The Sixth moon of Eighty and Seven years after Aegon's Conquest dawned pale and silver over the Red Keep, casting long shadows through the narrow windows of Maegor's Holdfast. Princess Viserra Targaryen stirred in her bed as the first light crept across the stone floors, but it was not the sun that woke her. It was the soft, insistent sound of her son's waking. Not wailing, as other noble babes were wont to do, but a gentle gurgling that spoke of contentment rather than distress.
She stretched her arms above her head, feeling the silk of her nightgown whisper against her skin, and turned toward the carved wooden cot that stood beside her bed. There, wrapped in blankets of Targaryen red and black, lay Aurion, her son, her heart, her everything. At barely a year and a half, he possessed an intelligence that astounded her.
"Good morning, my little dragon," she murmured, rising from her bed with fluid grace. The stone floor was cold beneath her bare feet, but she paid it no mind as she approached the cot. Aurion's violet eyes, true Targaryen purple, deep as amethysts, fixed upon her face with recognition and joy. His small hands reached toward her, fingers grasping at the air between them.
As she lifted him, she discovered the source of his restlessness. His swaddling clothes were damp with his water, and his pale cheeks were flushed with the mild discomfort of it. But rather than cry as other children might, he simply gazed at her with those knowing eyes, as if understanding that she would make all things right.
"Oh, my sweet boy," she chuckled, the sound low and warm in the quiet chamber. "What a mess you've made." She carried him to the table where clean linens waited, laid out each evening by the servants who had grown to love the child. She unwrapped the soiled clothes with practised movements, cleaning his small body with gentle efficiency born of countless mornings such as this.
Aurion gurgled happily as she worked, his tiny hands catching at the light that filtered through the windows. Unlike young Daemon, who fussed and fidgeted at the slightest touch, Aurion seemed to find joy in the simplest things. The way sunlight danced on the ceiling, the rustle of fabric, the sound of his mother's voice, all of it delighted him in ways that never failed to pierce her heart with a fierce, protective love.
She dressed him in a gown of soft white wool, embroidered with tiny silver dragons that caught the morning light. His hair, what little there was of it, gleamed like spun silver in the dawn, and when he smiled at her, that radiant, toothless grin that had first graced his face mere moments after his birth, she felt as though the sun itself had risen in her chambers.
"Come then, little prince," she whispered, lifting him against her chest where he settled with the trust that only the very young possess. "Let us greet the day properly."
The private bathhouse of the Red Keep was one of the marvels of Maegor the Cruel's construction, fed by hot springs that ran deep beneath Aegon's Hill. Steam rose from the carved stone pools, and the air was thick with the scent of lavender and rosemary that the servants scattered in the water each morning. Viserra had claimed this particular chamber as her own in the months following Aurion's birth when the need for solitude had become as necessary as breathing.
She closed the heavy oak door behind them, ensuring their privacy, and began to disrobe with one hand while holding Aurion securely with the other. The child watched everything with fascination, his purple eyes tracking the steam that rose from the water, the play of light on the wet stone walls, and the careful movements of his mother as she prepared their morning ritual.
The water was perfectly warm as she stepped into the pool, Aurion in her arms. He squealed with delight as his feet touched the surface, and she lowered him gradually until he sat in the shallow end, the water lapping at his chest. His joy was infectious as he splashed with both hands, sending droplets cascading through the air like scattered diamonds, and laughed with the pure, unrestrained mirth that only children could know.
Viserra settled beside him, letting the warm water ease the tension that seemed to live permanently in her shoulders these days. As she watched her son play, her mind wandered to the path that had brought them here, to this moment of simple happiness stolen from a world that would deny them even this small peace.
Once, she had dreamed of different things. Court sessions where lords would compete for her attention, their eyes bright with desire and their purses heavy with gifts. Jewellery that would catch the light and make her skin glow like mother-of-pearl. Gowns of silk and clothes of gold that would whisper her beauty to every soul who saw her pass. She had been the most beautiful of Jaehaerys and Alysanne's daughters – everyone said so. More beautiful than gentle Daella, more striking than pious Maegelle, more captivating than poor mad Saera, who had brought such shame upon the family name.
