“Father, is it truly wise to leave Rhaegar behind?”
Aethan Velaryon spoke with a slight tremor of hesitation.
The twelve-year-old heir to Driftmark carried the hallmarks of the old blood: pale silver hair that curled like dried sea kelp around his neck, clear violet eyes, and a lithe frame built for shipboard rigging.
“Why bring him?” Lord Daemon Velaryon replied, his voice cold and clipped.
The tall, lean Lord of the Tides adjusted the silver brooch pinning his sea-green mantle.
His gray-streaked beard framed a stern mouth that tightened at the mere mention of the boy.
“To let him spout his mad theories before the dragonlords?
Or should we wait until he offends the master of the keep and gets fed to Balerion?”
“Still…
he is kin…”
“Enough, Aethan.
House Velaryon has served the dragonlords for seven generations.
We know their temper better than any lords in the west.
If Rhaegar provokes their wrath, Driftmark will bear the fire, not him.”
Aethan held his tongue.
He harbored a quiet affection for his eccentric older cousin, who was unpredictable and quick to anger, yet unfailingly gentle with the castle fisher-lads and kitchen drudges.
Crossing his father now would only invite a harsh reprimand.
“Lord Daemon of House Velaryon, Master of Driftmark and Lord of the Tides!” the herald’s voice rang through the vaulted arches.
Aethan smoothed his green cloak, squared his shoulders, and followed his father past the heavy oak doors into the warm hall.
While Dragonstone’s banquets lacked the perfumes of the Free Cities or the sprawling gold plate of mainland kings, the high table bore its own maritime pride.
At the center lay a massive sea trout, baked whole with crisp, salted skin and draped in roasted bay leaves and fresh rosemary.
Beside it sat an enormous whale-pie encased in browned pastry.
Platters of pan-seared whitefish drifted in thick sauces of saffron, crushed almonds, and white wine broth.
Smoked haunches of wild boar cured with juniper and wild thyme sat steaming alongside young pigeons stewed tender with eastern cinnamon and cloves.
Casks of Arbor gold perfumed the air with sweet summer fruit.
Aethan looked past the feast, his gaze locking instantly onto the high seat.
Aegon sat tall at the head of the table.
Unbearded, his silver hair cropped close, the young lord wore a doublet of black velvet bordered with dark dragon scales.
His jaw was sharp, his posture carrying an easy, commanding authority that drew the eye without effort.
Beside him sat Rhaenys, looking radiant in pale lace.
Her silver curls cascaded over her shoulders, woven with delicate seed pearls that caught the candlelight.
“Welcome, Daemon,” Aegon called out, rising from his chair to meet his vassal with an open embrace.
“May the ancestors watch over you, Lord Aegon,” Daemon said with a respectful incline of his head.
“And over Driftmark, my friend,” Aegon replied warmly, gesturing toward the seats.
Daemon took the opening to present his sons.
“Aethan, my eldest and heir.
And Corlys, my second boy, sturdy as a cedar rib.
I brought them as promised.”
“Good lads,” Aegon said with a bright grin, clasping both boys by the shoulder.
Aethan felt a sudden warmth under the lord’s gaze, an instinct to stand straight and offer whatever service was asked of him.
“Pardon my lateness, Aegon!”
A cheerful voice broke from the side entrance.
Raegon slipped into the hall, having thrown on a fresh tunic of dark wool.
His mismatched eyes lit up the moment he caught sight of the newcomers.
“Lord Daemon, honor to your house,” Raegon said, offering a theatrical, low bow before vaulting cleanly over the bench to land beside Aethan.
“Seaweed!
It has been too long.
Will you play a round of cyvasse before the roast turns cold?”
Aethan shot him a frantic, sidelong glare.
This is a formal feast, his eyes signaled.
Must you behave like a dockside urchin?
And I have no wish to play without a helm.
“Raegon, you know Aethan already,” Aegon said, throwing an arm around his younger brother’s neck.
Visenya stepped into the hall behind them, her expression calm and measured.
“Pardon our delay, Lord Daemon.
Vhagar left a fresh clutch in the vents, and Raegon and I were required on the slopes.”
Daemon’s eyes widened in genuine delight.
“Praise the heavens.
The clutches thrive.”
Visenya returned the greeting with a sharp, subtle curve of her lips, causing Aethan to sink slightly into his seat.
Her beauty was formidable, yet it made his pulse race with quiet dread.
“Come, take your seats before the platters cool,” Aegon urged, guiding Daemon to the high bench.
Raegon settled himself comfortably between Visenya and Aethan.
Across the table, Darchu observed the gathering in silence.
The boy’s unruly manners did not fool the Braavosi diplomat.
Raegon clearly commanded the deep affection of his elder siblings.
Offending the child meant offending all three riders, a reckless gamble for any statesman.
Furthermore, the boy’s easy humor made Aegon’s natural reserve stand out with greater distinction.
“Daemon, what think you of claiming the trade through the Stepstones?” Aegon murmured, raising his silver goblet to clink against his vassal’s cup.
“The winds across the Narrow Sea are shifting.”
“You mean to move against Volantis, my lord?” Daemon replied softly, taking a slow sip to mask his thoughts.
The bond between their houses was ancient, but complicated.
Yet House Targaryen guarded its fire fiercely.
Across a hundred years of marriage, the dragonlords had kept their blood closely held, ensuring any child born of a Targaryen mother married straight back into the main line, just as Lady Valaena had done.
Yet Driftmark could not afford to stand idle.
House Targaryen was no longer the fading remnant of Lord Aerion’s later years.
Fresh clutches were hatching, and four active riders already commanded the skies.
The time to cast the dice had arrived.
“Driftmark commands only twenty war galleys, my lord,” Daemon whispered over the rim of his cup.
“Without wings above us, our wood cannot hold the straits.”
“You shall have Visenya…
and perhaps Raegon as well.”
Daemon’s hand steadied on the stem of his cup.
“As you command, my lord.” With two dragons overhead, even a fleet of eighty ships would burn before reaching the shoals.
“Seaweed, eat this,” Raegon said, shoving a plate of butter-baked oysters seasoned with wild herbs across the linen.
“Uncle Ruben outdid himself tonight.
I have been smelling the kitchen vents since midday.”
“Thank you, Lord Rae—”
“Use that title again and I will dump the gravy over your curls,” Raegon warned with a mock scowl, his violet and golden eyes narrowing.
Aethan swallowed the formal address with a faint, embarrassed chuckle, allowing Raegon’s bright grin to return.
“Raegon,” Aethan murmured, leaning closer.
“Can you lend me aid?”
Raegon sliced into a tender cut of seared fish, the flaky meat melting across his palate.
“Have I ever turned you away?”
“My thanks…”
“Speak, Seaweed.
What troubles you?” Raegon set down his fork, his tone shifting into quiet focus.
“My cousin, Rhaegar Velaryon,” Aethan whispered into the boy’s ear.
“He is in grave peril.
He slipped away to the harbor town this morning…
I fear he has started a brawl in the Siren’s Call.”
A sudden chorus of raised cups and loud cheers drowned out the boy’s words as the hall toasted the Lord of Dragonstone.
Down in the lower harbor, inside the dim, smoke-filled taproom of the Siren’s Call, a heavy timber tankard crashed onto the sodden floorboards, leaving a trail of dark red across the oak.
A young acolyte in a rough gray robe strained to hold back a drunken, red-faced septon who was spitting curses into the smoke.
“Heretic!
Heathen filth!”
Across the broken bench, a tall, slender youth with silver curls wiped a thin trickle of blood from his brow, his dark violet eyes burning with cold disgust.
“You are the blind heretics,” the boy said.