Chapter Text
The Dowager Queen
The breeze of early morning brushed against Rhaella’s skin like a whisper, rising from the churning sea far below the balcony of Dragonstone.
She had risen later than usual. In her youth, Rhaella had made a habit of waking with the sun, bound by the obligations of a queen and the weight of courtly routine. But age, and the luxury of no longer wearing a crown, had softened the strict rhythms of her days. Here, with no throne to sit and no court to rule, she allowed herself the rare freedom of stillness.
Somewhere within the keep, her son was likely still abed with his wife. Viserys had taken to sleeping in longer of late, ever since the birth of his daughter. He spoke of those early hours fondly, curled beside his wife, basking in a peace he had once thought lost to him. Rhaella had not the heart to scold him. Let him keep his dream while it lasted.
She turned from the sea and stepped back into her solar, where the morning light filtered through colored glass and painted faint ruby and gold streaks across the stone floor. On a small round table near the hearth, a silver tray awaited her with a steaming pot of tea. Soon she would break her fast and perhaps make her way to the nursery to see her youngest grandchild.
Alyssa, they had named her. A quiet babe, content, wide-eyed, and watchful. She reminded Rhaella of Daenerys as an infant: solemn and still, as if listening to something only she could hear.
Her gaze drifted to the table where a tidy stack of letters waited. Some bore Rhaegar’s seal, others Dany’s familiar hand. Still more were from Elia and Lyanna. Her daughters-in-law. Her girls.
She missed them more than she could say.
Elia had remained in Dorne these past moons, and had not visited Dragonstone in nearly half a year. And Lyanna… Lyanna had gone to Winterfell almost two years ago, taking young Daeron with her. They wrote often, yes, with quills dipped in affection and longing, but parchment was a poor substitute for warm embraces and shared laughter.
The family had scattered like leaves on the wind. Rhaegar in King’s Landing, Elia beneath the red sun of Dorne, Lyanna cloaked in the snow of the North and Rhaella here, on Dragonstone.
She had come to help with Alyssa’s birth, and stayed to ease the burden on Viserys and Laena. There was comfort in the rhythm of it, feeding, rocking, cradling new life in her arms. The cries of an infant, the scent of milk and lavender oil, the weight of a child on her shoulder, these were softer burdens than those she had carried before.
A soft knock at the door stirred Rhaella from her thoughts. "Enter," she called, her voice calm, though her mind still lingered in distant memories.
The door opened with quiet grace, and Ser Barristan stepped into the room, silver hair gleaming faintly in the morning light. He bowed with the crisp formality that never seemed to dull with age.
“Your Grace,” he said. “Prince Viserys has risen and requests the pleasure of your company. He and Princess Laena are preparing to break their fast together.”
A small smile warmed Rhaella’s features. “Of course. I’ll join them shortly.”
Barristan inclined his head again, then retreated, the door closing with a gentle thud behind him. It was rare for Viserys to wake so early of late, but she would never deny her son the chance to share a quiet morning. Such moments were fleeting, and more precious for it.
She crossed the chamber to the tall mirror set in a carved of dark wood. Her reflection looked well enough, her white gown sat neatly on her shoulders, her silver hair brushed smooth save for a stubborn wisp or two. She considered, briefly, changing into the soft blue dress Rhaegar had gifted her on her last nameday, but the thought had barely taken root before it was shattered.
A sound tore through the morning.
It was not thunder. It was not wind. It was a roar, deep, primal, and full of fury and awe. It rattled the glass of the windows and stilled the breath in her chest.
She did not remember crossing the room.
One moment she was by the mirror, the next she stood again upon the balcony, hands gripping the stone balustrade, eyes wide and searching. The sea still churned below. The fields still rolled outward in soft green waves. The world looked unchanged, and yet her bones knew something was wrong.
The door burst open behind her. Barristan entered, hand already upon the hilt of his sword, eyes sharp with urgency. He strode to her side in silence, gaze sweeping the skies.
And then another roar, clearer now, closer.
Rhaella lifted her eyes.
At first, it seemed nothing more than a stray cloud drifting swiftly through the blue. But it was too bright. Too purposeful. The shape moved against the wind, not with it, and even the light around it shimmered wrong, as if distorted by heat.
She stared, transfixed, as the shape began to descend, slow and deliberate.
It was no cloud.
The truth struck her like cold water. She had seen it before, in ancient tapestries hung in the Red Keep, in murals worn by time in the halls of Dragonstone. The vast wings. The sinuous body. The impossible grace. A beast of nightmare and wonder.
Rhaella’s breath caught in her throat as the creature drew nearer, its silhouette immense and terrible in its beauty. The light of the sun danced across scales of silver and white, and as it fell, it seemed the whole sky held its breath.
And then, wings unfurled.
Two vast sails of flesh tore through the air. The wind they summoned crashed into the castle, slamming into the balcony and whipping Rhaella’s silver hair around her face. Trees nearest the landing site bent backward in protest, some wrenched free from the earth entirely, roots clawing skyward like fingers in prayer.
The dragon circled once, casting a vast shadow over the land, before it descended in full. With a thunderous gust, it landed in the field just beyond the outer wall, stone shuddering beneath its weight.
Beside her, Ser Barristan had drawn his sword. “By the gods,” he whispered.
Rhaella did not speak. She couldn't.
“I’ll gather a group of riders. We’ll take a closer look,” Barristan said, his voice steady, though Rhaella could see the tension in his jaw.
She gave only a small nod in response, her gaze locked on the silver beast beyond the walls. She did not notice when Barristan left her side, only heard the soft thud of the door closing behind him. The world had narrowed to that impossible creature in the field below.
The dragon lay still now, great head resting against the scorched grass, steam rising from its nostrils in lazy curls. It looked almost serene but even in its stillness there was power, tightly coiled and terrible.
Two figures slid from its back.
Rhaella squinted, shielding her eyes from the morning sun. From this distance, she could not make out their faces, but the mere sight of them chilled her. It was one thing to see a dragon. But to know it had a rider? A rider who had tamed or bonded with such a thing?
The pair moved around the dragon’s flank, retrieving what looked like packs or satchels. One of them, cloaked in black and crimson, stepped forward and laid a hand against the creature’s scaled jaw. The dragon’s eye half-lidded, and Rhaella felt a strange sensation settle in her chest. That wasn’t a handler. That was a bond.