Beauty had been her gift, her weapon, her promise of a future bright with possibility. She had worn it like armour, wielded it like a blade, and trusted in it as other girls might trust in their needlework or their wit. And where had it brought her? To scandal, to exile within her own home and to a marriage that existed only in name to a man who could not bear to look upon the son they had created together.
But as Aurion reached for her face with his small, perfect hands, as his fingers traced the line of her cheek with the gentle curiosity of innocence, she found she could not regret the path that had led her here. All the jewels in the world could not compare to the weight of his small body in her arms. All the praise of a thousand courtiers could not match the simple perfection of his smile.
She had loved Baelon once or thought she had. Baelon the Brave, dashing warrior, and rider of the mighty Vhagar, what girl would not be dazzled by such a man? He had been handsome in the sharp-featured way of their house, with eyes like purple flame and silver-gold hair that caught the light like spun moonbeams. When he smiled, which was rare, it transformed his stern features into something approaching warmth.
But warmth, she had learned, was not the same as love. Desire was not the same as devotion. And a moment of passion born of wine and loneliness was not the foundation upon which a marriage could be built.
She could still remember that night with crystalline clarity – the way the shadows had danced on the walls of his chambers and the scent of wine on his breath. The desperate hunger in his touch. She had gone to him looking for conversation, seeking the connection she had always believed existed between them. Instead, she had found a man drowning in his own grief for his late wife and reaching for any anchor in the storm of his sorrow.
What had happened between them had been inevitable, perhaps, but it had also been devastating. In the morning, when the wine had faded and reality had reasserted itself, Baelon had looked at her with something approaching horror. Not for what they had done, for she was beautiful and Targaryen, she was his by right if he chose to claim her, but for what it meant. For the weakness it revealed in him, for the betrayal it represented of Alyssa's memory, for the scandal it would surely bring upon their house.
He had not spoken to her since. Not when her monthly bleeding had failed to come. Not when her belly had begun to swell with the evidence of their union. Not when their father had commanded they be married so the child would not be born a bastard to salvage what remained of their family's reputation. Not even when Aurion had been born; perfect, beautiful and undeniably his son.
The child who played so contentedly in the warm water bore his father's eyes, his father's hair, and his father's noble features in miniature. But Baelon would not and could not see it. The sight of his son was always a reminder of his moment of weakness, and Baelon Targaryen was not a man who could bear such reminders.
Viserra had tried, in those first months after their hasty wedding, to build something real between them. She had waited in their shared chambers; chambers that Baelon had never once entered after their wedding night. She had sent servants with invitations to dine together, to walk in the godswood, to simply speak as husband and wife should. All had been politely declined or simply ignored.
The love she had felt for him, or thought she had felt, had died slowly like a flower would after being deprived of sunlight. In its place had grown something colder. Not hatred, precisely, but a contempt that was perhaps worse. He was weak, she had realised. For all his prowess with sword and dragon, for all his reputation as a warrior prince, he was too weak to face what they had created together. Too weak to love his son simply because that son reminded him of his own mortality and his own capacity for desire and foolishness.
Let him keep his precious guilt then, she thought as she reached for the soap to wash Aurion's hair. Let him cling to his dead wife's memory like a man clinging to driftwood in a storm. She had found something better, something stronger, something that would never betray or abandon her.
The soap smelled of lavender and honey, and Aurion laughed as she worked it into his fine silver hair. Such a good baby he was, so much better than his brothers who screamed and fussed at every small discomfort. Even the servants remarked upon how he smiled at them when they brought his meals, how he played quietly in his crib while she worked at her needlework and how he seemed to understand when she was sad and would babble in his infant way as if trying to comfort her.
The other babes in the Red Keep were different creatures entirely. Alyssa's sons were constantly wailing with their faces red and blotchy with perpetual distress. The servants whispered that Prince Viserys was teething early and that little Prince Daemon was simply born with a temper.
