Chapter Text
The screams echoed through Dragonstone, so loud and painful that they almost brought Aelora to tears. But the scene before her eyes was even worse: Kiera turning and twisting in a bed, shouting incoherent words in Valyrian.
"What is she saying?" Jena Dondarrion, the girl's mother-in-law, asked Aelora. The red haired woman was keeping her distance, pacing at the end of the room and clenching her seven pointed star.
The dragon princess—so the lords had called Aelora from time to time, back when she had been the king's only granddaughter—had mastered many languages in her lifetime, part of the reason why she had been chosen to be in Kiera's service.
The girl twisting and turning was Tyroshi, as her pink and—now damp—hair testified.
"Praying." she lied. Kiera was actually shouting very colourful curses against the Gods, but Aelora wasn't going to betray her friend's trust.
Many in her family believed that learning Valyrian was useless at that point: the dragons were dead, what was the meaning of learning a dead language? But Aelora, and a few in her family, disagreed with this view.
She had learned it by herself, refining it through uncle Baelor's help and Kiera's company. Her dear friend always wished to talk in Valyrian, saying she was already practicing her Common Tongue around her husband and the rest of the court.
Aelora knew she missed her home, in this regard she understood her. And Valyrian was the only thing that brought her back to Tyrosh, even if for an instant.
Yet, now that the pink haired girl screamed maledictions, she doubted the dragon lords had meant for their refined language to be used in such a manner.
A brutal squeeze of her hand brought her back to reality: Kiera was amidst the worst suffering, despite the fact that this was her second pregnancy.
The woman realised how hard she had squeezed and apologised, still in their ancestor language. Aelora wondered if she refused to talk in Common Tongue because of her insistent need to feel at home while her strength slowly left her, or because the pain was so unbearable that she had forgotten the language she had started to learn. Aelora kissed her knuckles nonetheless, caressing her temple and reassuring her at best as she could.
She had never given birth, she had never experienced such a horrific physical exertion.
Aelora had always been a master of words, "a fine politician" as the Hand of the King said, yet she didn't know what to say now to make her friend believe that she was going to be well.
Aelora didn't even know if she was actually going to survive.
"Is it normal that this is taking so long?" Aelora asked the midwives, who acted diligently around the bed. It was covered in blood, so much of it.
"The child is bigger than expected, surely a boy." one answered, with a thick accent. She came from Essos.
Kiera screamed again, abandoning curses and preferring to call out for her mother then. The princess held her hand firmly, but she couldn't lie to her and tell her she was here.
Aelora remembered Kiera's mother from her friend's wedding, a fine woman coming from the Summer Islands and married to the Archon of Tyrosh: she had such a unique accent that it would be impossible to imitate her. She remembered Baelor trying—and failing—to have a conversation with her; to see her uncle failing at something was a sight greatly unique. His wife hadn't bothered to try instead.
Like she didn't bother now to offer Kiera her comfort. She was a mother herself, she had done it twice (or some more, if only the children had lived; Aelora had never dared to ask about them, didn't matter that she spent her afternoons in Baelor's solar, helping him with paper work), she was much more fit to find words of encouragement than herself.
Kiera could have been her daughter, she was only aged 17. Yet again, if Jena had given Baelor a daughter, emissaries wouldn't have been sent to Tyrosh, Lys and Myr in search of a wife for Valarr.
Didn't matter that the realm needed a wealthy heiress, Jena would have fought for her daughter's right to marry her brother, like she had never fought before, when the King had suggested Aelora's hand in marriage.
If gossips could be believed, her aunt had fought against it.
"Aelora," Jena's voice startled her now.
The girl turned to look at her aunt, with her bright red curls and her purple dress. She either dressed in that colour or had something that resembled it, to honour her Dondarrion's heritage.
Had she come to take her place at Kiera's side? Aelora doubted it. She had been the one to stand at the girl's side for a day and a half, while she laboured with Viserys.