She did not know how long she stood frozen there, heart thudding, breath shallow. Time had unraveled.
Eventually, she saw movement on the road leading down from the keep. Five riders, Barristan at their head, cantered cautiously across the field toward the dragon. They dismounted at a safe distance and approached on foot.
Then the dragon turned its head.
It did not roar, not this time. Instead, it growled, a low, resonant sound that rolled across the hills like thunder. Even at this distance, it made Rhaella flinch. The men halted instantly, hands near weapons, though none drew steel. They spoke but the words did not reach her.
And then, to her astonishment, the strangers moved to join them.
The group turned together and began the ascent toward Dragonstone.
It was real.
The rider, whoever they were, they were coming.
Rhaella staggered back from the balcony as though waking from a dream. Her hands trembled slightly, and for a moment, she thought she might slip and fall. Instead, she turned and hurried from the room, skirts gathered in her hands. She moved faster than she had in years, each step driven by a thudding heart and a rising tide of questions.
She descended the tower steps and crossed the hallways of Dragonstone, ignoring startled servants and the murmured chatter already beginning to spread. The keep felt alive in a way it hadn’t in decades, as if the very stones remembered what it meant to host dragons.
By the time she reached the main hall, her breath was shallow in her chest. She was unsurprised to find Viserys already there, standing by one of the tall windows with Laena beside him. Both wore matching expressions of worry and awe.
“Did you see it, muña?” Viserys asked the moment she stepped into the room. His voice was softer than usual, filled with something reverent.
“I did,” she said, slowing her pace to join him. Her eyes met his, and for a heartbeat neither of them spoke.
Laena was clutching Viserys’s hand. “Is it… is it true?” she asked. “Is that truly a dragon?”
Rhaella looked out the window once more. The sky was bright and clear again, but the image of silver wings still burned behind her eyes.
“Yes,” she whispered. “It is.” She hesitated for a moment, then added, “And someone rode it.”
“A rider?” Laena echoed, her voice barely above a whisper. Wonder and dread danced together in her expression.
Rhaella didn’t answer with words. She turned to her daughter-in-law and gave only a single nod. That was enough. The question had already passed between them, unspoken but heavy.
How was there a dragon in the world?
Who rode it?
And why come here?
They drifted toward the center of the chamber, its high vaulted ceilings casting long shadows from the stained glass. The wind outside still howled faintly, stirred by the dragon’s landing, though the beast itself remained somewhere unseen beyond the walls.
The silence stretched, thick with worry.
Then came the sound.
Footsteps reverberating through the stone corridors. Not the rhythm of servants or panicked guards, but the slow, deliberate march of armored men escorting someone.
Rhaella’s breath caught in her throat.
Laena’s hand found Viserys’s and clutched it tightly. The young prince stood very still, violet eyes fixed on the heavy doors ahead, a flicker of something ancient and uncertain etched across his face.
The doors groaned open.
Barristan entered first, his silver hair catching the light like a crown of snow. His face, so often composed, so often a mask of knightly calm, was pale, his eyes wide with disbelief. Behind him came four of Dragonstone’s riders, and between them walked two cloaked figures.
One wore a cloak of black and crimson. The other was taller, broader, his golden hair unmistakable.
“Your Grace,” Barristan said, bowing low but even his voice wavered. “I… I present to you… Prince Aemon of House Targaryen.”
The world stopped moving.
Rhaella forgot to breathe. Time seemed to freeze around her, the chamber held captive by those words. For a heartbeat, for a single fragile moment, she wanted to lash out. How dare he speak her grandson’s name, the boy who had vanished four years ago, with no word, no body, no answer.
But then the man in the black-and-crimson cloak stepped forward, and her breath fled.
His face was older, thinner. Marked by hardship, by scars that told of many battles fought. But his eyes… gods, those eyes. Deep violet, darker than Rhaegar’s. And the lines of his face, Lyanna’s stubborn jaw, Rhaegar’s high cheekbones, something ancient and Targaryen burning just beneath the surface.
Even the scars could not hide the truth.
“And Ser Jaime,” Barristan added, motioning to the man beside him. But the words went unheard, swept away like leaves in wind.
Rhaella moved before she realized it. Her feet carried her forward in a rush, skirts flowing like pale flame behind her. The ache in her knees forgotten, the dignity of a Dowager Queen cast aside.
She reached him with a cry and flung her arms around his neck, pulling him down into her embrace. Her tears came freely, warm and unrelenting, soaking the collar of his cloak as she buried her face against his chest. Her fingers curled into the fabric as if to anchor him in place, as if afraid he might vanish again if she let go.
The man who had been a boy whispered, “It’s good to see you, grandmother.”
And though his voice was rougher now, deeper but she knew it the moment the first words left his lips.
After a long, aching moment in his arms, Rhaella drew back just enough to look upon his face. One pair of indigo eyes met another, and something unspoken passed between them.
A small smile crept across her grandson’s lips and for a heartbeat he was not the man who had returned on the back of a dragon but the boy who used to sneak lemon cakes from her tray when his parents weren’t looking, always with that same smile that made it impossible to scold him.
But the rest of him was changed. Gods, how he had changed.
He looked older than his years, far older than a man of seven-and-ten should. The kind of age etched by hardship, not by time. His face was hard now, all sharp lines and shadows. A scar ran down from his left brow through the corner of his eye and onto his cheek, jagged like a blade had kissed him. Another rose from his collarbone to curl along the edge of his jaw. Whatever battles he had fought, they had not been kind.
He was tall, taller even than Viserys, with broader shoulders and the quiet poise of a man who carried weight heavier than armor. And yet, the warmth in his eyes had not dimmed. That was her Aemon.
“Nephew,” came Viserys’s voice from somewhere behind her, full of stunned wonder.
Aemon’s gaze shifted past Rhaella, but his smile did not fade. “It’s good to see you, uncle.”
He stepped forward, gently easing out of Rhaella’s arms, and embraced Viserys. The older man clutched him tightly, laughing as he stepped back to take him in fully.
“By the gods, nephew,” Viserys said, a soft chuckle escaping his throat. “Look at you. You look like something out of the old songs.”
Only then did Rhaella notice the armor Aemon wore, dark as shadow, gleaming in the light of the hall. It shimmered not with polish, but with something more ancient, more storied. The rippled texture, the subtle hues of violet and smoky silver, there was no mistaking it.
