The Red Keep
The daylight sun streamed through the tall windows of the royal apartments in the Red Keep, slanting across the thick woven carpets.
The air was filled with faint child-incense, lavender oils, and an undertone of sulfur that was impossible to ignore.
Aemond Targaryen stood within the queen's chambers, beside the cradles.
His gaze rested upon two small creatures shifting restlessly near them.
A grey dragon, Zaldrīzes, and a white dragon, Īmorion.
These were the names King Viserys I had bestowed upon the hatchlings' dragon companions.
The two young dragons had fully emerged from their eggs more than two months earlier. Their bodies were now the size of small hounds, their scales not yet fully hardened, retaining the damp sheen of youth.
Zaldrīzes' scales were dark grey, with rough ridges along his back, while Īmorion's were snow-white, his pupils an icy blue, his wings veiled in membranes pale as frost.
They were meant to remain beside their young riders at every moment.
And yet now, as they stood between the twin cradles, both dragons tilted their heads toward Aemond in unison. Low, almost plaintive rumbles issued from their throats, their tail tips tapping gently against the carpet.
Within the cradles lay six-month-old Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, awake.
The twins bore soft silver hair, their large violet eyes still unfocused.
Jaehaera showed no fear of the white dragon Īmorion beside her. Instead, she reached out with her small lotus-root fingers, attempting to grasp the tip of his dangling tail.
A natural bond… Aemond observed.
He had discovered that his blood did more than awaken petrified dragon eggs—it seemed to leave a deeper imprint upon the hatchlings during their birth.
Dragons awakened by his blood developed an instinctive closeness, almost chick-like obedience, toward him.
Zaldrīzes and Īmorion were no exception.
Though they guarded their young riders day and night like nest-mates of the same clutch, the moment Aemond appeared, the call of blood drew them toward him.
Mother of dragons?
Father of dragons?
Aemond's mouth curved faintly.
On a silver platter upon the table lay fresh mutton, sliced thin by the Red Keep's cooks, still red with blood.
Aemond took a strip and held it to Zaldrīzes' mouth.
The grey dragon immediately stretched his neck, snapping up the meat with precision far beyond his immature appearance. After swallowing, the cool tip of his snout brushed Aemond's fingers almost affectionately.
Seeing this, Īmorion grew more impatient, his icy blue eyes fixed upon Aemond.
Aemond took another strip and fed the white dragon, watching as he swallowed swiftly yet gracefully.
He fed them not only his blood—but also Lathron and Vhagar.
At that moment, Jaehaera let out a babbling sound.
She seemed fascinated by the way Īmorion ate, and with a clumsy swing of her tiny hand, grabbed the edge of one wing that had not yet fully folded.
The white dragon stiffened, but did not lash out. Instead, he merely regarded the child with curiosity.
Then—under Aemond's slightly startled gaze—Jaehaera opened her pink gums, two rice-grain baby teeth newly grown, and bit down on Īmorion's forelimb with a muffled "mmph!"
"Hiss!"
Īmorion jerked back in pain, wings flaring as he broke free. Offended fury flashed in his icy pupils, thin fangs briefly bared.
Yet he restrained his instinct to attack.
Instead, with a sharp hiss of irritation, he beat his wings and leapt into the air—
—and struck.
A precise headbutt landed lightly against Jaehaera's chest.
The force was carefully controlled. The baby was merely pushed back into the soft blankets of the cradle.
After a stunned moment, Jaehaera's face reddened and she let out a wailing cry.
Aemond raised a brow.
To challenge a true dragon with milk teeth—even a hatchling—such ignorant fearlessness reminded him strongly of the Targaryens of old.
He turned—and froze.
Zaldrīzes had somehow taken another strip of meat and was bringing it toward Jaehaerys' face, as if attempting to feed his young rider.
Jaehaerys' unfocused violet eyes fixed upon the swaying red strip. His small mouth opened instinctively.
"Enough."
Aemond moved instantly, pinching Zaldrīzes' jaw and forcing him to release it.
The meat fell to the floor.
At that moment, the door burst open.
Queen Alicent entered, followed by two wet nurses with lowered heads. She had clearly come straight from council, still dressed in formal dark green, exhaustion and anxiety etched between her brows.
Her eyes swept the chamber—
—and her heart seized.
Jaehaera was crying in her cradle.
Aemond stood beside Jaehaerys' cradle, a strip of meat still in his hand, leaning close.
"Aemond!" Alicent's voice rose sharply, panic and anger entwined.
"What in the Seven Hells are you doing?!"
Aemond straightened calmly and turned.
"Not me, Mother."
He gestured toward Īmorion and Zaldrīzes.
"Them."
Alicent focused on the dragons.
Zaldrīzes continued chewing contentedly.
Īmorion had landed beside Jaehaera, rubbing his snout gently against her tear-streaked cheek.
Looking at the two hatchlings—now already larger than hounds, their scales and claws sharpening by the day—Alicent felt a familiar headache bloom.
Since their hatching, the peace of the Red Keep had been shattered.
Even attempting to lift her children caused the dragons to hiss and arch their necks.
Two wet nurses had already been bitten.
They obeyed only the children themselves—and Aemond.
"They are growing too fast," Alicent murmured, pressing her fingers to her brow.
"I cannot keep them in the palace. It is too dangerous."
Aemond nodded.
"That is exactly my thought."
"Tomorrow, I will return them to the Dragonpit.
They will remain with Menho."
He glanced at Īmorion, who was attempting to wipe Jaehaera's tears with his wing—making far more mess than comfort.
Alicent exhaled in relief.
She moved to the cradle, soothing Jaehaera until the cries softened.
At Aemond's glance, both dragons immediately stilled.
After checking Jaehaerys and confirming he was unharmed, the wet nurses stepped forward, carefully lifting the children and coaxing the dragons away.
"One more thing," Alicent said, handing Jaehaera to a nurse and turning back to Aemond, her expression grave.
"Today, Lord Tyland Lannister spoke of you.
He is… very concerned about your actions in Flea Bottom."
Her voice hardened.
"He claims you executed hundreds last night—without trial, without writ from the Master of Laws or the Hand."
Aemond listened silently.
Then he spoke.
"Three days ago, the patrolmen I sent into Flea Bottom had their throats cut.
Two were stripped naked and thrown into the gutters."
"To me, that is provocation."
"What is Flea Bottom, Mother?"
"It is the festering wound of King's Landing. Bandits, murderers, child-snatchers, exiles—rats burrowed there for centuries, cleansed time and again by kings."
"Within a month, the Crown will begin recruitment for the royal army.
Lords, their kin, retainers, and countless smallfolk will flood the city."
"If a lord's daughter is taken in the street, if an heir is mutilated—will they blame Flea Bottom, or the regent queen who failed to cleanse the capital?"
Alicent's lips tightened.
"They no longer fear my soldiers," Aemond continued.
"Then they are not civilians."
"You strike hard."
At last, Alicent nodded.
"In one month," Aemond said quietly,
"King's Landing will be reborn."