Runestone, Late 102 AC
The autumn winds carried the sound of Caraxes' roar across the Vale long before the crimson dragon came into view, his serpentine form cutting through the gray clouds like a blade through silk. From the battlements of Runestone, the guards watched with practiced resignation as the Blood Wyrm descended toward the ancient castle—they had grown disturbingly accustomed to Prince Daemon's theatrical entrances over the past four years.
"Here we go again," muttered Ser Willem, the captain of guards, adjusting his bronze-studded leather as he watched servants frantically securing shutters and herding livestock to safety. "At least he's given us warning this time. Remember when he arrived during Lady Rhea's nameday feast? Poor Septon Barth nearly choked on his wine when that bloody great beast landed in the middle of his blessing. Took three cups of strongwine and a good lie-down before the man could finish the prayers."
His companion, a grizzled sergeant named Hugh, spat over the battlements and shook his head. "Aye, and what about when he decided to 'surprise' her ladyship by landing on the practice yard during the harvest tournament? Nearly trampled young Ser Donnel's horse into the dirt, and the lad still won't ride anything that isn't half-blind and stone deaf."
"Could be worse," Willem observed philosophically. "Could be married to him."
Down in the courtyard, Lady Rhea Royce stood with arms crossed, her auburn hair whipping dramatically in the wind created by Caraxes' massive wings as the dragon settled onto the worn stones with his usual theatrical flair. She wore a gown of deep forest green that complemented the ancient bronze torque at her throat—a piece that had adorned the necks of Royce women for three thousand years—and her brown eyes held the sort of patient exasperation that had developed during four years of marriage to the realm's most dramatically inclined prince.
The sight of her standing there, unmoved by the chaos around her as servants scattered like leaves and her own guards instinctively stepped back from the enormous predator now occupying her courtyard, was rather magnificent. Daemon had to admit, as he unbuckled himself from Caraxes' saddle, that he'd done well for himself in the marriage department. Most women would have been cowering behind stone walls or fainting into convenient arms by now. His wife just looked annoyed.
"Show off," she called out cheerfully as Daemon dismounted with his characteristic swagger, his silver hair catching the afternoon light like spun moonbeams. The wind from Caraxes' wings made his black leather coat billow dramatically, and he couldn't entirely suppress the smirk that suggested he was perfectly aware of how impressive the whole display looked. "You do realize we have perfectly serviceable gates, don't you? And a stable that doesn't require terrorizing my chickens into laying cracked eggs for the next fortnight?"
Daemon's mouth quirked into that insufferably cocky grin that had charmed and infuriated people in equal measure since he was old enough to walk—and had been getting him into trouble for just as long. He sauntered toward her with the sort of loose-limbed confidence that spoke of a man who had never met a dramatic entrance he didn't like.
"Where's the fun in that, wife?" he drawled, his voice carrying that particular Targaryen accent that made even simple statements sound like royal proclamations. "Besides, Caraxes enjoys making an entrance. Don't you, old boy?" He patted the dragon's neck affectionately, earning a low rumble that sounded suspiciously like smugness. "He's an artist at heart. All that fire and blood business is just his medium."
"Your dragon has an ego to rival yours," Rhea observed, approaching with the sort of measured stride that suggested she wasn't entirely comfortable around the massive predator but refused to show fear. Her voice carried that crisp, no-nonsense tone that had been making grown men straighten their shoulders and mind their manners since she was fifteen. "Which, given the size of yours, is truly saying something. I swear between the two of you, there's barely room in the Vale for anyone else's self-regard."
Caraxes chose that moment to stretch his neck toward her, nostrils flaring as he took in her scent with the sort of delicate curiosity that suggested he was remembering her presence. His great golden eyes fixed on her with an intelligence that was both alien and oddly familiar—the look of a creature that understood far more than it let on.
"Careful, Lady Royce," Daemon replied, his violet eyes dancing with the sort of mischief that usually preceded either trouble or inappropriate behavior—often both. "Keep flattering me like that and people might start thinking our marriage is actually working. The scandal would echo from here to King's Landing."