She stepped closer, her brows lifting. “Is that… is that Valyrian steel?”
Aemon nodded once. “It is.”
“Where did you find such a thing?” she asked, her voice hushed with awe.
“A story for later, grandmother,” he said, and there was a promise in his tone. “I’ll tell you everything. I swear it.”
His eyes turned then toward Laena, who had stood quietly by Viserys’s side until now. He smiled as he approached, slower this time, careful. “Aunt, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Laena offered a polite, almost timid smile, and lowered her head with a formal, “Your Grace…” but Aemon didn’t let her finish. He stepped forward and embraced her gently, surprising her.
“None of that,” he said, warmth in his voice. “We’re family.”
Rhaella could see the smile grow, soft and genuine, on Laena’s lips.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” Aemon said, voice quieter now. “For your wedding. For the day my cousin was born.”
Viserys shook his head. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”
Rhaella stepped beside him once more, placing a hand upon his shoulder. She could feel the tension beneath the armor but also the faint tremor of emotion still clinging to him.
“We have time to make up for it now,” she said, her voice full of quiet resolve.
Aemon looked at her, and for a moment, the weariness in his eyes softened. “I’d like that,” he said.
“Your Grace,” came a voice from behind. Rhaella turned, and found herself face to face with Jaime Lannister.
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, good Ser,” she said, offering a graceful nod. He bowed with quiet respect, and when he straightened, Rhaella studied him fully.
The years had changed him.
He bore no scars upon his face, unlike the prince he had returned with, but there was a roughness now where once there had been golden perfection. His hair was cropped shorter than she remembered and a patchy, neatly trimmed beard framed his jaw. It wasn’t quite polished. It almost made her chuckle. Jaime Lannister, once the most vain knight in the Seven Kingdoms, had gone rugged.
“Ser Jaime,” Viserys said, stepping forward, his voice carrying the smooth weight of courtly charm. “It seems that even in exile, you never left my nephew’s side.”
The older knight gave a small nod, one corner of his mouth lifting in a subtle smile. “My Prince,” he replied, “I wouldn’t presume to abandon Prince Aemon’s side, though I suspect he’s grown quite bored of my company after so many years.”
“Never,” Aemon said quietly, the single word full of quiet loyalty.
Jaime wore a travel-worn cloak over dark leathers, practical and unadorned, but at his hip hung a sword, its scabbard plain save for the pommel, which gleamed like a captured sun. It tugged at her memory. She had seen drawings in ancient books, records of weapons lost to time.
“Good Ser,” she asked softly, stepping closer. “May I see your blade?”
There was a flicker of amusement in Jaime’s eyes, but he bowed his head and slowly drew the sword. It sang faintly as it left the sheath.
The moment it caught the light, a gasp slipped from Viserys.
Jaime presented the sword across his palms, offering it with reverence. Rhaella stepped closer and reached out, brushing her fingertips lightly along the dark, rippling metal. It was cold beneath her touch, but not lifeless.
“Brightroar,” she whispered, awestruck. “Your house’s ancestral sword...”
“I thought the blade had been lost forever,” Laena said from behind her, awe softening her voice.
“It was,” Jaime said, his tone light, but his gaze sharp with memory. “But the Prince has a… talent for recovering what history left behind.”
There was jest in his voice, but beneath it, something more.
Aemon said nothing, only stood beside him, silent, his eyes unreadable.
Rhaella looked again at the sword, then at the dragonlord beside the knight. Her grandson had returned not only with a beast of legend, but a blade thought swallowed by doom itself.
Aemon must have noticed the look of stunned disbelief still lingering on Rhaella’s face. He gave her a gentle smile and stepped closer, embracing her once more.
“All in good time, grandmother,” he murmured, his voice low and reassuring. “I promise.”
He stepped back with a half-laugh. “Now, I don’t wish to ruin the moment, but Jaime and I are in rather desperate need of a bath… and a proper meal. We’ve been on the road for days.”
“It’s no trouble at all, nephew,” Viserys said, moving forward with a grin and placing a hand on Aemon’s shoulder. “We were just about to break our fast before your rather dramatic entrance.” He laughed softly, then added with fondness, “And I believe a bath can wait until afterward. We have so much to discuss. And someone very important you have yet to meet.”
Aemon’s expression softened. “I’d like that.”
They moved together through the stone corridors of Dragonstone, the castle still buzzing faintly with the shock of a dragon’s return. Servants whispered behind their hands, and guards stepped aside with awed stares.
In the dining hall, firelight flickered across long trestle tables and high blackstone walls carved with fading bas-reliefs of dragons in flight. Silver platters bore freshly baked bread, smoked fish, and soft cheeses, and pitchers of Dornish red and spiced tea steamed beside them.
As soon as they were seated, the questions began.
“Where have you been all this time?” Viserys asked, tearing a piece of bread and handing it to Laena, who watched Aemon with wide, careful eyes. “And where in the Seven Hells did you find a dragon?”
Aemon drank from his cup, then reached for a slice of fruit before answering with deliberate calm. “Nyraxes and I have been together for a little over a year now. I found her… or rather, she found me… on my second journey into Valyria.”
There was a brief, stunned silence.
Laena dropped her fork with a soft clatter, and Viserys’s goblet halted midair. “Come again?” he asked, his voice an octave higher than usual.
Aemon smiled behind his cup. “On our second journey to Valyria.”
Rhaella’s spoon paused halfway to her mouth. “Your second journey?” she echoed, and turned to Jaime as if expecting him to laugh and dismiss it as a jest.
But Jaime only gave a slow shrug, unbothered.
“I’m afraid I was not part of that particular adventure, your Grace,” he said, glancing sidelong at Aemon. “That time, the prince chose a different companion.”
It took Rhaella a moment longer to process the full weight of his words.
“You’ve been to Valyria twice?” she said at last, her voice sharp with disbelief. “Aemon, have you lost your senses? That place is cursed. Everyone who ventures there dies.”
Aemon gave her a crooked smile, more boy than legend in that moment. “And yet… here I am.”
She stared at him, utterly at a loss. He chuckled softly at the sight of her gaping mouth.
“We were careful,” he added. “We studied every expedition we could find, every failure, every ghost story, every sketch of the ruins. We brought alchemists and scribes. We mapped the ground before we stepped on it. And when we returned… we weren’t empty-handed.”