Yet she was surprised nonetheless when Jena took her by the arm and led her to one side of the room. Aelora was already starting to protest and trying to snatch her arm away—she couldn't leave a 17 year old girl alone in such a moment—but the Marcher's grip was tight.
Only when they reached the same dark corner of the room where she had been hiding, Jena spoke again. "I want you to go check on Valarr."
"What?" Aelora's disbelief had reached a new level. "With all due respect, Aunt, Kiera needs me."
"She also needs her husband," the Princess of Dragonstone stood tall. "Especially if something were to happen."
Aelora flinched at her words. "You can't mean..." she swallowed dry, trying to keep her composure.
She knew what Jena meant: if something went wrong during childbirth and both their lives were in danger, Valarr, as husband and father, was the only one who could choose who to save.
The room was full of people, women for the most part; still, Aelora's blood went cold just at the prospect.
"Me and her other ladies are here, we'll assist her." Aelora doubted it very much. The other ladies didn't like Kiera, just like Jena, though she tried to hide her feelings: they found her peculiar and over the top. She could already picture them rejoicing at the prospect of Valarr becoming a widower and marrying again—to a Westerosi woman, this time.
"Now go." the older woman ordered. Aelora knew it was pointless to protest again, so she turned and tried to hide her tears just at the thought of losing her friend. She didn't want for Valarr to see her in such a state and think the worst.
He was in the Chamber of the Painted Table, a long way from Kiera's own chambers. Aelora ran there, not even caring about keeping her composure: a swirl of worry and anger had gotten hold of her.
Once she walked inside the room, Valarr stopped with his pacing and Baelor looked up from his book. Even Matarys put his sword aside and looked at her expectantly.
He was handsome, her cousin, a true picture of princely beauty, to which he added a sense of duty and an undeniable loyalty to his wife. He looked exactly like his dad, dark hair and mismatched eyes, if it weren't for that silver streak that reminded people that he was still a Targaryen, despite his much more Dornish looks.
"Aelora!" Valarr's voice sounded full of relief, but, by the look on his face, she could see he was still worried. "How's she?"
"She needs you." was all she could come up with in that moment: fear had gripped her and made her stone, like the dragon statues that adorned the Keep.
Valarr's face dropped in an instant. She noticed how Baelor stood up and walked to his son, grabbing his shoulder as if he could crumble on the floor at any moment now.
"Is she..." her cousin's voice came out as a choked breath.
"No!" she clarified immediately, not desiring to think about the possibility, not even for an instant. "It's only that the birth is difficult and she's been asking about you."
That much was true: any time Kiera wasn't screaming or cursing the gods, she would ask about Valarr, with such longing that it made Aelora tearful.
Theirs had been an arranged marriage, there was no denying it. But both groom and bride had grown to care for each other. She would go as far as saying that they had fallen in love with one another.
Because those lilac eyes full of fear could only be a result of love.
Valarr didn't need to be told twice: he was already running to the birthing room, eager to be close to his wife, Aelora right behind him.
Valarr had fought to walk inside the room. The ladies—that "flock of hens", as her cousin had called them in the midst of his fury—had tried to hold him back, saying that the birthing room was no place for a man.
Valarr had gripped the halt of his sword then, asking which one of them was going to keep him outside. Jena had put a stop to the commotion, letting Valarr in and talking in a soft murmur to her son.
Aelora had no idea of what she had said to him: unlike Valarr, she had been kept out of the room and many of the ladies had soon joined her.
Not even twenty minutes later, the child was born.
Vaelor, they had called him, with black hair so similar to his father and a clear cry that had made everyone sigh in relief.
"This one is becoming a warrior." Valarr had chuckled when the boy had been placed in his arms, claiming he was so big that he could already raise a sword.
"I'd prefer he doesn't die in a stupid war." Kiera had replied, making her husband smile and kiss her. She was exhausted, it was clear, yet she had cried tears of joy when they had placed the boy on her chest.