"Heaven forbid," Rhea shot back dryly, though there was warmth in her voice that spoke of genuine affection beneath the sharp words. "My reputation as the most long-suffering wife in the Seven Kingdoms would be ruined. I'd have to start a new persona entirely—perhaps 'the woman foolish enough to be charmed by Daemon Targaryen's peacock routine.'"
She stopped a few feet away from them, close enough to be conversational but far enough to avoid Caraxes' curious sniffing. The dragon was examining her with the sort of intense focus he usually reserved for potential threats or particularly interesting meals, though his body language suggested curiosity rather than aggression.
"To what do we owe the pleasure?" she continued, tilting her head in that way that made her look like she was cataloging every detail for future reference. "It's been barely three moons since your last visit, and you usually only come home when you're either in trouble with your brother, bored out of your mind, or have managed to insult someone important enough to require strategic retreating. Since I haven't received any ravens from Viserys about your latest escapades, and the last I heard you were supposedly enjoying the delights of King's Landing..."
"You wound me," Daemon said, placing a hand over his heart with the sort of theatrical offense that suggested he'd been practicing the gesture in mirrors. "Can a devoted husband not visit his beloved wife and heir without requiring some ulterior motive? Am I so predictable that my own wife assumes I only return when I need something?"
Rhea's eyebrow rose with mathematical precision, reaching an angle that suggested she had been perfecting that particular expression since childhood. "Daemon Targaryen? Doing something without an ulterior motive? I'd sooner believe Caraxes has taken up needlework and is planning to embroider samplers for the sept."
The dragon snorted as if genuinely offended, sending a small puff of smoke in their direction that made Rhea step back instinctively. The smell of sulfur and ancient fire filled the air, mixing with the crisp autumn wind in a combination that was both thrilling and slightly terrifying.
"See?" Daemon chuckled at her reaction, but his expression grew more serious as he approached her, his hands coming up to rest on her shoulders in a gesture that was both intimate and reassuring. "He objects to the suggestion that his artistic talents are limited to destruction and intimidation."
The teasing light in Rhea's eyes immediately dimmed as she registered the change in his demeanor, replaced by sharp attention. She had learned to read her husband's moods over their years together—the way his shoulders set when he was preparing for a fight, the particular tilt of his head that meant he was contemplating something dangerous, and most importantly, the careful way he was touching her now, as if she might break or disappear if he wasn't gentle enough.
"How bad?" she asked quietly, her voice dropping to match his more serious tone.
Daemon was quiet for a moment, his thumbs stroking along her shoulders as he seemed to gather his thoughts. When he spoke, his voice had lost all its usual theatrical flair, replaced by something raw and honest that he rarely let anyone see.
"Their Graces," he said, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Grandmaester Runciter has... confined them to their chambers. He says they have perhaps a few months left. Maybe less if..." He swallowed hard, his jaw working as he struggled with words he clearly didn't want to say. "If the winter is harsh, or if one goes before the other. You know how they are, Rhea. How they've always been."
The words hit Rhea like a physical blow. She had genuinely grown fond of the Old King and Queen during their visits to Runestone over the years—had come to respect Jaehaerys' quiet wisdom and sharp political mind, had delighted in Alysanne's wit and the way the Queen could make even the most formal court function feel like a family gathering. More importantly, she had watched them with their great-grandson, seen the pure joy in their faces when little Jaehaerys would run to them with some childish discovery or achievement, had witnessed the way they lit up around children in general as if youth itself was a gift they treasured.
"Both of them?" she whispered, her voice thick with emotion she wasn't trying to hide.
"Both," Daemon confirmed, his own grief evident in the way his hands tightened on her shoulders, as if anchoring himself to something solid and real. "You know how they are—how they've always been since I was a boy. Two sides of the same coin, Father used to say. The maester thinks that if one goes, the other won't be far behind. They're..." He paused, his voice catching slightly. "They're fading together, Rhea. Like two candles that have been burning in the same room for so long that they're running out of air at the same pace."
Rhea closed her eyes for a moment, allowing herself to feel the full weight of the grief before pushing it aside in favor of practical considerations. It was a habit born of necessity—as Lady of Runestone, she couldn't afford to be paralyzed by emotion when action was required.
"What do they need?" she asked, opening her eyes to meet his gaze directly. "What can we do?"
