailing behind her carriage like a small army. They'd stopped at inns along the way, and even with her hood up and her face hidden, men had stared. They always stared. It was exhausting.
Being beautiful was supposed to be a blessing, but Ashara had learned the hard way that it was more curse than gift. She didn't hate her appearance, not exactly. She liked her face well enough when she looked in the mirror, liked the way her dark hair fell in waves down her back, liked the violet of her eyes that marked her as something other than common. But gods, she hated what it did to people.
Men fell over themselves for her attention. Literally fell, sometimes, tripping over their own feet or each other in their rush to be near her. They fought duels for the right to dance with her, to speak with her, to sit beside her at feasts. She'd seen more than one man lose a limb over the privilege of her time, and the worst part was that they seemed to think it was romantic. Honorable. As if maiming yourself for a woman you'd never even had a conversation with was somehow proof of devotion.
Bards sang songs about her. The most enchanting beauty in the world, they called her. The jewel of Dorne, the violet-eyed maiden, the lady whose face could launch a thousand ships. It was all very flattering and completely, utterly exhausting.
She was seventeen years old. By all rights, she should be married by now, bedded and heavy with her first child, maybe even her second. But instead she was still unwed, still untouched, because every man who tried to court her turned into a drooling idiot the moment he laid eyes on her. They couldn't hold a conversation. They couldn't see past her face to the person underneath. They wanted to possess her, to own her, to put her on a pedestal and worship her like some kind of living statue.
None of them wanted to know her.
And Ashara...Ashara wanted to be known. She wanted to be married. She wanted to be bedded, wanted to feel what it was like to be touched by someone who saw her as a woman and not a prize. She wanted children, gods, she wanted children so badly it was almost a physical ache.
She'd always been maternal, even as a girl. At Starfall, she spent most of her days with the castle's children, playing with them and teaching them and holding the babies when their mothers needed rest. There was something about the weight of an infant in her arms that made her feel complete, like she was doing what she was meant to do.
She wanted a family. A real family, with a husband who loved her and children who needed her and a life that was hers, not some fantasy version that existed only in songs.
But she couldn't have that if no one could see past her face.
The carriage came to a stop in the main courtyard, and Ashara took a breath, steadying herself. This was it. Three days of anonymity, three days of being just another masked lady at a ball. Three days to meet people who might actually like her for who she was, not what she looked like.
And three days with Arthur.
That was the real reason she'd come, if she was being honest with herself. She missed her brother. Missed him so much it hurt sometimes, a dull ache that never quite went away. It had been nearly three years since she'd seen him, three years since he'd taken the white cloak and sworn himself to the Kingsguard. She was proud of him, fiercely proud, but gods, she missed him.
He'd written to her about the masquerade, mentioned in passing that he'd be attending as part of Queen Rhaella's escort. The moment Ashara had read those words, she'd known she was going. She would have traveled twice as far, endured twice as many stares, just for the chance to see him again.
The door to the carriage opened, and one of her guards offered his hand to help her down. Ashara took it, stepping out into the courtyard and looking around. There were other carriages arriving, other masked figures moving toward the castle entrance, but her attention caught on a familiar shape standing near the main doors.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. The way he stood, the way he held himself, the slight tilt of his head as he scanned the courtyard...
No mask in the world could hide Arthur from her.
Ashara's heart leapt, and before she could think better of it, she was moving. Running, actually, which was probably undignified but she didn't care. She crossed the courtyard in a rush, her skirts gathered in one hand, and threw herself at her brother with enough force to make him stagger back a step.
"Arthur," she said, her voice muffled against his chest. "Arthur, gods, I've missed you."
His arms came around her immediately, strong and steady and exactly the way she remembered. "Ashara." His voice was warm, tinged with surprise and something that might have been relief. "I wasn't sure you'd actually come."
"Of course I came." She pulled back just enough to look up at him, her hands still gripping his arms. "You think I'd miss a chance to see you? It's been three years, you idiot."
He was smiling, she could hear it in his voice even if the mask hid most of his face. "Three years," he agreed. "You've...you've grown."
"I'm seventeen, not seven." But she was smiling too, couldn't help it. "You've changed too. You're...bigger. More...I don't know. Knightly."
Arthur laughed, the sound low and genuine. "Knightly. Is that even a word?"
"It is now." Ashara stepped back, giving herself room to really look at him. He had changed. Filled out, grown into himself in a way he hadn't quite managed before he left. There was something different in the way he carried himself too, something heavier. Not bad, exactly, just...older. Like he'd seen things that had aged him in ways that had nothing to do with years.
She wondered what those things were. Wondered if he'd tell her, or if the white cloak meant keeping those secrets locked away.
"I'm glad you're here," Arthur said quietly, and there was something in his tone that made her think he meant it more than she'd realized. "Really glad."
"Me too." Ashara squeezed his arm once, then let go, suddenly aware that they were standing in the middle of a courtyard with people watching. "So. Three days of masks and mystery. Think you can keep up with me?"
"I think the question is whether you can keep up with me." But he was grinning now, and Ashara felt something settle in her chest. Something that had been tight and anxious for weeks.
She was here. Arthur was here. And for three days, she could be anyone she wanted to be.