Another boy. The Seven Kingdoms could take a sigh of relief: with two boys now, the line of succession was secured.
The next Westerosi queen—if there ever would be one—could not try to install her own blood on the throne.
Aelora had tried really hard to remain on her feet and not crumble at the joy of the news.
Kiera was well.
The boy was well.
Everything was well.
Luckily for her, Jena prevented any reaction that would be frowned upon by the court by walking over to her. "We should break the news to my husband and Matarys." the woman proposed, a rare smile on her face.
Jena did smile, but it was always too polite, too restrained. Her mother smiled the same way. Both women had lived through the games of the court.
Now it was a different kind of it: bright, hopeful. Especially when they walked inside the Chamber of the Painted Table again and she announced with excitement: "It is a boy!"
At the news Baelor finally gave in to a real smile, the lines of worry on his face easing back to an expression of pure happiness, and Matarys rejoiced.
"They named him Vaelor." Aelora added more quietly, making her uncle look away with emotion. The name had clearly been chosen to honour his grandfather.
"Viserys will be happy to hear he has a brother." Matarys stated, standing up from his corner beside the window.
"Yes. But I think the King will be the happiest upon hearing it's another boy." Aelora replied, stealing a chuckle from Valarr's younger brother.
With red hair like his mother and those lilac eyes, a typical Targaryen trait, Matarys was surely quite a catch for many women at court, especially Kiera's ladies, but Aelora wasn't among them.
Once it was clear that Valarr would marry a foreign woman, lady Alys had tried everything in her power to marry her off to her younger cousin. But Jena wasn't rather happy at the prospect of having her as her daughter in-law, so she had never accepted the deal and had eventually sought out a lady from another House.
For their own part, they had tried it once, back in King's Landing: it had been the first night of spring and a party had been held at court.
Aelora loved parties, everyone knew as much. But at the end of it, she had fled the scene to reach the gardens, hand in hand with Matarys. Yet, when she had kissed him, it had felt as if kissing a statue. Matarys had politely told her the next day of his disinterest and to act as if it had never happened.
He was sweet, her cousin, so she had of course accepted and now there was no embarrassment between them. Or at least she hoped so.
"Soon it will be our turn." he murmured, stealing her from her thoughts.
"What?" she asked confused, noticing how his aunt and uncle were in deep talks.
"To get married and have children. Mother plans to see me married to Daenaera Celtigar soon."
No women from Lys and Myr for him. A Westerosi woman, instead.
She was about to make a joke about the fact that House Celtigar had finally made it into the dragonlords family, but kept it to herself.
It was a good match, she knew it. The Celtigar had grown quite rich since the end of the Blackfyre rebellion. Daenaera Celtigar could offer him much more than what Aelora could bring to her possible future husband. Despite being the daughter of a Prince of the Realm, she had little to offer: her father was a third son and had built nothing for himself. He wasn't a warrior like uncle Maekar, or a scholar like uncle Aerys. They called him mad Rhaegel, a sad nickname and a sad reality.
The Princess of Dragonstone had known better: no mad genes in her descendants. She was quite astute and she had made a fine choice.
Aelora, for her part, tried to smile at the prospect of her own wedding. She had always imagined marrying her twin brother Aelor—since Matarys' rejection it had been clear, even if a proper engagement hadn't been announced—but the idea of having children with him felt repelling.
Incest wasn't a practice so common in her House anymore: king Aegon IV had married his sister-queen Naerys, lord Bloodraven's relationship with Shiera Seastar was well known at court, yet her grandfather the king and his sons had all married women that had not a single drop of Targaryen blood. Her cousins had followed in the same path, both finding matches outside the walls of the Red Keep.
"The dragons lack sisters." some sneered at court. The Targaryens had married their own siblings for centuries now.
But now everyone had made their own match. Everyone but her.