"They want the family together," Daemon said, relief flickering across his face at her immediate shift to practicality. "All of us, for whatever time remains. Viserys and Aemma are already in residence, of course, and Rhaenyra spends half her time in the Red Keep anyway these days. But they've specifically asked for you and Jaehaerys to come to King's Landing. Extended stay, not just a visit for some feast or ceremony."
Rhea nodded slowly, her mind already working through the implications with the sort of systematic efficiency that had made her one of the most effective rulers in the Vale despite her relative youth. "When do we leave?"
"As soon as you can arrange things here," Daemon replied, studying her face carefully. "I know it's asking a lot—leaving Runestone for months, possibly longer, disrupting your entire household—"
"Don't," Rhea interrupted firmly, her voice carrying the sort of authority that had been making people straighten their spines and pay attention since she was barely old enough to hold court. "Don't you dare apologize for this, Daemon Targaryen. They're family—your family, my family, Jaehaerys' family. More than that, they're good people who've spent their lives serving the realm, and if they want to see their great-grandson grow a bit more before..." She swallowed hard. "Runestone has endured for four thousand years under my ancestors' care. It can bloody well manage a few months without me micromanaging every detail of the harvest accounts and the mining contracts."
Daemon's expression softened with something that might have been gratitude, or possibly just surprise at her immediate acceptance. "I did mention that I married well, didn't I?"
"Once or twice," Rhea replied with a wry smile that didn't quite hide the emotion in her voice. "Usually when you're trying to get out of trouble for something spectacularly stupid, like the time you decided to race Caraxes against the sunrise and nearly got yourself killed flying in fog. Or when you thought it would be amusing to challenge every lord in the Vale to single combat during our wedding feast."
"That was hardly my fault," Daemon protested with wounded dignity. "Lord Hunter was the one who suggested I didn't look like much of a warrior, what with my 'pretty boy face' and 'fancy southern clothes.' I was merely defending my honor."
"You broke his nose and two ribs," Rhea reminded him. "At my wedding feast. While wearing your ceremonial doublet."
"The doublet was surprisingly durable," Daemon said thoughtfully. "Barely even got blood on it."
"That," Rhea said with feeling, "is not the point."
Her expression grew more practical as she turned toward the castle, already mentally cataloging everything that would need to be arranged. "I'll need time to pack properly—this isn't a brief social call, I'll need court attire for every possible occasion, mourning clothes, gifts for the family, proper documentation for—"
"Rhea," Daemon interrupted gently, something in his tone making her pause and look back at him with growing suspicion.
"What?" she asked, though the single word carried enough wariness to suggest she already suspected she wasn't going to like whatever came next.
"About the travel arrangements."
The suspicious look intensified. "What about them?"
Daemon gestured toward Caraxes, who was currently investigating a cart of apples with the sort of delicate precision that suggested he was perfectly aware of how nervous he was making the servants but was enjoying himself too much to stop. "I know you've never been particularly... enthusiastic about dragon riding," he said carefully, "but Caraxes could have us to King's Landing in a day rather than a fortnight by the King's Road. Given the circumstances, and the urgency..."
Rhea looked from her husband to his dragon, taking in the sight of the massive predator who was now attempting to fish an apple out of the cart with the tip of one claw. The absurd delicacy of the gesture—watching something that could incinerate half the castle trying not to damage a piece of fruit—would have been amusing under other circumstances.
"Caraxes has never shown any particular affection for me, husband," she said slowly. "In fact, I distinctly remember him trying to incinerate my favorite riding boots the first time we met. And my second-favorite boots the second time. And possibly my third-favorite—there was definitely a pattern developing."
"He was establishing boundaries," Daemon said with the sort of defensive tone he usually reserved for criticisms of his dragon's behavior. "And he's grown... fond of you, in his way. You're pack now, family. He understands that protecting you protects Jaehaerys, and dragons take their protective duties very seriously."
"Pack?" Rhea repeated incredulously. "I'm 'pack'? How wonderfully romantic, Daemon. Do I get a special howl or just the occasional condescending head pat? Perhaps he'll bring me dead sheep as tokens of affection?"
Daemon's grin was pure mischief, the expression transforming his face from merely handsome to genuinely dangerous in the way that had been getting him into trouble since he was old enough to charm nursemaids. "I could arrange for the head pat, if you'd like. Caraxes is surprisingly gentle when he wants to be."
