The banquet ended earlier than expected.
Although Borros Baratheon was generous and boisterous, he was not a man without discretion—at least not tonight.
He could see that the Princess was not in high spirits—or rather, her attention was entirely focused on the little Prince sitting on her lap, and she only nodded politely at the overtures of the young nobles of the Stormlands, not even drinking much wine.
Thus, prompted by his wife Elena Caron at his side, he raised his glass early to offer a toast, announcing that tomorrow would be the official “meet and greet,” and that everyone should rest well tonight.
The nobles filed out one by one.
As they passed the high table, everyone’s gaze lingered on Aegon for a moment.
It was not an overt stare, but rather a sidelong glance, a peripheral look, or a quick peek while turning away—
The news of a three-year-old riding a dragon had only been spreading from Maces Point for a few days, yet it had already caught the wind and swept across the entire Crownlands and the borders of the Stormlands adjacent to it.
Merchant ships from Stone Dance City, fishermen at the ports, and passing messengers—no one could resist talking about this exaggerated feat of Aegon.
A three-year-old child, without a dragon saddle or straps, riding his own dragon across the sea, circling above Stone Dance City three times before landing.
Some rumors became increasingly absurd, claiming the child even stood on the dragon’s back, that his young dragon’s golden dragonfire purified all things, and that when he flew in the sky that day, he was conversing with birds.
But the core fact remained unquestioned: Aegon Targaryen, son of the King, only three years old, was already capable of dragon-riding.
Therefore, at tonight’s banquet, no one came forward to strike up a conversation, and no one rashly asked, “Prince, did you really fly?”
But those gazes could not be hidden—awe, curiosity, scrutiny, and something indefinable, much like how the lords of the Stormlands measured their liege lord, they were measuring how large the antlers of a young stag would grow in the future.
Aegon lay on Rhaenyra’s shoulder, pretending to be sleepy.
He was indeed a little tired; a toddler’s body could not withstand too much noise for too long, but his mind remained clear.
He silently noted the prominent and attractive faces at tonight’s banquet: the few young men sitting in the middle of the long table, wearing the white and green pea pod coat of arms of House Beesbury, were the most active in toasting Rhaenyra tonight; the young master of House Swann sat without speaking from beginning to end, but his gaze kept following Rhaenyra’s hands; the young man from House Tarly sat in the corner with a cold expression, seemingly uninterested in this “husband selection”—but it might also be an act.
He scored these people in his mind.
The one from House Beesbury was too obsequious, so much so that it made one feel they weren’t interested in Rhaenyra as a person, but in the status of heir to the Iron Throne.
The one from House Swann was too silent, so silent that one couldn’t guess what he was thinking.
The one from House Tarly was deliberately cold, perhaps trying to attract attention by being “different.”
In short, none of them would do; none were as good as himself.
He gave the Stormlands candidates an overall negative review in his heart, then closed his eyes with satisfaction.
Rhaenyra stood up holding him, and Laena came around from the opposite side.
“What’s the plan for tonight?” Laena asked, her tone as casual as if asking about tomorrow’s weather.
“Rhaenyra, we haven’t slept together in a long time.
Back when I was a guest at Dragonstone, you insisted on squeezing into my bed in the guest room to hear me tell stories of Queen Visenya.
Remember?”
Rhaenyra was taken aback for a moment, then the corners of her mouth curled up slightly: “It was you who insisted on telling me.
I was only eight years old then.
You told me how Vhagar burned the Arryn fleet in one breath during the Battle of Gulltown, scaring me into having nightmares for days.”
However, this could not be blamed on Rhaenyra; in the Battle of Gulltown, the House Arryn fleet defeated the House Targaryen fleet, and Laena’s ancestor Daemon Velaryon also lost his life at this time.
In the end, Queen Visenya reversed the situation, riding Vhagar to burn the surviving Arryn ships, and the Arryns of the Vale were, after all, the family of Rhaenyra’s mother, Queen Aemma.
“But you still asked me to tell it the next day.” Laena laughed, linking her arm with hers.
“So, tonight?”
Rhaenyra looked down at Aegon.
The boy was lying on her shoulder, eyes half-closed, breathing evenly, looking as if he had already fallen asleep.
She hesitated for a moment—not because she didn’t want to catch up with Laena, but…
“What, can’t bear to part with your brother?” Laena followed her gaze, the smile on her lips deepening.