Aurion was different. Aurion was hers alone, born of love rather than duty, cherished for himself rather than for what he represented. Perhaps that was why he was so content, so peaceful. He had never known anything but absolute devotion and had never felt the weight of the world's expectations upon his small shoulders.
She lifted him from the water and wrapped him in a towel soft as silk, his skin pink and warm from the bath. He cooed as she dried him, his violet eyes bright with contentment, and she found herself humming an old lullaby, one that Old Wylla had sung to her when she was small before the world had grown complicated and cold.
They were ashamed of him. Ashamed of the scandal surrounding his birth, ashamed of the circumstances of his conception, ashamed that he existed at all. They would rather hide him away behind grey robes and vows of celibacy than confront the living reminder of their daughter's disgrace.
The rage that consumed her in that moment surpassed anything she had ever known. It burned with the intensity of Dragonfire, scorching through her veins, driving her from the throne room to the Dragonpit with vengeance in her heart. She had not intended to claim Dreamfyre. The magnificent blue-and-silver dragon had remained riderless since Queen Rhaena's death, with many attempting and failing to bond with her. Yet in that moment of absolute fury, with her son's future hanging in the balance, Viserra discovered a strength within herself she never knew she possessed.
Dreamfyre had been waiting for her as if anticipating this moment. She was enormous; the third largest of all Targaryen dragons, surpassed only by Vhagar and Vermithor, and older and more formidable than any other beast save those ancient creatures. Her scales shimmered like sapphires in the torchlight, and her eyes glowed with centuries of wisdom.
When Viserra approached, her heart pounding with equal measures of terror and resolve, Dreamfyre lowered her massive head and permitted the touch of a trembling hand. The bond had formed instantly, an unbreakable connection that transcended mere physicality. At that moment, Viserra ceased to be merely a disgraced princess and became something far more formidable; a dragon rider with nothing left to lose.
Upon her return to the Red Keep, she delivered a simple, unequivocal threat. Harm her son, and she would fly to Oldtown and reduce the Citadel to ashes. Threaten a single hair on his head, and she would demonstrate what Dragonfire could do to those who dared cross a mother protecting her child. The words were spoken quietly, without theatrics, but every listener understood these were not empty threats but solemn vows.
Since that day, no one had dared suggest removing Aurion. Her parents treated her with cautious politeness that barely masked their unease, while the servants went about their duties with a new awareness that the beautiful princess in Maegor's Holdfast was someone to be respected and not a mere ornament.
After dressing Aurion in clean clothes, she carried him back to their chambers and his familiar weight in her arms was a profound comfort. The servants had already delivered their breakfast – warm bread with butter & honey, softly cooked eggs, and fresh fruit from the castle gardens. Seated in her chair with Aurion on her lap, she fed him small pieces of bread soaked in milk as he gurgled happily.
He was such an easy child to feed, unlike his brother's who refused food or spat it out defiantly. Aurion opened his mouth obediently when the spoon approached, swallowing patiently even when the taste didn't please him. Where other mothers struggled, she found feeding him required only gentle persistence.
As she ate her own meal, she watched him play with a wooden dragon carved by one of the servants. His tiny fingers traced the painted scales with fascination while he murmured to the toy in his own secret language. Every detail of him enchanted her—the way his fine hair caught the morning light, the serious expression he wore while concentrating, the radiant smile that appeared when he noticed her watching.
The sound of familiar footsteps in the corridor made her glance up, and for the first time that day, a genuine smile crossed her face. Light, quick and confident, no doubt it was Princess Rhaenys, her niece and perhaps her only true friend in this fortress of stone and secrets.
door opened without ceremony as Rhaenys entered with the casual familiarity of family. At fourteen,
she already displayed the inherent characteristics of their bloodline; violet eyes bright with intelligence and silver-gold hair gleaming like starlight. More importantly, she had the spirit of her namesake, the Old Queen Rhaenys, and the courage that had made their house great.
"Good morning, Aunt," Rhaenys said, though the formality was more playful than proper. Despite Viserra being her elder, only three years separated them and they had grown up more like sisters than aunt and niece.