“You are either mad or far braver than you ought to be,” Viserys said, raising his cup in a toast. “To my nephew.”
Aemon laughed and raised his own goblet in return, while Laena only shook her head and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “men”.
“So tell us,” Viserys continued. “What did you see there?”
Aemon’s smile faded just slightly, his gaze turning distant, as if he were still seeing the ashen ruins, the black towers and half-sunken domes.
“A great many things,” he said quietly. “Ruins… and remnants. Things that should not still be alive. Statues that move when you’re not looking. Rivers of stone and blood. Shadows that whisper in tongues no one speaks anymore.”
A silence settled over the table.
“But we didn’t go to Valyria for stories,” he said, shaking himself free of the memory. “We brought things back. Artifacts. Tomes. Bones. Even eggs. Our ships are sailing even now. They should arrive within the week.”
Rhaella felt her spine stiffen at that.
“Eggs?” she asked, almost afraid to believe it. “Dragon eggs?”
Aemon met her eyes, and nodded once.
Something twisted in Rhaella’s chest at the mention of dragon eggs.
The words alone conjured images long buried, flashes of fire, of screaming and smoldering stone. Summerhall. She could still smell the smoke. Still hear the soft wailing of the newborn Rhaegar as she cradled him beneath a sky blackened by ash. She had survived the flames. Many had not.
She blinked the memories away, but they clung to her skin like soot.
“And I presume,” Laena said, eyes alight with wonder, “that you might know how to hatch them?”
“I do, aunt,” Aemon replied, his tone matter-of-fact as he took another sip of tea. “If all goes well, Westeros may soon see dragons in the skies again, many dragons.”
Rhaella caught the look on Laena’s face: awe, hope, a flicker of fear. The return of dragons was no small thing.
“We should write to Rhaegar,” Viserys said suddenly, the excitement in his voice rising. “He’s spoken for years about the prophecy, the return of the dragons, the rebirth of magic. He’ll be overjoyed to see you again, Aemon. And this… this changes everything.”
The words had barely left his mouth before the shift came.
Aemon’s expression tightened, so subtly most might have missed it. But Rhaella did not. Nor did she miss the way Jaime’s hand came to rest, just briefly, on the prince’s shoulder.
“I would ask you not to send word to my father,” Aemon said, calmly but there was something beneath the calm. Something cold. “Not yet.”
Viserys blinked. “Why not? Surely…”
“I’d like to enjoy what little freedom I have here before being dragged back into the web of court,” Aemon said, and this time the edge in his voice was unmistakable. His words were clipped, deliberate. “The last four years have given me many things, uncle. Perspective among them.”
Rhaella’s fingers tightened around the rim of her goblet. So it was still there, that wound between father and son, half-healed and bleeding when touched. She had never known the full truth of why Rhaegar had sent Aemon away, only that it had followed whispers of a bitter falling-out. But whatever had passed between them, Aemon had not forgotten. And he had not forgiven.
“The rumors will reach King’s Landing soon,” Laena said gently, trying to steady the air in the room. “A dragon’s arrival on Dragonstone will not go unnoticed.”
“I know,” Aemon said, softer now, but no less certain. “But I would like to spend the little time I have before that storm breaks with family. With peace.”
He looked around the table, not as a prince, not as a conqueror, but as a man asking for something he had not known in years.
“You’ll have that time, Aemon,” she said at last, her voice quiet but firm. “However long you need.” And though he didn’t speak, Aemon gave her a grateful nod.
A moment later, the doors to the dining hall swung open with a gentle creak, and a maid entered.
All eyes turned toward her, and Rhaella’s lips curved into a smile the instant she saw what, or rather, who the girl carried. Swaddled in a pale blue blanket, cradled close to her chest, was little Alyssa.
The babe was awake, her violet eyes flicking about the room with quiet fascination. She had her father’s unmistakable Targaryen stare. Even now, there was something perceptive in her gaze, as though she was silently judging the worth of the great stone hall around her.
“Nephew,” Viserys said brightly, rising a little in his seat, pride swelling in his voice, “I’d like you to meet your cousin.”
The maid approached the table and stopped between Aemon and Laena, dipping her head respectfully. Alyssa made no fuss, simply blinked up at the stranger beside her.
Aemon leaned closer, studying the babe with a solemn curiosity. “May I?” he asked, glancing to Laena.
She smiled and gave a soft nod. “Of course.”
Carefully, Aemon reached out, and the maid eased Alyssa into his arms. He held her with surprising ease, cradling her head with one broad hand as he lifted her to eye level.
A tiny squeak escaped the child’s lips at the motion, her arms flailing just briefly. But then her eyes locked onto his face.
And she stilled.
The dining hall went silent.
Aemon stared at her. She stared right back, wide-eyed and entirely unfazed.
He tilted his head, his expression unreadable for a moment, then made a sudden exaggerated face: eyes wide, lips puckered like a fish.
Alyssa burst into giggles.
The sound broke the stillness. Rhaella laughed softly, and Viserys barked a pleased laugh, while even Jaime shook his head, amused. Laena covered her mouth with her hand, her shoulders trembling with mirth. “You’re a natural,” she said, smiling as she watched her daughter giggle in Aemon’s arms.
Then Alyssa, still laughing, reached up with a tiny hand and latched onto her cousin’s nose.
The prince blinked in mock surprise as her fingers pinched down, gently but decisively.
Rhaella let out a laugh she hadn’t known she was still capable of. It echoed warmly off the dark stone walls.
“She likes you,” Laena said softly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“She has good taste,” Aemon replied with mock solemnity, still cross-eyed as Alyssa tugged at his nose again.
Alyssa eventually released his nose, her tiny fingers uncurling as her giggles faded into curious breaths. Aemon adjusted her gently, lowering her so she rested against his chest.
“How old is she?” he asked, glancing between Viserys and Laena. “I’m afraid I never learned the date of her birth.”
“She’ll be eight moons old in a week,” Viserys replied, a quiet pride in his voice.
Aemon nodded, then looked down at Alyssa again. She was a curious little thing, wiggling now, her arms flailing with fresh determination. Her wide violet eyes locked back onto his face, and she reached out once more, fingers splayed in a renewed attempt to seize his nose.