“Rhaenyra, I have heard that Lord Lyonel Strong once proposed at the Small Council that your brother should marry me.
Do you know about this?”
Rhaenyra’s arm tightened slightly: “I know.”
“Then you should be more generous.” Laena reached out and gently pinched Aegon’s small hand exposed outside.
“What’s wrong with letting your brother spend some time with his fiancée in advance?”
Rhaenyra’s face stiffened for a moment.
She held Aegon tighter, the swiftness of the action making Laena laugh out loud.
“I’m teasing you.” Laena said, letting go of her hand.
“Look at your expression, as if I’m going to snatch your son away.
Let’s go, to my room.
You sleep on the left, he sleeps next to you, and I’ll sleep on the right.
That should be fine, right?”
Rhaenyra stared at her for two seconds, confirming she was really joking, before relaxing.
Laena had already turned and walked away, her silver-gold hair swaying in the candlelight.
Rhaenyra followed, holding Aegon.
As they passed through the corridor, the wind crept in through the gaps in the stone windows, carrying the salty scent of the sea and the low, echoing breath of Vhagar in the distance. This chapter is updated first at novelping.com.
Aegon opened his eyes in Rhaenyra’s arms.
He wasn’t actually asleep; he had almost laughed when Laena pinched his hand earlier.
Seventeen-year-old Laena Velaryon, rider of the largest existing dragon, actually using such words to tease his sister.
He remembered her fate in the original work—puerperal fever, dying on Driftmark, wishing to ride Vhagar one last time before she died.
That was something ten years away, if everything remained unchanged.
But now, she was holding Rhaenyra’s hand, smiling as she pushed open the door to the guest room, calling for a maid to bring an extra blanket, saying that the nights at Storm’s End were as cold as an ice cellar.
Her fingers were long and strong, having held reins and gripped dragon scales, and were now skillfully adding firewood to the fireplace.
The guest room was large, prepared for the most distinguished guests.
A large bed was placed against the wall, its headboard carved with the crowned stag of House Baratheon, and the bed curtains were of thick, dark blue velvet.
The fireplace in the center of the room was already burning brightly, warming the entire room.
Outside the window was the pitch-black sea, with the sound of waves faintly audible.
Laena kicked off her shoes and climbed onto the bed first, taking the side against the wall.
She patted the spot in the middle: “Rhaenyra, you sleep here.
Your brother sleeps next to you.”
Rhaenyra placed Aegon on the bed and helped him take off his little jacket and shoes.
Aegon was wearing white undergarments, his silver hair spread out on the pillow, looking just like an ordinary three-year-old child.
Laena turned on her side, propping her chin up to watch him.
“He really looks like you.” She said suddenly.
Rhaenyra was undoing her braids, her fingers pausing: “Where?”
“The eyes.” Laena said.
“The same purple.
There are many shades of Targaryen purple; your father’s leans toward blue, your uncle Prince Daemon’s is darker, his…” She looked at Aegon’s eyes, “like yours, it’s that very bright purple, like summer lavender.”
Rhaenyra didn’t answer, just pushed Aegon inward, letting him sleep between her and Laena.
Aegon was pushed half a turn toward Laena, his nose almost bumping into her shoulder.
Laena reached out to steady him and laughed.
“Be careful, don’t drop my little fiancé.”
Rhaenyra glared at her: “You’re still bringing that up?”
“Why not?” Laena lay flat, staring at the ceiling.
“Your brother is quite good.
Much better than the candidates those lords recommended to your father.”
Rhaenyra also lay down, turning on her side to face Aegon.
The candlelight flickered in the fireplace, casting the shadows of the three people onto the ceiling—one large and two small, overlapping together.
“You don’t mind?” Rhaenyra asked softly.
“My father rejected your father, and now he wants Aegon to marry you.
Don’t you think…
it’s like making up for something?”
Laena was silent for a moment.
The firewood in the fireplace crackled, and the sound of Vhagar’s breathing in the distance was like the low beat of a drum.
“My father was indeed very angry.” She finally said.
“Not because of the rejection, but because of the way he was rejected.
King Viserys could have spoken properly, but he chose the most hurtful way.
Father is a proud man, and your father is too.
When two proud men collide, that’s how it is.”