"Don't push your luck, Targaryen," Rhea warned, though there was warmth in her voice that took the sting out of the words. "And what about my ladies? I can't arrive at court looking like some provincial hedge knight's wife who's never seen civilization beyond her own gatehouse. It would be seen as a slight to Their Graces, and more importantly, I'd never hear the end of it from the other ladies. Lady Jeyne Arryn would have field day."
"Aemma has already arranged for several of her own ladies to attend you," Daemon replied. "She's apparently eager to have another woman of sense to talk to. According to her last letter, the capital's current crop of court ladies are more interested in the latest fashions from Lys and which lords have the most impressive tourneys than they are in intelligent conversation about anything more substantial than the weather."
"Poor Aemma," Rhea said with genuine sympathy. "Surrounded by giggling girls who think politics is something that happens to other people and that the most important decision of the day is which ribbon matches their eyes. No wonder she's been asking for more frequent visits in her letters."
She paused, considering the implications of dragon travel with the sort of systematic approach she brought to all potentially dangerous decisions. "Very well," she said finally. "But if your dragon decides to demonstrate his... affection by dropping me somewhere between here and King's Landing because I said something that offended his delicate sensibilities, I'm haunting you for eternity. And I'll make sure it's the sort of haunting that involves rattling chains at inconvenient moments and hiding your favorite boots."
"Noted," Daemon said solemnly, though his eyes were dancing with barely suppressed laughter. "Though I should point out that ghosts traditionally have difficulty with property management, so you might want to reconsider the haunting plan. Runestone would probably fall into the sea within a fortnight."
Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of approaching voices from the direction of the training yards—one deep and authoritative, the other higher and bright with childish enthusiasm mixed with what sounded suspiciously like academic debate.
"No, Cousin Gunthor, you're holding your sword wrong for that particular parry," came the higher voice, carrying the sort of patient authority that suggested this was a conversation that had been going on for some time. "If you angle the blade like *that*, you leave your entire left side completely exposed to a thrust from someone with half-decent footwork. Here, let me show you the proper form—it's all about the wrist position and the way you distribute your weight."
Daemon and Rhea exchanged looks that mixed pride, exasperation, and a certain amount of bewildered amusement. Their four-and-a-half-year-old son had apparently taken it upon himself to correct the swordwork of a man who had been training knights since before Jaehaerys was born.
"I swear that child was born with the soul of a maester, the tactical instincts of a battle commander, and the unshakeable confidence of a Targaryen prince," Rhea muttered, though her voice was warm with maternal pride. "The combination is either going to make him the greatest lord the Vale has ever seen or get him killed before his tenth nameday."
"The confidence he gets from both sides of the family," Daemon pointed out cheerfully. "Have you met your cousin Gunthor? The man once lectured *me* about proper dragon-landing etiquette, complete with a detailed explanation of why Caraxes' approach angle was 'suboptimal for maintaining good relations with the local livestock.'"
"That's because you landed on his prize roses," Rhea reminded him with the sort of long-suffering patience that spoke of having had this conversation multiple times. "And then had the absolute audacity to suggest that dragon fire would help them grow better next season."
"It would have," Daemon protested with wounded dignity. "Eventually. Dragon fire is excellent fertilizer once the ground stops smoldering."
"The ground was still on fire, Daemon."
"Details."
A moment later, the courtyard gate opened to admit Ser Gunthor Royce and Prince Jaehaerys, both of them bearing the sort of easy camaraderie that came from spending hours together in mutual pursuit of martial perfection. Gunthor was a man in his prime, with the strong build and weathered hands of someone who had devoted his life to the arts of war, but there was something almost paternal in the way he rested his hand on the boy's shoulder—and something slightly deferential in his posture that suggested he had genuine respect for his young pupil's abilities.
Jaehaerys himself was a striking child, tall for his age with the fine-boned features that marked his Targaryen heritage balanced by the sturdy build that spoke of his First Men ancestry. His silver-gold hair had darkened slightly as he grew, now showing hints of bronze that caught the afternoon light, and those impossible green eyes seemed to hold depths that grew more unsettling with each passing month. He moved with a fluid grace that suggested excellent training and natural ability, but there was something else in his bearing—a quality of watchful intelligence that made him seem far older than his years.