This time, Aemon was wise to her.
He leaned back just enough to keep it out of reach. Alyssa strained her arm with all the righteous fury of a tiny conqueror, but when her efforts failed, she froze.
And then came the pout.
It was swift and dramatic, lower lip jutted forward, brow furrowed in frustration. Her gaze turned away as if to say, “Fine, then. I didn’t want it anyway.”
Aemon couldn’t help himself and burst out laughing. “She’s already mastered royal indignation,” he said, looking up at Laena with a playful glint in his eye. “That’s promising.”
Laena smiled, watching the two of them. “She gets that from her father.”
Viserys raised his brows. “I’ll have you know I’ve never once pouted,” he said, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. “Scowled, yes. Brooded, perhaps. But pout? Never.”
“You just did,” Rhaella muttered behind her cup.
The laughter that followed was easy and warm, and Rhaella felt it settle in her chest like balm on old wounds. It had been so long since Dragonstone had echoed with something so warm.
The White Lion
Being back on Dragonstone was, unexpectedly, a welcome experience.
After so many years adrift in the east, among dusty ruins and cities that stank of sweat and spice and ambition, the small island fortress felt strangely serene. The air was cleaner here, always touched by the sea.
Jaime stood atop the broad stone steps of the castle’s main entrance, hands resting on the blackened railing. His eyes were on the sky above. Behind him, Laena was saying something to Viserys, though Jaime paid her little mind.
Then the wind shifted and he felt it before he heard it.
A sudden gust struck the castle hard enough to rattle the high windows. Jaime gripped the railing instinctively as a shadow tore across the courtyard.
Nyraxes.
The dragon cut through the sky overhead, her wings slicing through the air with unnatural speed. Jaime could feel the wind of her passage in his bones. The stones beneath his boots almost seemed to hum in her wake.
Laena let out a quiet gasp of awe beside him. Jaime didn’t blame her. He was fairly certain he’d worn the same expression the first few times he’d seen Nyraxes take flight.
He watched now as the dragon wheeled in a tight circle over the keep, her massive wings folding and shifting with effortless grace. Then, with a roar that echoed across the cliffs, she turned southward and soared out across the open sea.
It had been five days since their arrival.
Five days of peace. Unexpected, but not unwelcome.
Most of their time had been spent recounting stories. Rhaella had demanded tales from Valyria, while Viserys hung on every word about lost relics, broken empires, and battles fought beneath alien stars. But not every story sat well.
He still remembered the sharpness in Rhaella’s voice when Aemon confessed that yes, it had been them who had destroyed the Golden Company. Burned their banners to ash. Ended the last of Bittersteel’s legacy in a single night of blood and ruin.
Apparently, that was one of the few truths that had reached Westeros. Rumors of a dragon sighted in the east had circulated, of course, but no one had believed them. Too fanciful and too mythical. As if dragons could be real again.
And yet the annihilation of the Golden Company, that had shaken the court.
Rhaella had told them it was discussed for weeks in the capital. Lords whispering in fear, maesters poring over maps, smallfolk praying for peace while nobles sharpened their knives.
It amused Jaime, in a dry sort of way. They had heard of the death of a sellsword army but not of Aemon and not of the dragon.
Mayhaps that had been Connington’s doing.
The Griffin Lord had always held little affection for Queen Lyanna and her children, and even less for anything that did not fit neatly into his vision of the realm. If word had reached him of a dragon in the East, he likely would’ve dismissed it.
Jaime had never liked the man. There was something in the way he looked at Rhaegar, worshipful, bitter and jealous, all at once. Something unspoken and unhealthy. A loyal hound pretending to be a lion.
He lifted his gaze again to the sky just in time to catch a flash of wings slicing through the sunlight.
Nyraxes was returning. Jaime squinted into the wind, watching her descend, when something brushed against his leg.
He looked down.
Ghost.
The direwolf stood at his side, pale as snow, eyes the color of fresh blood and twice as unsettling. He stared up at Jaime with that familiar, unreadable expression. There was something ancient in those eyes.
Jaime had grown used to the creature’s presence over the years. Most hadn’t. Ghost had a way of watching people that made even hardened killers shift uncomfortably. For a brief moment, Jaime wondered whether Aemon was looking through the direwolf’s eyes. It was unlikely, of course. But the thought came anyway.
He turned his eyes back to the sky.
Nyraxes was slowing now, wings angling downward as she spiraled toward the keep. She landed with a low, thunderous impact just beyond the courtyard, the stone beneath Jaime’s feet trembling slightly with the force of it. The gust from her wings sent cloaks fluttering and banners flapping like startled birds.
From her back, Aemon climbed down first, his hair windswept, his eyes bright. Then he reached up, slow and careful, and helped Rhaella dismount.
Even from a distance, Jaime could see the wonder on her face.
Of all the royal family gathered on Dragonstone, the Dowager Queen had been the last to take flight. She’d resisted for days, claiming she was far too old, that her bones weren’t meant to leave the ground. Aemon had been gentle, persistent, patient as only he could be. And now the awe in her eyes said it all.
She hadn’t regretted it.
The two began walking back across the courtyard, arm in arm, the wind tugging at their cloaks. Behind them, Nyraxes lifted her head and gave a low rumble that rolled like distant thunder.
Then, with a mighty sweep of her wings, she leapt skyward again, her massive form rising against the sun until she vanished into the clouds above, nothing left behind but swirling mist.
Jaime watched her go. He had spent a year with her now. Seen her torch fields, devour oxen whole, melt stone like candlewax. Slept beneath her wings. Watched her curl around Aemon like a cat. And yet she still unsettled him.
Nyraxes wasn’t like the dragons from the old tales.
She was too quiet. She didn’t roar often, and when she did, it was with intent. Her gaze lingered too long, and Jaime had caught her once staring into the fire as if trying to remember something.
Maybe the books were wrong, he thought. Or maybe she’s just different.
“I told you it would be wonderful, muña,” Viserys said as Rhaella and Aemon approached, the sea wind tugging playfully at their cloaks. “Being up there, in the clouds, it’s unlike anything else.”
“It was… an experience,” Rhaella replied, a smile tugging at her lips. “Though I’ll say this, next time I’d prefer fewer dives and sudden turns.” She cast a pointed look at her grandson. “I swear to the gods, you make that dragon of yours fly as if you’re trying to frighten your poor grandmother into the Stranger’s arms.”
