“You are heir to the throne.”
Jaehaerys’s eyes came back into focus.
“These are matters for you to decide.”
The old king suddenly felt a weight lift from his whole body.
In all honesty, the moment he’d seen that Alysanne had written to him of her own accord, he’d found himself hard-pressed to hold back the urge to fly straight back to Dragonstone that very hour, to mend the rift with the woman he loved above all others.
A year before, flying back to King’s Landing from the Reach, he’d been struck with a kind of quiet horror: the very same man who, in his youth, could fly a full day and night without tiring, now found himself utterly spent just making the flight back from Stonebridge.
From that moment on, whatever fury he’d once held in check in his younger years, whatever gentleness he’d worked so hard to maintain, had, in the end, dissolved into the simple concessions of a man grown old.
He was willing to bend to Alysanne’s own terms.
Willing to let Quentyn’s dragon-taming stand unchallenged, since neither law nor reason gave him any real ground to object.
And, in the end, willing to let Corlys carry off a dragon egg for his own great-grandson as well.
“Father…”
Baelon shook his head.
“Your Grace, you are the king.
People are willing to believe in a reconciler’s own concessions.
But the Prince of Spring’s Dawn is still too green for that kind of trust.”
“What is it you mean to do?”
Old as he was, Jaehaerys’s wits remained sharp, and he caught the meaning behind Baelon’s words at once.
“Have Quentyn and Gael fly in on dragonback to present themselves before you, in King’s Landing, or on Dragonstone.”
Baelon set his councillor’s orb down on the table and gave it a light push.
The smooth, rounded orb settled precisely into its own groove.
“Invite Lord Daeron, Aunt Valera, Lord Corlys, and whichever other lords can make it in time to witness it as well.
Aunt Valera can stand as living proof of the legitimacy of Quentyn’s own claim, and that alone should leave Lord Corlys with nothing further to say.”
“I take your meaning.”
Admiration shone plainly in Jaehaerys’s own eyes.
“And having Quentyn and Gael arrive together on dragonback will let every lord present bear witness, once more, to House Targaryen’s own continued strength.” Baelon said with a sigh.
“It might, ordinarily, stir up some strange notions among certain houses.
But if we lay everything out plainly, in the open, we can turn those very houses to our own advantage instead, and come away with a greater gain still.”
“You mean House Celtigar?”
The old king’s tone turned faintly amused.
Among the Valyrian-blooded houses closely tied to House Targaryen, only House Celtigar now found itself in an awkward position.
House Velaryon had won the Targaryens’ own favor through its navy, and the Sea Snake had brought with him besides a vast fortune, a mighty fleet, and now, a princess and a dragon.
Lord Corlys had only just secured a dragon egg for his own son on top of it all.
House Qoherys, for its part, had sheltered Jaehaerys, Alysanne, Valera, and the Dowager Queen Alyssa in their own hour of need, and through that same service had helped spare Valera from an early death.
In return, they had won not only Valera’s own love and the royal family’s blessing on the match, but now, too, a son with a genuine gift for taming dragons.
Only House Celtigar had nothing to show for itself: unable even to bring Crackclaw Point fully under its own rule, and with precious few marriages tying it to the royal line besides.
“Bartimos Celtigar is a rational man.” Baelon said, picking up his father’s own thread.
“But even the most rational of men can lose all sense of proportion in the presence of dragons.
Lord Bartimos wants for neither sons nor daughters, nor siblings of his own.
What we need to do is make use of exactly that blindness.”
“You crafty boy.”
Jaehaerys laughed heartily.
“Go on, then, see it arranged.
Oh, and what title do you mean to give Quentyn?”
Baelon answered without a moment’s hesitation.
“Sword of the Realm.
He’ll become the sharpest blade standing between the royal family and whatever danger comes for it.”
“Aaaaaaah—”
“Hisssss—”
Gael would swear, afterward, that she had never once shrieked so loudly in her whole life.
It wasn’t the least bit ladylike.