"Papa!" Jaehaerys exclaimed, his face lighting up with pure joy as he spotted his father across the courtyard. He crossed the space in quick strides—not running, because running was undignified for a prince, but moving with purpose—and launched himself into Daemon's arms with the sort of complete confidence that spoke of a child who had never once doubted he would be caught.
"Hello, little dragon," Daemon said, lifting his son easily and marveling once again at how much the boy had grown since his last visit. The weight of him, the length of his limbs, the way his voice had begun to lose some of its childish softness—it was all evidence of time passing, of his son growing into someone who would someday be a force to be reckoned with in his own right.
"Cousin Gunthor has been teaching me the proper forms for longsword combat," Jaehaerys reported with the sort of academic precision that made him sound far older than his years. "He says I have 'exceptional natural instincts' and that I'll be a formidable warrior once my body catches up to my understanding of the theory. Though I did have to correct his grip on the Morrowind Parry—he was leaving himself vulnerable to a low thrust from an opponent with good reach and better timing."
Gunthor coughed slightly, his weathered face showing a mixture of pride and mild embarrassment. "The young lord has... strong opinions about swordwork, my prince. And unfortunately for my pride, they're usually correct. The lad sees patterns and weaknesses that take most fighters years to recognize."
"Usually?" Daemon asked, raising an eyebrow as he set his son down but kept one hand on his shoulder.
"Always," Jaehaerys corrected matter-of-factly, with the sort of casual certainty that most people reserved for statements about the weather. "But Cousin Gunthor is being diplomatic because it's embarrassing for a knight of his skill and reputation to be lectured by someone who barely reaches his waist and has to stand on a stool to properly demonstrate parrying techniques."
"Diplomatic is certainly one word for it," Rhea murmured, though her voice was warm with maternal affection. "What do these 'exceptional natural instincts' tell you about swordwork, my clever boy?"
Jaehaerys grew serious, his expression taking on the thoughtful quality that never failed to unnerve the adults around him. When he spoke, his voice carried the sort of considered authority that suggested he had given the matter considerable thought.
"Fighting isn't really about strength or speed, though those certainly help if you have them," he said carefully, his green eyes distant as he organized his thoughts. "It's about understanding—reading your opponent, knowing what they're going to do before they know it themselves. You watch their eyes, their stance, the way they breathe when they're preparing to strike. You learn to see the patterns they don't even realize they're following."
He paused, tilting his head to one side in a gesture that was pure Daemon—the same contemplative angle his father adopted when considering something particularly interesting or dangerous.
"And sometimes," he continued, his voice dropping to something quieter, more thoughtful, "sometimes it's about remembering techniques from battles you've never fought, knowledge that feels like it belongs to someone else entirely. Like there are memories in your blood that go deeper than your own experience."
The adults exchanged meaningful looks over his head. More and more frequently, Jaehaerys spoke as if he carried memories that belonged to another person, knowledge that couldn't possibly have come from his brief life experience or his admittedly extensive lessons with masters and tutors.
"The lad moves like he's been training for years rather than months," Gunthor confirmed, his tone respectful but clearly puzzled. "Perfect form, instinctive timing, and an understanding of strategy that I've never seen in someone so young. Yesterday I watched him analyze a melee between two of my best men-at-arms and point out three separate moments where each of them could have ended the fight decisively if they'd recognized the openings they were creating."
"And were you correct?" Daemon asked his son, though something in his expression suggested he already knew the answer.
"Of course," Jaehaerys replied with the sort of quiet confidence that would have sounded arrogant from anyone else but somehow seemed like simple statement of fact from him. "Ser Marcus has a tendency to drop his guard when he commits to an overhead strike, and Ser Willem always shifts his weight to his back foot just before he attempts a lunge. They're both skilled fighters, but they have patterns they don't realize they're following."
"Targaryen blood," Daemon said with obvious pride, though his voice carried a note of something that might have been unease. "We're warriors born, bred for conquest and battle."
"Perhaps," Rhea agreed diplomatically, though her expression suggested there was far more to the story than simple bloodline inheritance. "Though there have been... other developments as well."