Aemon raised his brows in mock innocence, but before he could respond, Jaime interjected with a smirk. “Your Grace, if you think that was reckless, you should see how he flies when I’m the passenger,” he said. “I’ve half a mind he’s been trying to kill me since we left Valyria.”
Laena chuckled, and Viserys laughed outright, though Rhaella merely sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose in long-suffering amusement.
But the lightness faltered.
Jaime noticed it first, the way Aemon’s expression went still. Blank and unreadable. It was a look he knew well. The same one Aemon wore whenever something unsettled him. Jaime’s jest faded, replaced with quiet concern.
“Is something the matter?” he asked.
Aemon didn’t answer at once. His gaze drifted seaward, where the horizon met the mist-veiled sky. Finally, he spoke. “Aye,” he said. “We spotted a ship approaching from the northeast, flying Targaryen colors.”
The air shifted.
The warmth that had lingered from Rhaella’s flight vanished like smoke in the wind. Everyone stilled, the light in their eyes dimming.
They had known peace for only a few short days. Three days since the raven from King’s Landing had arrived. Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, had learned of Aemon’s presence on Dragonstone. The letter had been addressed to Viserys, inquiring if the rumors were true and, if so, requesting that both Aemon and Jaime present themselves in the capital.
Viserys had burned it without reply.
But silence, it seemed, had not been enough.
“They’ve sent someone in person,” Laena murmured.
Rhaella stepped forward. “You can hide, if you want,” she said softly, her voice laced with maternal steel. “We’ll say you were never here.”
Aemon gave her a sad smile. “It’s kind of you, grandmother… but I doubt it would work. Nyraxes isn’t exactly subtle.”
“No,” Viserys said. “But that doesn’t mean you have to face them. I can speak with whoever they’ve sent. Tell them you’re indisposed. Or better, make it clear they’d be unwise to provoke a man who commands a dragon.”
Aemon’s gaze turned to his uncle, grateful, but resolute.
“I appreciate the gesture, truly. But the longer we delay, the more persistent they’ll become. The court’s curiosity will turn to suspicion and suspicion becomes fear, quickly. I’d rather not give them time to spin a thousand stories in my absence.”
He straightened slightly, brushing windblown strands of hair from his face. “I’d rather finish this game before it begins in earnest.”
They made their way down to the docks. No one spoke much along the path.
Above them, high atop a jagged outcropping of black stone, Nyraxes landed with a gust of wind that sent seabirds scattering into the sky. Her wings beat once, twice, then folded neatly against her sides as she perched like some ancient sentinel. Jaime swore she did it deliberately, as if sensing Aemon’s unease and choosing her vantage point for maximum effect.
Dramatic, as always.
He cast a sidelong glance at his prince. Sometimes Jaime wondered how deep the bond truly ran between dragon and rider. Nyraxes didn’t simply follow Aemon, she anticipated him, reflected him. At times, she even seemed to mirror him. One would think she was a projection of his will, if not something stranger altogether.
It made quite the sight.
The ship became visible soon after, a lean, well-armed vessel flying the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. As it pulled into dock, Jaime heard the rising murmur of voices from within, hushed and awed. He didn’t need to strain to guess the subject of their wonder. It never got old: watching people lay eyes on Nyraxes for the first time.
She had that effect.
A gangplank was lowered with a thud, and moments later, two figures emerged from the shadowed interior of the ship. Jaime recognized both at once.
“Your Graces,” said Jon Arryn, bowing stiffly. His eyes, however, never left the looming form of Nyraxes on the cliff above. He looked as though he were still debating whether she was real.
“My Lord Hand,” Viserys replied, the frost in his tone unmistakable. “I would have expected my brother to send someone else to chase down ghost stories. Isn’t the capital in need of its steward?”
Arryn met the rebuke with practiced diplomacy. “His Grace wished the matter confirmed with certainty. He trusts my judgment and my eyes. So he sent me.”
Then his gaze shifted to Aemon. “So the rumors were true,” he said. There was a small smile. “It’s good to see you again, my prince.”
Aemon gave a slight nod. “And you as well, my Lord. The years have treated you with kindness.”
“Thank you, your Grace,” Arryn said, his expression unreadable. But Jaime had known the man long enough to see the calculations behind his eyes. The dragon. The sword at Aemon’s side. The direwolf sitting like a shadow at his feet. There would be much to report.
Behind the Lord Hand, the second man stepped forward and Jaime turned to face him fully.
“Ser Jaime,”
“Ser Whent,” Jaime returned, his voice softer now.
Oswell removed his helm. His face had aged since Jaime last saw him, the years etched into the corners of his eyes and the silver beginning to creep through his dark hair.
“It’s good to see you again,” Whent said, with more warmth than Jaime expected. “There were those of us who thought you both dead.”
Jaime let out a slow breath. “Not for lack of trying.” The older knight gave a quiet chuckle.
“So, my Lord Hand,” Rhaella said coolly. “You have your confirmation. My grandson is here, in the flesh and so is his dragon. I believe that should be sufficient. Perhaps it is time you returned to the capital.”
Jon Arryn gave a respectful nod but did not retreat. “I’m afraid those weren’t the only instructions His Grace provided,” he said evenly. “He told me to deliver a message, should the rumors prove true, Prince Aemon and Ser Jaime are to accompany us back to King’s Landing. Without delay.”
Before Rhaella could reply, Aemon spoke.
“And if I refuse?” he asked softly.
Almost as if summoned by the words, Nyraxes stirred atop the cliff. Her massive form shifted forward, scales gleaming like oil in the sun. Her claws scraped across the rock with slow, deliberate menace. She did not growl, did not roar, she simply moved, and that was enough.
Arryn’s composure faltered for a heartbeat. He glanced up warily, as any man would when a dragon watched him.
“His Grace expects you to come,” the Lord Hand said, his voice quieter now. “And he hopes, my prince, that you would not deny your father the chance to see you. It has been four long years. Surely you understand the significance of your return. He…”
Jaime saw it then, the subtle turn in tone, the deliberate wording. Guilt cloaked in formality. A plea wearing the mask of command.
He glanced at Aemon, whose face remained unreadable. The prince’s expression had settled into that familiar stillness Jaime knew well: not disinterest, but calculation.