"Good morning, sweetling," Viserra replied, gesturing to the chair opposite. "Come, sit and break your fast with us."
Rhaenys settled gracefully into the chair, immediately reaching for Aurion, who had looked up at the sound of her voice and was now making the delighted noises he reserved for his favourite people. She lifted him effortlessly, settling him on her lap where he could continue playing with his wooden dragon while enjoying her attention.
"How is my little cousin today?" she asked, bouncing him gently on her knee. Aurion laughed, a sound like silver bells in the morning air, and reached up to touch her face. "Still the sweetest babe in all the Seven Kingdoms, I see."
"He slept through the night again," Viserra said, pride evident in her voice. "And he's already trying to pull himself up to stand. The maester says he's advanced for his age."
"Of course he is," Rhaenys said matter-of-factly. "He's a dragon, isn't he? We're not meant to be ordinary." She tickled Aurion under the chin, eliciting another peal of laughter. "Are we, little prince? No, we are not."
As the morning passed, they spoke of trivial matters the weather, court gossip, or the latest news from
Rhaenys's father Aemon, who served as the Master of Laws. Rhaenys was one of the few who spoke to Viserra without the careful judgment or pity that coloured most interactions these days. With her, Viserra could almost forget the scandal that had shaped her life, could almost pretend she was simply a young mother enjoying a morning with family.
Yet even with Rhaenys, some things remained unspoken. The loneliness that gnawed at her in the dark hours before dawn. The way she sometimes caught herself glancing toward the door, hoping against reason that Baelon might finally come to see his son. The dreams she had once cherished of a different life, where she had been loved rather than merely tolerated.
"I must go," Rhaenys said eventually, rising and returning Aurion to his mother. "Father expects me in the library this afternoon for he is determined I should know the lineages of every house in Westeros by the time I'm five and ten."
"A useful skill for a future queen," Viserra observed softly, and Rhaenys's eyes flashed with something that might have been ambition or mere determination.
"Perhaps," she replied diplomatically. "Though I think I should prefer to be a dragonrider first and a queen second, if I must be either at all."
After Rhaenys departed, the afternoon stretched before them in quiet solitude. Viserra settled into her chair by the window with needlework in hand, watching Aurion play upon a blanket spread across the floor. Sunlight streamed through the glass, warming the stone and bathing everything in a golden glow that softened even Maegor's forbidding Holdfast.
She had taken up knitting in the months following Aurion's birth, finding solace in the rhythmic click of needles and the gradual emergence of something both practical and beautiful. Today she crafted a small cloak for her son from deep blue wool, embroidered with silver threads that would shimmer in the light to complement his colouring. Each stitch became a meditation, each row a tangible expression of love.
As she worked, she sang lullabies her own mother had once sung to her, before the world grew complicated and cold. The melodies seemed to soothe Aurion, who played contentedly with his toys while her voice filled the chamber with warmth. When weariness overcame him, he crawled to his crib and pulled himself upright, babbling in his infant tongue as though recounting the day's adventures.
"Sleep now, my dragon," she murmured, lifting him into the crib and tucking him beneath a blanket soft as clouds. "Dream of flying."
He settled immediately, his violet eyes growing heavy beneath her murmured words. Within moments he slept, his breathing deep and even, one small hand curled protectively around his ever-present wooden dragon.
The afternoon passed in peaceful domesticity. Viserra knitted while watching her sleeping son, occasionally rising to check on him or gaze through the window at the city below. From this lofty vantage, King's Landing appeared almost beautiful; the red rooftops gleaming in the sunlight and the harbour teeming with ships from distant lands.
Yet she knew the truth beneath this pleasing facade. The stench of waste and desperation in narrow alleys. The squalid hovels housing entire families. The brothels and taverns where men drowned their sorrows in wine and flesh. The sept where the High Septon preached virtue while his clergy grew fat on the offerings of the faithful.