Something in her tone—a careful neutrality that suggested she was choosing her words very deliberately—made Daemon pause in his examination of his son's practice sword. It was a beautifully crafted blade, sized appropriately for a child but clearly built to last and grow with its wielder. The steel was good quality, the balance perfect, and the pommel bore the ancient runes of House Royce worked in bronze.
"What kind of developments?" he asked carefully.
Rhea glanced at Jaehaerys, who was now examining Caraxes through the courtyard gate with the sort of intense focus he usually reserved for particularly challenging lessons or new books from the maester's library.
"Perhaps this is a conversation for later," she suggested meaningfully, her eyes flickering toward their son in a way that suggested the subject matter wasn't suitable for young ears.
"No need," Jaehaerys said without turning around from his contemplation of the dragon, his voice carrying that matter-of-fact tone that suggested he was perfectly aware of what they were discussing. "You're talking about the runes, aren't you, Mama? The ones that started glowing when I drew them in the maester's tower?"
Daemon felt that familiar chill run down his spine—the same sensation he got when facing an enemy he couldn't quite see or understand. "What runes?"
"The First Men runes," Jaehaerys explained, finally turning away from the gate to face them fully. His green eyes held that distant quality that marked his more unusual pronouncements, as if he were seeing something the rest of them couldn't quite grasp. "The protective ones carved into our bronze armor and the castle walls, woven into the very stones that our ancestors laid four thousand years ago. Mama was teaching me to read them—they're part of our heritage, part of what I need to know as the future Lord of Runestone."
"And?" Daemon prompted, though part of him wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.
Jaehaerys was quiet for a moment, gathering his thoughts with the sort of careful precision that suggested he understood the importance of accuracy in his explanation.
"And when I drew them on parchment during my lessons—just copying the shapes, trying to understand the patterns—they remembered what they were meant to do," he said finally. "They glowed like forge-heated bronze, bright enough to hurt your eyes if you looked directly at them. And then they caught fire and burned away completely—not even ash left behind, just empty parchment as if they had never been there at all."
"You're certain?" Daemon asked, looking between his wife and son with growing concern. "It wasn't just some trick of the light, or—"
"I know what I saw," Rhea interrupted firmly, her voice carrying the sort of absolute conviction that brooked no argument. "As did Maester Willamen. He's been researching ever since, sending ravens to the Citadel and consulting every dusty tome in our library, trying to find some historical precedent for what we witnessed."
Her voice dropped lower, taking on the sort of careful tone that suggested she was still struggling to believe what she was saying.
"Daemon, those runes haven't been functional since the Age of Heroes, if they ever were. The knowledge of how to make them work was supposedly lost when the Andals conquered most of Westeros and drove the old ways underground. But Jaehaerys somehow made them *remember*. He woke something that had been sleeping for thousands of years."
"It's not that unusual, really," Jaehaerys said with the sort of matter-of-fact tone that made extraordinary statements sound perfectly reasonable. "Magic recognizes magic, and the old blood runs strong in both our lines—just different kinds of old blood. The First Men knew things about the land and the stones and the deep places of the world, just like the Valyrians knew things about dragons and fire and the sky. Different knowledge, older in some ways, but still real. Still there, waiting for the right person to remember how to use it."
"And has this... happened again?" Daemon asked, his voice carefully neutral despite the fact that every instinct he had was screaming that this was dangerous territory—the kind of power that attracted attention from people and things better left undisturbed.
"Not the runes specifically," Rhea replied, glancing at her son with the sort of complex expression that mixed maternal pride with genuine concern. "But there have been other instances. Small things individually, easily dismissed as coincidence or imagination, but taken together..."
She gestured helplessly, searching for words to describe something that defied easy explanation.
"He touches the old stones in the castle foundations and they warm under his hands—not just from body heat, but actually warm, like they're remembering sunlight from centuries past. He speaks words in the Old Tongue that echo strangely off the castle walls, as if the stones themselves are answering. Yesterday, I watched him calm a frightened horse simply by placing his hand on its neck and humming some tune I'd never heard before—the animal went from wild-eyed terror to perfect docility in moments."