Yet again, her father had also been promised to her mother and, despite their differences, they were happy. They had grown to love each other, that was what her mother always said. And she knew and loved her brother already, even if he had changed over the years and had stopped pranking her every chance he had: she just had to love him in that other sense as well.
They were twins, had shared the same womb and had never known a world without the other. Her brother was a fine warrior, a good man: the picture of chivalry. But at every tournament he crowned some other lady as queen of love and beauty, not because he didn't love her, but because she was his sister.
Children were another matter entirely. Kiera had told her that, in order to produce heirs, one ought to take off their clothes. But they hadn't bathed together since they were ten, she dreaded the idea of having him see her naked again. Her body had changed and surely his had done the same. He had grown so strong over the years.
The first time she had gone to Dragonstone, after Valarr and Kiera's wedding, Aelor had gone with her: she was the new bride's lady in-waiting and he trained at Dragonstone with Matarys.
But then, months after, something had happened between her cousin and her brother, something that had made Aelor so furious that he had left Dragonstone in a day, taking the first ship back to King's Landing in the dead of night. Matarys had followed him down to the shore and then thrown himself into the sea, probably planning to swim to King's Landing and bring him back himself. The fishermen had whispered that the young prince had been touched by Targaryen madness and Valarr had shouted against his brother so loud that, Aelora could swear upon it, people from the North could hear him.
Aelora instead had been selected to go back to fetch her brother and make him see reason.
She still remembered Matarys' face, full of pleading hope, as he begged her to do something—anything—to bring him back.
But Aelor, despite his appearance that mirrored their Arryn mother, had the stubbornness of the Targaryens. He declared he would go back on one condition: Matarys wouldn't live there anymore. But Dragonstone was his brother's seat, therefore Matarys' as well, until his marriage at least. He couldn't leave and Aelor couldn't come back.
When her ship had docked back on the island, Matarys had been there waiting. But he hadn't even bother to say hello, when he noticed that her twin wasn't with her. He had just turned and ridden back to the castle.
"Not yet, for me at least." she murmured, turning to her cousin. That's what her mother had told her: not yet. "Tell me about your betrothed, how is she?" she proposed to him instead.
Matarys shrugged. "I haven't met her."
"Well, that's a pity." Aelora blinked at his disinterest. "Maybe we could invite her to the feast that the King will surely organise in Vaelor's honour. You two could get to know each other better." she proposed, but Matarys didn't look a bit delighted at the prospect. "I guess." he murmured, before excusing himself and saying he wanted to congratulate the couple.
That night she walked to Baelor's solar, as it was her routine. The stairs were illuminated by the lighting that shone outside the window: a storm was preparing to rage down upon them all night long. Aelora hoped it wouldn't last long: Kiera had summoned her and some other trusted friends to her rooms a hour before and spent some time with them, conversing while feeding her new boy.
"We'll go back to King's Landing soon." she had said. "I know you miss your family." she had added more quietly towards her.
Aelora had pointed out the storm incoming but Kiera was sure they would be able to travel soon.
Aelora had smiled gratefully but said nothing, looking down at a sleeping Vaelor. Matarys' words rang in her ears, even though her mother had said she was too young for marriage, at just six and ten. She felt as if something were about to happen, as soon as she went back to the capital.
Now, back in her uncle's chamber, she almost laughed at the sensation she had felt: Aelora had never been anything special, not like her cousin Daeron and his dragon dreams.
She found herself thinking about her cousin with sadness in her heart: people called him a drunken fool, but she had the fondest memories of him and their childhood together, before the nightmares stole him away.
"Is something bothering you?" the Heir to the Throne's voice brought her back to reality.
She swallowed, knowing she couldn't lie to him: he had always been perceptive and knew her well.
And he was smart, smarter than her.
She still remembered the first time she had decided to be like her uncle Baelor. Aelora had been four.