“My Lord Hand, I have a question for you,” Aemon said, his voice cutting through the words that Arryn was speaking. All eyes turned toward him. Jon Arryn halted mid-sentence.
“Tell me, my lord,” Aemon continued, tone cool and deliberate, “are all members of my family who are not presently on Dragonstone still within the bounds of King’s Landing?”
Arryn frowned, weighing the intent behind the question. “Well… no, Your Grace,” he finally said.
Aemon gave a nod of mock satisfaction. “As I thought.” He glanced around the council chamber before continuing. “I am aware, of course, that my mother and my youngest brother are presently in Winterfell, enjoying the snowdrifts and Stark hospitality. That much was not hard to guess. And I understand my mother Elia has been frequently traveling between the capital and Dorne throughout the past year, so I imagine there’s a fair chance she is presently in Sunspear.”
He turned his gaze back on Arryn. “Which leaves my siblings and my aunt. Perhaps you might enlighten me on their whereabouts?”
Arryn shifted uncomfortably before answering. “You are correct, my prince. Queen Elia is in Sunspear, and with her are Princess Rhaenys and Princess Daenerys.”
Aemon’s brow arched slowly. “Is that so?” he said, voice as soft as falling ash. “And pray tell, my Lord, what business does my beloved aunt have in Dorne?”
The old man hesitated. Jaime could almost hear the wheels grinding behind his eyes.
“My prince,” he began delicately, “after your... departure from Dorne, Prince Doran took it as something of an affront to himself and Princess Arianne. To mend the breach between House Targaryen and House Martell, His Grace arranged a new alliance, Princess Daenerys is now betrothed to Prince Quentyn Martell.”
Aemon tilted his head slightly, absorbing the news without reaction. “And when, precisely, is that wedding meant to take place?”
“In three moons’ time, Your Grace,” Arryn said. “Nearly back-to-back with Prince Aegon’s wedding.”
“I had heard as much.” Aemon’s gaze wandered for a moment before returning, colder. “And with such an event approaching so quickly, what is one of my brother’s future queens doing still in Dorne?”
Before Arryn could respond, Ser Oswell Kettleblack, who stood by the door in place of a proper Kingsguard, stepped forward. “Queen Elia requested leave to bring the princess with her,” he said with a respectful bow. “She wished the Princess to enjoy a final stretch of peace before her marriage. Dorne, after all, is not far from the capital, and the King permitted it.”
For the first time, Jaime noticed the subtle tension in Aemon’s shoulders, nothing overt, just the faint tightening of muscle beneath fine black and red velvet.
“I see,” Aemon said slowly. “So my mother Elia was granted leave to bring Rhaenys with her, and yet my birth mother was denied permission to bring Visenya north to Winterfell?”
“Aye, Your Grace,” said Jon. “The King has been firm on that point. Princess Visenya is to remain in the capital until her education is complete. She is to be a queen one day, and her studies cannot be neglected, not now, not so close to the ceremony.”
Aemon’s voice dropped a degree in temperature. “And Rhaenys? Is her education already complete, then?”
“She completed her formal lessons two years ago,” Arryn said briskly. “And besides, Winterfell is far from the capital. If something were to happen during the journey…”
“The road to Dorne is no shorter,” Aemon said, almost absently. “And arguably more dangerous. The Red Mountains are not known for their hospitality.”
No one answered.
“Then tell me this,” Aemon said, voice smooth as glass yet edged with quiet steel. “Is my father keeping Visenya close merely for the sake of her education, or is there something else?”
The question caught Jon Arryn off guard. The Lord Hand blinked, clearly taken aback. “Of course for her education, Your Grace,” he said, carefully measured. “What other reason could His Grace have to keep the princess so near?”
Aemon didn’t respond immediately. He tilted his head, studying the old man as if weighing the truth behind his words. “Does my father often spend time alone with her?” he asked softly. “After council meetings, perhaps?”
Arryn hesitated, then gave a cautious nod. “He does.”
“And in all that time, has he ever spoken to you of the dreams she has?” Aemon’s tone darkened just slightly. “Surely you know he places great importance on dreams. Prophetic ones, in particular.”
At that, Jaime saw Oswell shift uneasily, as if Aemon had touched a raw nerve.
“No,” Arryn said quickly, perhaps too quickly. “The King has never mentioned any such dreams to me, my prince.”
“I see.”
“I apologize, Your Grace,” Oswell said, his voice uncertain now. “But… why these questions?”
Aemon turned his gaze on the knight, expression unreadable. “Am I not allowed to inquire about the well-being of my family, good Ser?” he asked, voice soft as silk but no less dangerous.
“Of course, my prince,” Oswell said, bowing his head. “It’s just… you could pose these questions directly to His Grace. Surely he would offer you better answers than any of us could.”
Lord Arryn, ever the diplomat, tried to smooth things over. “Indeed, Your Grace. The King would be glad to speak with you himself. He waits eagerly for your return.”
Aemon inclined his head, a half-smile touching his lips, though it held no warmth. “Then I shall be sure to ask him, the next time we meet.”
“My prince?”
“You’ve done your duty, Lord Arryn. You’ve seen me with your own eyes. Ser Jaime is here, and the rumors of Nyraxes were no exaggeration,” Aemon said, gesturing toward the hill where the dragon loomed. “Now, I believe it is time for you to return to the capital.”
Arryn straightened. “With respect, Your Grace, the King commanded that we bring you and Ser Jaime back with us. It was not a request, it was an order.”
“And what if I refuse?” Aemon asked, calm and unmoved.
There was no reply. But Jaime caught the flicker of Arryn’s gaze shifting, almost involuntarily, toward the hill.
Toward Nyraxes.
Aemon followed it. “You would use force?” he asked, a whisper of amusement curling around the words. “You’d compel me, on Dragonstone of all places? In the shadow of my ancestors? With her watching?”
Still, no answer came. Only silence, and the sea wind.
“I thought not,” Aemon said, turning away.
As if summoned by instinct, Nyraxes shifted from her perch atop the high ridge. The great she-dragon unfurled her wings with a groaning stretch, then launched into the air. She soared briefly before landing heavily not too far from where they were.
The delegation flinched.
Aemon didn’t look back. “Tell my father,” he said, his voice echoing slightly over the wind, “that I will return to the capital when all of my family is there. Or, if he so desires my company sooner… he is welcome to come visit me himself.”