She had flown above it all on Dreamfyre's back, seeing the city as few ever did from dragon height, observing both its splendour and squalor. This perspective had changed her, revealing how petty were the games of the Red Keep compared to the vast tapestry of human joy and suffering beyond these walls.
When Aurion awoke from his nap, the sun had already begun its descent toward the western horizon. He babbled happily as she lifted him from his crib, his hair tousled from sleep and his cheeks flushed with warmth. She fed him his evening meal of bread softened in milk and mashed fruits easy for him to swallow, marvelling as always at his good-natured temperament.
"Shall we go flying, my love?" she asked while dressing him in warmer clothes suitable for the evening air. "Shall we visit our girl?" At the sound of her voice, he bounced excitedly in her arms, and she took his enthusiasm as agreement. She changed into her riding leathers, supple brown hide specially tailored for dragonriding, with reinforced patches where scales might chafe and straps designed to secure her safely in the saddle. The transformation from princess to dragonrider involved more than changing clothes; it meant shedding one identity for another and embracing the power that had preserved both her sanity and her son's future.
Dragonpit loomed like a great stone beast upon Rhaenys's Hill, its massive dome cracked and weathered by centuries of exposure. The evening air carried the familiar scent of sulphur and smoke, the distinctive perfume of dragons that never failed to quicken her pulse. Two discreet guards accompanied them from the Red Keep - men chosen for their loyalty who understood the value of silence.
Inside the pit, Dragonkeepers bowed respectfully as she passed, uttering ancient Valyrian commands used since before the Doom to guide dragons and riders. She knew they feared her now - feared what she represented and what she might do if provoked. Yet their fear mingled with respect, for she had claimed Dreamfyre when others failed, forging a bond earned rather than inherited.
Dreamfyre's lair was a cavern hewn from living rock, its walls blackened by centuries of Dragonfire. The great dragon lay coiled at its centre, her scales shimmering like sapphires in the torchlight. At Viserra's approach, she raised her massive head and rumbled a greeting that vibrated through the stone like distant thunder.
"Hello, my beautiful girl," Viserra whispered, stepping forward without hesitation. Dreamfyre lowered her head until it met her rider's level, and Viserra placed both hands upon the warm scales of her snout. The connection between them was immediate and profound - dragon and rider, two souls bound by fire and blood through unbreakable trust.
Aurion, secure in his mother's arms, reached out to touch the dragon's nose. Dreamfyre's golden eyes, which had witnessed the rise and fall of kings, focused on the child with something akin to curiosity. When Aurion giggled and patted her scales, she rumbled again, softer now, almost affectionate.
"She likes you," Viserra told her son, though she felt little surprise. Dragons were said to recognise their own kindred, to sense the blood of Old Valyria in those who carried it. Perhaps Dreamfyre perceived something in Aurion that others missed - the dormant potential for greatness within his small frame, waiting only for time to bring it forth.
The saddle stood ready in position, its straps and chains meticulously checked by the dragonkeepers. Viserra mounted with practised ease, settling into the leather seat moulded perfectly to her form. She secured Aurion against her chest with specially designed harnesses that would keep him safe even during the most turbulent flight.
Dreamfyre rose with fluid grace, her immense wings unfurling to catch the air currents swirling through the pit's great opening. With a powerful surge that pressed Viserra back into her saddle, the dragon launched skyward, and suddenly they were flying, soaring above King's Landing as the sunset painted the heavens in gold and crimson.
Aurion's delighted laughter carried over the rushing wind, his small hands grasping at the air as if trying to capture flight itself. This was his birthright, not courtly intrigues or the weight of lordship, but the pure exhilaration of riding dragonback above the world. Here among the clouds, no scandals or whispered rumours could reach them, no disappointed parents or absent fathers existed. There was only the wind, the dragon, and their perfect harmony aloft.
They flew westward towards Blackwater Bay, where the setting sun transformed the waters into molten gold and the harbour ships appeared as scattered playthings. Dreamfyre's powerful wings beat rhythmically, carrying them ever higher until the city below seemed small and distant, its troubles diminished to nothing by the perspective of altitude.
