For Daeron, life in the Red Keep was both fascinating and lonely.
He had grown accustomed to the quieter rhythms of Dragonstone—to the constant company of Queen Alysanne, Rhaenys, Laena, and Laenor.
Here, everything was magnified.
The rooms were grander, yet emptier.
There were far more people, but precious few who truly wished to draw close to him.
His favorite place remained the Queen’s solar.
It smelled familiar.
Thick carpets muffled every footstep, while warm sunlight filtered through stained-glass windows, bathing the room in soft colors.
Alysanne would recline upon her cushioned chaise, while Gael sat cross-legged on the carpet beside her feet, cradling Daeron in her lap.
“At the time, a great host of wildlings descended from beyond the Wall,” Alysanne said, her voice calm and soothing.
“They wore furs, rode shaggy beasts, and shouted the names of strange gods.
They broke through a breach in the Wall and poured south like a black tide.
When word of the North’s plea for aid reached King’s Landing, the King merely smiled.”
Daeron held his breath, his violet eyes fixed upon her.
“He mounted Vermithor and flew north alone.
By the time the wildlings saw the shadow spreading across the sky…
it was already too late.
Vermithor’s dragonfire…
ah, it burned bronze, like divine judgment falling from the heavens.
Forests were consumed.
Snowfields melted into rivers.
Even the giants who boasted of their courage had no time to scream before they, their weapons, and their banners were reduced to ash and charred bone.”
“Grandmother!
I want to ride a dragon!” Daeron cried, squirming excitedly in Gael’s embrace.
“I want to be King!
I want to fight the wildlings!”
The sudden outburst startled Gael.
She let out a soft squeak and instinctively covered her ears, as though the roaring flames and dying screams had become frighteningly real.
She had always been painfully shy and sensitive.
Stories like these overwhelmed her.
She simply hugged Daeron tighter, pressing her cheek against the top of his silver head, as if that alone could shield her from the horrors of the tale.
Watching them, Alysanne smiled.
It was a loving smile.
A weary one.
Gael…
Her youngest daughter.
One of only two daughters still left by her side.
The memory of Princess Daenerys dying in childbirth after marrying into the Vale—and perhaps deeper fears she could scarcely admit even to herself—had made Alysanne unwavering.
She had refused every marriage proposal ever brought for Gael.
Jaehaerys had remained silent on the matter, tacitly allowing their youngest daughter to stay within the Red Keep to comfort her aging parents.
Alysanne simply wished to keep Gael somewhere she could always see…
Somewhere she could still protect.
Just like Daeron.
I’ve grown old…
The thought came to her more and more often these days.
It wasn’t merely the growing distance she felt from her husband and the affairs of state.
It was her body itself.
Its decline could no longer be denied.
She could no longer vault effortlessly onto Silverwing’s back as she had in her youth, soaring across the Seven Kingdoms beside Jaehaerys.
The last time she had ridden her dragon was when she returned from High Tide to Dragonstone.
She had barely managed to climb down before dizziness overtook her.
Her vision swam.
Breath became difficult.
She had nearly collapsed where she stood.
Even Silverwing seemed to sense her companion’s failing strength, letting out a low, mournful rumble.
Daeron was forever begging her, those violet eyes shining with worship and longing.
“One more flight, Grandmother!
Take Daeron flying!”
She could only stroke his head and answer in her aging voice,
“Silverwing is old now, my child.
She needs her rest.”
Not long ago, Alysanne had nearly fallen while climbing the stone steps of Maegor’s Holdfast.
For one terrifying instant she lost her balance.
A chill pierced her heart.
She thought her long life was about to end like so many others’—not in battle or sickness, but through a simple accident.
Then a tiny figure rushed toward her.
With all the strength his little body possessed, he threw himself forward and stopped her from falling.
He had been running up the staircase to find her when he witnessed what happened.
In the end, she suffered nothing worse than a bruised knee.
When King Jaehaerys learned of the incident, he came to her chambers immediately.
The panic upon his face was one she had not seen in many years.
He questioned her repeatedly, ordered Grand Maester Elysar to examine her thoroughly, and refused to leave until he was convinced she had suffered nothing more than a minor bruise.
Only then did his gaze turn toward the little boy standing quietly nearby, nervously twisting the hem of his tunic.
The King looked at Daeron for a long time.
Long enough that Alysanne thought he might finally speak.
But in the end…
He said nothing.
He merely stepped forward, rested one broad, weathered hand awkwardly atop Daeron’s silver hair…
Patted it gently…
Then silently left the room.
Gifts from High Tide arrived with remarkable regularity.
Toy ships.
Little dragons carved from dragonglass.
Tiny jackets sewn from silks brought back from Yi Ti.
Corlys Velaryon seemed astonishingly generous toward Daeron.
Yet Alysanne knew better.
Most of these gifts were almost certainly sent at Rhaenys’ insistence, using her husband’s name.
Whether Corlys knew…
Approved…
Or simply didn’t care…
The presents still arrived.
And so Alysanne continued telling her stories.
Aemma Arryn had flowered into womanhood and finally consummated her marriage with Viserys.
She was now with child herself.