She turned over to face Aegon.
The boy had his eyes closed, breathing steadily, but Laena knew he was awake—his eyelashes were trembling.
“But your brother is different.” She said softly.
“He is still young and hasn’t learned pride yet.
Perhaps when he grows up, he might become a better man than Viserys and Daemon combined.
However, your sister here is already betrothed, so don’t you worry.
After all, if the little guy wants to marry me, he’ll have to make that spendthrift from Braavos disappear first…”
Rhaenyra didn’t respond.
She reached out and brushed the stray hair from Aegon’s forehead, her fingers gently grazing his brow.
“There are still a bunch of people to deal with tomorrow.”
Laena laughed, her laughter muffled in the pillow: “Need my help?
I can have Vhagar let out a roar at the port; I guarantee it will scare half of them away.”
“No need.” Rhaenyra also laughed.
“I brought Syrax and Sunfyre.
Especially Sunfyre; although he is small, he roars quite loudly.”
“That is your brother’s dragon.” Laena said.
“It’s the same.” Rhaenyra said.
“His is mine.”
Aegon lay between the two, listening to them talk, and the slight sleepiness in his heart completely dissipated.
He had originally thought tonight would be very awkward—lying between two women, one his sister, the other his uncle’s future wife in the original work.
But in reality, it wasn’t.
They chatted about ordinary things: the old trees of Driftmark, the ships of Hull, the new bakery in King’s Landing, that Alicent had given birth to another son, and that Rhaenyra didn’t want to marry.
“I don’t want to marry either.” Laena said, her tone flat.
“But my father says that a daughter of House Velaryon cannot go her whole life without marrying.
I said I can ride dragons and don’t need a husband.
He said dragons grow old, and I will too.”
“Your father is wrong.” Rhaenyra said.
“He is right.” Laena sighed.
“Just unpleasant to hear.”
There was a silence for a while.
“And you?” Rhaenyra asked.
“Who do you want to marry?”
The fire in the fireplace flickered.
Aegon felt Laena turn over, facing the ceiling.
“I don’t know.” She said.
“Maybe I won’t marry anyone.
Maybe I’ll marry someone who lets me keep riding dragons.
Maybe…” She paused, “maybe marry someone who doesn’t need me to change.”
Rhaenyra didn’t press further.
She reached out and pulled the quilt up, covering Aegon’s shoulders.
“Sleep,” she said.
“Hmm.”
The room quieted down.
The candles were blown out one by one by the maid, leaving only the light from the fireplace.
Aegon opened his eyes, watching the dancing shadows on the ceiling.
Laena’s arm was right next to him, fair and slender, with thin calluses on her fingertips—from gripping dragon scales.
Rhaenyra’s hand rested on him, warm and steady.
He went over the Stormlands nobles he had met tonight in his mind.
The young man from House Beesbury was named Robin, the count’s eldest son, good-looking and decent in speech, but his eyes didn’t shine when he smiled, and he looked a bit effeminate.
The one from House Swann was named Byron, also an eldest son, taciturn, with a steady hand when toasting, but his gaze was too cold.
The one from House Tarly was named Eric, sitting in the corner, and didn’t say a word to Rhaenyra from beginning to end; if it weren’t for his father, Lord Tarly, being there today, he would have spent half the day chatting with his squire about horse breeding.
None of them would do.
Perhaps he wouldn’t even need to sabotage it; Rhaenyra wouldn’t like any of them herself.
He mentally put a big cross over the Stormlands candidates, then turned over and buried his face in Rhaenyra’s arm.
We’ll see tomorrow.
Outside the window, the walls of Storm’s End stood silently in the night, ancient spells pulsing deep within the stone.
On the beach, the three dragons curled up in their respective spots, Vhagar’s breathing like the distant tide, Syrax occasionally turning over, her wings sweeping up a patch of sand.
Sunfyre was sandwiched between them, his golden scales shining faintly in the moonlight, his tail curled around Syrax’s wing, like a small animal that had found its nest.
The wind blew from the sea, hitting the walls, shattering into tiny air currents, slipping through the cracks in the stone, and coming out the other side, carrying a roar that had remained unchanged for eight thousand years.
The sound of waves, the wind, the dragon’s breath, and the breathing of the three people in the room all blended together, becoming the final sounds of this night at Storm’s End.