As they soared above the bay, Viserra felt the day's tensions melt from her shoulders. This flight was her sanctuary, an escape from the suffocating walls of the Red Keep and the crushing weight of others' expectations. Here, with her son cradled against her and her dragon beneath them, she was neither a disgraced princess nor an abandoned wife. She was simply Viserra - mother, dragonrider and protector, complete in herself and answerable to none.
The sinking sun painted the sky in brilliant oranges, pinks and purples, its light catching in Aurion's silver hair and reflecting in his violet eyes until he seemed less a mortal child than a creature of legend. His laughter had quieted into solemn wonder as he gazed about with the gravity of one witnessing profound beauty.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" she whispered, though she knew he couldn't comprehend her words. "This is your birthright, my love. Not gold or castles or crowns, but this, the open sky and the freedom to claim it."
They flew until stars pricked the darkening heavens, their brilliance seeming within reach from dragonback. Dreamfyre's mighty wings carried them effortlessly through the cooling air as below, King's Landing's lights twinkled like grounded stars and the Red Keep shone against the gathering night.
Their return to the Dragonpit found Aurion drowsy yet awake, his head resting against his mother as Dreamfyre alighted gracefully upon the stone floor. The dragon rumbled contentment as Viserra dismounted, nuzzling her rider affectionately before settling into repose.
"Thank you, my beautiful girl," Viserra murmured, stroking Dreamfyre's neck one final time. "Until tomorrow."
Their return journey to the Red Keep passed in quietude, Aurion finally sleeping in his mother's arms as guards flanked them through shadowed streets. The evening air carried the city's essence; baking bread, hearth smoke, the sea's salt tang, all the ordinary scents of life continuing regardless of the dramas unfolding in halls of power.
Back in her chambers, she carefully undressed Aurion, trying not to wake him as she changed him into his nightclothes. He stirred only slightly, murmuring in his sleep as she laid him in his crib and covered him with his favourite blanket. In the soft glow of the oil lamps, he looked angelic and perfectly peaceful, untainted by the harsh realities waiting beyond these walls.
She stood beside his crib for a long while, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest, listening to his quiet breathing. This was her world now – not the glittering court with its games and intrigues, not the hollow marriage to a man who could not bear to look at his own son, not the family that had abandoned her when she needed them most.
This was enough. This child, this love, this fierce determination to protect what was hers, it was foundation enough for a life. She possessed Dreamfyre, the third largest dragon in the world, whose loyalty was absolute and whose power could reduce cities to ash. She had gold enough to live comfortably, servants who respected her if not loved her, and the grudging tolerance of a royal family that dared not oppose her.
Most importantly, she had Aurion. Bright, beautiful, perfect Aurion, who smiled at her as though she were the sun itself, who trusted her completely without hesitation, who had known nothing but unconditional love. For him, she would endure any hardship, face any enemy, and make any sacrifice required. He was her purpose, her joy, and her redemption.
golden glow of oil lamps flickered across the chamber walls, casting dancing shadows that seemed
alive with movement. Beyond her door, the Red Keep settled into its nightly rhythms; guards exchanging posts, servants completing final duties, nobles retreating to their private quarters and private dreams.
Yet in this sanctuary forged from stone, stubbornness and dragonfire, Viserra Targaryen kept watch over her sleeping son, knowing herself prepared for whatever tomorrow might bring. She had learned self-sufficiency, discovering strength in solitude and purpose in protection. The girl who once thirsted for others' approval had vanished, replaced by a woman who valued something far beyond admiration or acceptance.
She had found love, pure, uncomplicated and absolute, one she would defend with her life. As the night deepened and silence enveloped the castle, she finally prepared for sleep, aware tomorrow would bring another day of the delicate balance she maintained. Another day tending her son, avoiding the family that failed her, flying with Dreamfyre above a world with no place for women like her.
Yet it would also bring Aurion's laughter, another evening of soaring freedom, another night watching over the child who gave her life meaning when all else was lost. In the end, this sufficed. It surpassed sufficiency.
It was everything.