Arryn stepped forward. “My prince, these are orders from your king. Your father.”
Aemon stopped and turned his head just slightly, the wind catching the edge of his cloak. “And I refuse to follow them,” he said simply. “What will you do about it, Lord Arryn?”
He let the question hang.
As if to punctuate the defiance, Nyraxes rumbled deep in her chest. Smoke curled from her nostrils. Her claws dug into the stone. The message was clear.
Aemon offered a final glance over his shoulder. “I thank you for the conversation, my Lord,” he said. “But I believe it is time you took your leave.”
As Aemon turned and walked away, his cloak trailing behind him like a dark tongue of flame, Arryn seized the moment and turned toward Jaime, desperation creasing his weathered face. “Ser Jaime,” he said, voice low but urgent, “I beg you, speak to the prince. Make him understand that he must come with us. This defiance... it cannot stand.”
Jaime resisted the urge to smile. It was rare to see the Lord Hand so shaken.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do, my Lord,” he said. “When the Prince sets his mind on something, you’ll find all the winds of Westeros blowing against him won’t make him budge.”
“But you’ve always been close to him,” Arryn pressed. “More a friend than a guardian. He trusts you. He’ll listen.”
Jaime’s gaze drifted toward Aemon’s retreating figure. “Aye,” he said, almost softly. “He trusts me. And that’s exactly why I don’t tell him what to do.”
He turned without waiting for a reply, the conversation already finished in his mind. Behind him, he heard Arryn turn toward Rhaella, hoping for more fertile ground.
“You must understand, Your Grace,” Arryn implored. “This cannot be allowed…”
But the Queen Dowager silenced him with a single lifted hand, her voice clear and unwavering. “My grandson has already spoken, Lord Arryn. You have your answer.”
And with that, she walked away. Viserys and Laena followed in her wake, neither sparing the Lord Hand a second glance.
By the time Jaime caught up with Aemon, the prince was standing beside Nyraxes, one hand resting against her massive muzzle. The she-dragon stood still as stone, golden eyes fixed on the sea, yet there was a coiled tension in her body.
Aemon’s gaze, though, was fixed on the docks, where the ship that had borne Arryn and Oswell was slowly drifting away from Dragonstone’s pier.
The others soon joined them, the wind catching Laena’s veil and flaring her cloak like a banner. None spoke for a long while. Then, softly, Rhaella asked, “What dreams were you speaking of, Aemon?”
Her voice was gentler than Jaime expected. Not accusatory, just tired. As if some part of her already knew what the answer would be.
“I knew your father had them, when he was young. But Visenya?” She shook her head. “She’s still a child.”
“Aye,” Aemon said, never looking away from the sea. “She is. But she dreams all the same.”
Rhaella drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders.
“How would you know that?” Viserys asked, frowning. “Did she tell you before you left?”
“No, but I know,” Aemon replied, stroking Nyraxes’s scales with slow, familiar ease. “There are certain blood unions that strengthen the gift, awaken old things that have long slept.”
“Magic?” Viserys scoffed.
Aemon gave him a look, not unkind but heavy with the weight of something unsaid. “Call it what you like. The blood of the dragon runs strong in her and the blood of the wolf as well. That combination has power. More than most would dare to believe.”
Viserys opened his mouth to speak but found no words.
Rhaella, pale now, stepped closer. “You’re saying she has the sight?”
“I’m saying she sees more than she should,” Aemon answered. “More than she can understand.”
“And how can you be so certain?” Laena asked, her voice low.
Aemon finally turned his head to look at them, and for the first time there was no mask of irony or distance on his face. Only a calm, haunted clarity. “Because I have them too,” he said.
Gasps rippled through the group like a sudden gust of wind, but Jaime didn’t so much as flinch. He had always known.
He remembered the long nights in Lys, the fevered mutterings, the way Aemon would wake in cold sweat and stare at the sea as though trying to see through time itself. He had known even before Valyria, though their journey into that cursed land had burned the knowledge into his bones. Whatever Aemon saw in his dreams, it was never just a dream.
Rhaella stepped closer to her grandson. Her expression was soft, but her voice carried iron beneath the silk.
“Aemon,” she said, “just because you dream does not mean that Visenya does. The blood of the dragon and the wolf may be strong, but it does not guarantee the gift. It never has.”
“Doesn’t it?” Aemon murmured, not looking at her. His gaze remained fixed on the horizon.
“There have been unions before, between the blood of the First Men and the blood of Old Valyria. And every time, every time, the gift appeared.”
Rhaella frowned. “You speak of legends.”
“No,” Aemon said, finally turning toward her. “I speak the truth. History.”
He took a step forward, shadows shifting across his face as Nyraxes’s massive bulk shifted behind him.
“Brynden Rivers was born of Blackwood and Targaryen blood. He had the sight.” Aemon’s eyes gleamed now with something between defiance and conviction. “And your own grandmother was a Blackwood, was she not?”
Rhaella’s brow furrowed, but she gave a slow nod.
“And your father, he dreamed, didn’t he?” Her silence was answer enough. “It’s not a chance,” Aemon said. “It’s blood. And blood remembers.”
The wind caught his hair as he turned slightly, eyes drifting toward the sky.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Daeron has started seeing things too.”
Rhaella’s breath caught at the mention of her youngest grandson. “And what if Visenya dreams?” she asked, recovering. “What then? Many in our line have had such visions, some harmless, others less so.”
“But Father,” Aemon said, his voice sharpening, “is obsessed with prophecy. He may no longer speak of it openly, but that fire never went out. He still clings to that old dream, the one he had before I was born.”
Rhaella’s face hardened, but she said nothing.
“He hasn’t had a true vision in years,” Aemon continued, “not since the night I was born, maybe not since the Trident. But the dream never died in him. He believes that dream can be fulfilled through his children, through our bloodlines. That’s why he wants to wed Aegon, Rhaenys, and Visenya. Not for love. Not for politics.”
“For prophecy,” Jaime said quietly, stepping beside Aemon.
Aemon nodded. “Always prophecy.”
A silence fell over the group like ash after fire.
Aemon’s voice was soft when he next spoke, but it carried with the wind. “And now he knows that Visenya has the sight. That she sees things. He keeps her close not for protection… but to watch her. To see if she sees what he once saw.”