"Animals like me," Jaehaerys said simply, as if this explained everything. "People do too, mostly. It's something about the way the blood sings, I think—like a frequency that resonates with something deeper than just the surface of things. Dragons understand it best, though. They're creatures of magic themselves, so they recognize it more easily."
As if summoned by the mention of his kind, Caraxes let out a low, rumbling call from beyond the gate—not his usual ear-splitting roar, but something softer, almost conversational. The sort of sound that suggested he was aware of their discussion and wanted to contribute his own opinion to the proceedings.
"He's getting impatient," Jaehaerys observed with the sort of casual authority that suggested he knew exactly what the dragon was thinking. "And probably hungry. Has anyone fed him since he arrived? It's been hours since King's Landing, and he's not as young as he used to be. Long flights take more out of him than they once did."
"Fed him?" Daemon repeated, looking slightly startled. "He's supposed to hunt for himself when he travels. Dragons are perfectly capable of—"
"Yes, but he's been flying hard for hours to bring you news that couldn't wait," Jaehaerys interrupted with the sort of patient logic that suggested he had given the matter considerable thought. "And he's worried about the Old King and Queen too—dragons remember everyone who's ever been kind to them, and Their Graces always made sure he had choice cuts of meat when you visited court together."
He started walking toward the gate with the sort of determined stride that suggested nothing short of physical restraint would stop him. "Besides, he brought you safely to us when you needed to be here quickly. The least we can do is offer proper hospitality."
The adults hurried to follow, Gunthor muttering something under his breath about precocious children and their alarming lack of self-preservation instincts, while Daemon found himself wondering—not for the first time—exactly what manner of child he and Rhea had brought into the world.
They found Caraxes in the courtyard, his great head turned toward the castle doors as if he had been waiting for them to emerge. The dragon's massive golden eyes fixed immediately on Jaehaerys with the sort of focused attention that suggested recognition, and that enormous head lowered until it was nearly touching the ground in front of the boy—a gesture of greeting that was almost courtly in its precision.
"Hello, old friend," Jaehaerys said softly, reaching out without hesitation to touch the warm scales of the dragon's snout. His small hand looked impossibly tiny against the massive head, but Caraxes remained perfectly still, his eyes half-closing with what looked remarkably like contentment. "You've had a long flight, haven't you? And you're worried about the Old King and Queen too—I can feel it in you, the sadness and the fear."
Caraxes made a sound that was somewhere between a purr and a rumble, a vibration that seemed to come from deep in his chest. The sight of the massive predator accepting such casual intimacy from a small child never failed to amaze—and terrify—the watching adults. Dragons were not pets, were not safe, were creatures of fire and death and ancient magic. Yet here was one of the most dangerous beasts in the known world, melting under the touch of a four-and-a-half-year-old boy like a cat seeking affection.
"He understands more than people give him credit for," Jaehaerys continued, his voice taking on that distant quality again as his hand moved along the dragon's neck in long, soothing strokes. "Dragons remember everything, you know—every rider, every bond, every loss. He remembers Prince Aemon, remembers loving him and losing him when the bond was broken by death. He's learned to love again with you, Papa, but part of him is always waiting for the next ending, always preparing for the next goodbye."
Daemon felt his throat tighten unexpectedly. He had never spoken to anyone about the complex emotional relationship between dragon and rider—the way Caraxes seemed to understand not just his commands but his moods, his fears, his unspoken thoughts. The idea that his son could simply *see* that connection, understand it instinctively without ever having experienced it himself...
"Which brings me to something we need to discuss," Rhea said, clearly deciding this was as good a moment as any to address another important matter. "His other inheritance."
She led them back into the castle, through corridors lined with portraits of ancient Royce lords and ladies, past windows that looked out over the Vale's snow-capped mountains, until they reached her solar. Above the fireplace, mounted on a wooden plaque carved with protective runes, hung a sword that made Daemon's breath catch in his throat.
Lamentation was magnificent in the way that only Valyrian steel could be—the blade seeming to shift and flow with patterns that suggested smoke and shadow, the crossguard fashioned to resemble the wings of some ancient bird of prey. It was not as famous as Ice or Longclaw, but it was no less deadly, no less beautiful for its relative obscurity.