Soon, perhaps, another great-grandchild would bless Alysanne’s family.
Yet the alliance with the Vale remained fragile.
Aemma and Lord Albert Arryn were only half-siblings, born of different mothers, and affection had never flourished between them.
Then there was Daemon…
That grandson who filled her with equal measures of pride and exasperation.
Now of marriageable age, he continued spending more time in brothels and training yards than anywhere respectable.
Every sensible marriage proposal presented to him was met with open ridicule.
Perhaps Daemon should wed a daughter of House Royce…
Lord Yorbert Royce of Runestone was the Vale’s most powerful bannerman.
He had only two daughters.
The elder, Rhea, remained unmarried.
Not long ago, he had written to the Queen proposing a match between his daughter and the prince.
If Daemon married Rhea Royce…
Not only would it strengthen ties with the Vale…
Through future inheritance, House Targaryen might even gain a prosperous foothold there.
Perhaps marriage will finally knock some sense into that little menace and turn him into a proper man.
Alysanne quietly filed the thought away, intending to discuss it later with Jaehaerys—or at the very least, with Baelon.
A knock sounded at the door.
Turning toward the entrance, she watched as Maegelle entered, accompanied by a middle-aged noblewoman carrying a small child.
The lady curtsied gracefully.
“Your Grace,” she said, gently setting the child upon the floor.
“I am Alyssane Bracken, wife of Lord Grover Tully, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands.
I have come to visit His Grace together with my nephew, Ser Humfrey Bracken.”
Maegelle’s eyes drifted toward Daeron.
The boy had just wriggled free from Gael’s lap and was now standing somewhat clumsily—but proudly—upon the carpet.
At four years old, the unmistakable features of House Targaryen had already emerged upon his face.
If anything…
They were even more striking.
The fishermen of Dragonstone often claimed that the Dragonlords possessed an inhuman beauty, a lingering mark of Old Valyria.
That strange elegance seemed even stronger in Daeron.
He had inherited every handsome feature of Prince Aemon, softened by an almost delicate grace.
Many people who met him for the first time mistook him for a little girl.
Daeron stared curiously at the brown-haired boy before him.
“What’s your name?”
The little boy answered shyly,
“Big sister…”
“His name is Amos.
Amos Bracken.
He’s my grandnephew—the son of the heir to Stone Hedge, little princ—”
She caught herself.
“Little…
boy.”
Amos blinked his brown eyes, equally fascinated by the impossibly beautiful silver-haired child standing before him.
While Lady Bracken politely discussed the Riverlands and her husband’s greetings with the Queen and Maegelle, Daeron suddenly interrupted.
“Do you want to see my dragons?”
He pointed excitedly toward a wooden chest tucked into the corner of the room.
It held all the treasures he had brought from Dragonstone.
Alysanne watched as Daeron proudly pulled out each cloth dragon one by one, eagerly introducing them.
“This one’s Vermithor.”
“This one’s Tessarion.”
“And this red one—the scary one—is Caraxes!”
His face lit up.
“Brother Daemon rides him now!”
Lady Bracken smiled warmly before lowering her voice toward the Queen.
“What a lovely, well-mannered child, Your Grace.
His eyes…”
She paused ever so slightly.
“They truly are beautiful.”
The test in her words was subtle.
Almost invisible.
The affectionate smile never left Queen Alysanne’s face.
She merely lifted her goblet and took a slow sip of wine.
That Vermithor doll…
I stitched it long ago…
For my eldest son, Aegon.
“A child’s eyes are always clear,” Maegelle answered gently in the Queen’s stead, offering Lady Bracken a serene smile.
The Bracken lady understood the warning immediately.
She wisely abandoned the subject and instead turned the conversation toward House Bracken’s latest dispute with House Blackwood.
The Queen occasionally responded, but her thoughts had already drifted elsewhere.
She watched Daeron’s tiny back as he enthusiastically explained dragonfire to his new friend, waving his little hands through the air in clumsy demonstrations.
The familiar feeling returned.
Love.
Worry.
Responsibility.
He was already four years old.
How quickly time had passed.
Once he had been a helpless infant on Dragonstone who required constant care.
Now he ran through the gardens of the Red Keep, begged endlessly for bedtime stories, and even tried—in his own childish way—to protect her.
He had inherited Aemon’s face…
Yet softened it with an almost androgynous elegance that made him seem at once delicate…
And impossible to ignore.
The walls of the Red Keep could suppress rumors for a time.
But they could never hide forever who he was…
Or the blood flowing through his veins.
Perhaps…
Perhaps allowing Daeron to spend time with children his own age isn’t such a terrible idea.
He could not remain forever beneath her wings.
He could not know only Viserys, Daemon, Maegelle, Gael…
Nor only Rhaenys, Laena, and Laenor far away at High Tide.
He needed to glimpse a wider world.
Even if it began with visiting children like these.
Of course…
Only under careful supervision.
Only where he would remain safe.
I’ve grown old…
Alysanne thought once more.
But before old age finally claimed her…
She could still hold up one corner of the sky.
For this child.
For this family.
A small patch of peaceful sky…
If only for a little while.