But she found herself utterly unable to control her own voice.
The sudden weightlessness of the dragon’s own takeoff left her too rigid with fear to move at all, and she could only grip the spines along Jade’s back with all her strength, eyes squeezed tightly shut.
Even Jade herself seemed caught up in Gael’s own fear, letting out a steady stream of hissing shrieks of her own, the rhythm of her wingbeats faltering along with it. Read the latest chapters at novelping(.)com.
It wasn’t until Moon Crown’s own massive shape swept steadily past beneath them that Jade finally began to settle.
Moon Crown beat her wings once and climbed higher, drawing level with Jade and the young green dragon in an instant.
“Don’t be afraid.
I’m right here.”
Quentyn called out loudly, reassuring Gael.
Gael’s own shrieking cut off at once.
Tears still shone in her eyes, and small, hiccupping sobs still escaped her, but she steadied herself, little by little, as Jade’s own flight grew smoother, and the breeze caught at the girl’s long hair.
Silver strands danced on the wind, fluttering like a butterfly’s own wings.
Quentyn found himself watching a moment longer than he’d meant to, before drawing his gaze back and letting out a long breath.
The boy turned his mind to what needed doing next.
Taming a great dragon had certainly thrown his own plans off course, but Daemon’s own accident, the opening Alysanne had handed him, Jaehaerys’s own concession, Baelon’s own wish to use him as a counterweight against House Velaryon and to shore up a royal family short on dragonriders, and, most important of all, the dragon attack he’d helped avert, one that would otherwise have claimed the queen, a princess, and a royal grandson besides.
All of it, taken together, had built him a nearly perfect set of circumstances.
But it also meant he needed to show himself genuinely close to the royal family now, if he meant to make the very most of this opportunity, and turn it, in the most natural way possible, into a still greater gain.
Gael was only the first step.
While Quentyn turned this over in his mind, Jade had already touched down, with Moon Crown landing close beside her only a moment later.
Gael sat on the dragon’s back in a daze, whether from the flight having simply worn her out completely, or from her own mind still catching up to what had just happened, Quentyn couldn’t say.
Quentyn smiled, slid down along Moon Crown’s wing, and walked over to the green dragon’s side.
Jade glanced once at Quentyn, then lowered her head and flattened her body, settling her wings down close.
She was still a young dragon.
Any ordinary knight could simply have swung down from her back without any trouble at all.
But Gael…
was, quite plainly, no ordinary knight.
Quentyn wrapped an arm around the girl’s waist and lifted her sideways down from the dragon’s back.
It wasn’t until she felt the warmth of the boy’s chest against her that Gael seemed to wake, as if from a dream, letting out a long breath, her eyes shining bright as stars as she looked up at him.
Daemon came bounding over, sounding thoroughly put out about the whole thing.
“Fuck, Quenny, I take it back.”
Quentyn set Gael down, a little helpless.
“Take back what, exactly?”
“I should’ve dragged you off to see Caraxes first, damn it.
Then I’d have been the first one to show off in front of you…”
Quentyn found himself entirely at a loss for words.
“Thank…
thank you…”
Gael cut in, careful and shy.
She reached out and tapped Quentyn’s cheek lightly with one finger.
“Thank you, Quenny…
my…
my…”
Gael thought it over for a long moment, and finally forced out a single word.
“My knight.”
Daemon burst out laughing.
Quentyn gave Gael a small, gracious bow, smiling.
“Only doing my duty, my princess.”
Gael’s face went redder still.
“All right, children.”
Alysanne came forward with her two white knights and drew all three of them into her arms.
“Time to go home.”
She looked up at the two great dragons.
“There’s a feast waiting for you both.
As for the dragons…”
“The dragon courtyard’s already got lambs and calves ready, and a fine fat pig besides.
Whatever a dragon might have a taste for, we’ve got it in plenty.”
Alysanne’s warm, fond voice drifted off on the wind, fading slowly into Dragonstone’s own sulfur-tinged sea air.