"House Royce's ancestral blade," Rhea said, following his gaze. "Carried by lords of Runestone since before Aegon's Conquest. It's been waiting here for over a year now, waiting for Jaehaerys to grow old enough to understand what it means."
Daemon nodded slowly, though something in his expression might have been wistfulness. "It's his birthright," he agreed. "Though I confess I had hoped..."
"That he might inherit Dark Sister?" Rhea finished with a slight smile. "And he might, someday. But you're hardly decrepit, husband—you've got decades left in you, gods willing. Jaehaerys needs a sword he can grow into, something that will be his own rather than waiting for tragedy to claim it."
"True enough," Daemon acknowledged. "I suppose having two Valyrian steel blades in the family isn't exactly a burden."
"She's been calling to me," Jaehaerys said quietly, his gaze fixed on the sword with hypnotic intensity. "Not with words or sounds, but with something deeper. She's been sleeping for so long, waiting for the right hand to wake her properly."
"Swords don't call to people," Gunthor said gently, though his voice carried more curiosity than dismissal. "They're weapons, my young lord, however finely crafted."
"Valyrian steel is different," Jaehaerys replied with absolute certainty. "It remembers things—the dragon fire that forged it, the hands that wielded it, the blood it has tasted in service of honor and duty. This one..." He stepped closer to the fireplace, his green eyes reflecting the light from the blade. "This one has been waiting for me. She knows her time is coming, knows that destiny is calling her back to purpose."
Before anyone could respond, he continued in that matter-of-fact tone that made extraordinary statements sound perfectly reasonable. "She needs to come to King's Landing with us. The old king and queen should see her before they die—they remember the last time she was wielded in service of the crown, during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. And besides," he added with a child's simple logic, "she's lonely. She's been hanging on that wall for years with no one to talk to except the castle ghosts, and they're terrible conversationalists."
"Castle ghosts?" Daemon repeated faintly.
"Oh yes," Jaehaerys said cheerfully. "Mostly former lords who died in their beds and refuse to move on because they're worried about the succession. Lord Yorwyck is particularly chatty—he has very strong opinions about proper dragon etiquette and keeps asking when you're going to stop landing in his rose garden."
Rhea made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. "Well, that explains the mysterious voice I keep hearing in the east tower telling me to 'stop letting that silver-haired peacock terrorize the flowers.'"
"Lord Yorwyck was very fond of his gardens," Jaehaerys confirmed solemnly. "He spent forty years cultivating those roses. He considers your landing habits a personal affront to his memory."
"I'll... try to be more considerate," Daemon said weakly, not entirely sure how one apologized to a ghost.
Rhea was already reaching for the sword, lifting Lamentation from its display with the sort of reverent care that such a weapon deserved. The blade seemed to sing as it cleared the mounting—a sound so subtle it might have been imagination, but it was felt by everyone in the room.
"If you believe it should come, then it comes," she said simply, offering the wrapped blade to her son. "You're right—it is your inheritance, and if it's truly been calling to you, then perhaps it's time it remembered what it was forged for."
Jaehaerys accepted the sword with the sort of grave ceremony that the moment deserved, his small hands surprisingly steady as they closed around the ancient scabbard. For just a moment, his eyes seemed to flash with something that wasn't entirely childlike—something older, deeper, more dangerous.
"Thank you, Mama," he said softly. "She's grateful, you know. And excited. It's been so long since she's been to court, since she's been where important things are happening."
"Just promise me you won't try to carry it until you're considerably taller," Rhea said with the sort of practical concern that marked her parenting style. "That blade is nearly as long as you are."
"I promise," Jaehaerys agreed solemnly. "Though she doesn't mind waiting. She's very patient. She's had to be."
As they prepared to leave the solar and begin the complicated process of preparing for departure, Caraxes roared again from the courtyard—a sound that echoed off the ancient stones like a trumpet call announcing the approach of destiny.
In the distance, storm clouds were gathering over the mountains, and the wind carried the promise of change. The game was still years away, but the pieces were moving, the players taking their positions for a dance that would reshape the Seven Kingdoms forever.
And at the center of it all, a four-and-a-half-year-old prince with impossible green eyes and the soul of someone much older was about to return to King's Landing, carrying an ancient sword that had been waiting centuries to fulfill its purpose.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!