As the moon took the sun’s own crown and brought night, and its own field of stars, down over the land.
Ravens launched from the Red Keep’s own ravenry had already carried word to every lord of the crownlands, and further still, to the lords of the Riverlands themselves.
Harrenhal.
The Widow’s Tower.
During Dowager Queen Rhaena’s own stay at Harrenhal, she had once made use of this very bedchamber, the very room “the Black” Harren himself had designed for his own queen.
Now, this warm, comfortable chamber, cool in summer and snug through winter, bore no trace left of House Hoare at all.
Dowager Queen Rhaena had brought with her a great metal bed in the Valyrian style, an ebony dressing table, and stone carvings of the sea done in the style of Fair Isle, and all of it remained in this same bedchamber even now.
Upon the domed ceiling above stretched the legendary feast of the Merking and his queens in their own union, schools of fish circling a ring of full-figured maidens, a scene of fertility and abundance.
Lord Daeron pulled off his own undershirt.
Years of comfortable, easy living had left him with a fair belly on him, but on the whole, the fine looks his Valyrian blood had given him still lingered, even now.
He had never been a warrior.
With every passing day that Quentyn grew taller and stronger, his own sword, it seemed, only grew a little more tired.
But Daeron cared little enough about that.
He loved Valera, and Valera loved him in equal measure, and besides, the two of them had long since passed the years when pleasure in bed was the whole of what mattered between them.
Well past fifty now, growing old together, they could still find just as much joy simply lying close in each other’s arms.
Valera sat before her own dressing table, slowly working the day’s paint from her face in the mirror.
Daeron slipped his left arm gently around his wife’s waist, burying his own face against her, breathing in, hungrily, the scent that always clung to her.
Princess Valera pushed her husband’s face away, gently.
“Have you forgotten the gift little Quenny brought back from the Citadel?
He made it himself, with his own hands.” She held the silver flask out to Daeron, plainly proud, and the room filled at once with an enticing floral scent.
“You’ve smelled it all this time and still haven’t grown used to it?”
“Never will.”
Daeron leaned in again, his hand sliding slowly across the smooth line of Valera’s back, drawing his wife’s shoulders in close, pressing his lips deep against hers.
“My lord Daeron.
A raven’s come from King’s Landing…”
Just as the two of them lay entwined together.
An ill-timed voice suddenly rang out from beyond the door.
Daeron’s head snapped up in an instant, his whole body swaying, nearly toppling him over.
Valera laughed softly, watching her husband fumble to pull a silk robe over her, then, looking rather flustered himself, snatch up his own discarded clothes and throw them on before hauling open the carved iron door.
“A message has arrived…” Maester Sven kept his own head lowered, choosing his words with care, entirely unaware of how quickly the flush was still fading from Daeron’s own face.
“Startling news, my lord Daeron?”
The maester looked up, and caught sight, just then, of Daeron’s own disheveled state.
He straightened at once, his manner turning grave.
“My lord Daeron, I’ve told you more than once already, in your current state of health, you really ought not to…”
“That’s enough, Maester Sven.” Daeron took the letter from him, a little embarrassed.
“What’s happened?”
Daeron stared down at the letter’s own three-headed dragon wax seal, seized by a sudden, certain feeling that something momentous was about to unfold.
Valera, wrapped in her own silk robe, came out after him and pried the seal open with one long fingernail.
The instant her eyes fell on the letter’s contents, Valera let out a startled cry and clapped a hand over her own mouth.
Daeron’s grip went slack, and the letter fluttered to the floor.
“How could this be?”
Daeron murmured, half to himself.
Maester Sven bent to retrieve the fallen letter.
The moment his own eyes found its contents, the normally steady maester’s hand trembled as well, and the letter slipped from his fingers a second time.
“How could it not be…”
Valera’s eyes shone with disbelief, and beneath it, a mother’s own fierce, unbridled joy at seeing her son rise so far beyond anything she’d dared hope for.
“He’s my son!”