She was sitting alone on the stairs, watching her brother play with her cousins: she had been the only girl at the time, she didn't have much company. She had come into this world with a sibling, that was true, but Aelor was a boy as well, that preferred to spar with Aerion than play with her, whenever he had the chance to.
And so the dragon princess was all alone, sitting on the Red Keep's steps, while her septa kept a eye on her, until a tall figure approached her.
Mismatched eyes, brown hair, broad shoulders and fine features: uncle Baelor had noticed that she was sad, repeating her prayers until they lulled her to tears of boredom.
They had talked for a bit: she had told him she preferred other books over the Seven Pointed Star. Tales were her true love, even if her septa barely read them to her.
He had smiled kindly and promised her a new book full of stories to discover.
And he had. Baelor always maintained his word. Aelora had been fond of him since then.
Her father was good at making her laugh and the best option when she wanted cuddles, but couldn't really supply compelling tales. Her mother was wise and could navigate the ways of the court like few others, yet she only knew the same old tales from the Vale, that Aelora had listened to a dozen times before. This left her uncle, who was capable of reading languages that she, as a little girl, had never heard before: every night he would tell her about dragons, emperors of the East or adventurous pirates that crossed the sea.
Once she had grown, he had started teaching her how to read and speak those languages, so that she could read the myths for herself.
He had acted like a father toward her, in many ways where both her parents had failed, and she had grown into the most cultured woman at court: fluent in languages and aware of different cultures, an expert about history and with a mind for both political intrigues and strategic plans.
Her uncle had made her join Kiera's household, since she had married Valarr, in order to continue their training. The need to move to Dragonstone and live with Baelor's family had not been to hard a sacrifice for her: she wasn't fond of the Red Keep and the distance from her parents was actually refreshing.
But then the King had made Baelor his Hand and her uncle had moved back to the capital, while Aelora had remained on the island. Jena had risen as the undisputed lady in the castle, Valarr was always away to train or tend to the fishermen's requests, Kiera was moody because of her pregnancy and Matarys was...Matarys.
Now he was back, to be present for his grandchild's birth, and Aelora could finally let out a sigh of relief: Baelor was probably her favourite person in the whole family.
"So?" his voice broke through her thoughts again.
"Just the political matters at hand." she mumbled, keeping her gaze down. He could always read the lie in her eyes.
"We'll get it around." Baelor played by her game, but she knew that he could tell something else was bothering her. Yet she appreciated him for not pushing her. "Your notes will be helpful."
She was a bit vain, to be honest, but who wouldn't it be when Baelor complimented them? He was perfect at everything he did, so to receive recognition from him was a sign of respect. He had always believed in her capabilities.
He had wrote to her—he wrote to her so often—asking to check something in the library for her. He could have asked a Maester, but no one knew their way around Dragonstone's site of immense knowledge like her: she used to spend so many nights there, reading by candlelight.
"I only wish to help." she replied.
That had always been her purpose: she had trotted behind her uncle since she was a child, learning from him, sharing his knowledge as well as his responsibility. Baelor had always valued her and had never made her feel less for her inexperience or her sex.
"You're the smartest person I know." he had told her more than once, making her heart burst with pride.
"You have." he confirmed now, taking her hand. "I heard you were of great help to Kiera as well today."
"I think Valarr did a better job than me."
"Well, he doesn't beat you at this." he raised her notes to make a point. "There no one can."
Aelora smiled, but it was a sad one. Because Valarr was a man and would have every possibility in the world, while Aelora would be secluded to the birthing bed soon, if her mother did actually deem her old enough.
She knew that girls younger than her had already been bedded. Didn't aunt Dyanna have a child at her exact same age? And the births had killed her in the end.
"What's bothering you, child?" Baelor always called her that, probably because he always saw that little bored girl sitting on the steps, not the woman she had grown to be.
Aelora actually preferred it: she would have remained that little child forever if she had known her future.
Daeron dreamed about it, why couldn't he have told her?
She sighed, raising her gaze and meeting his eyes, one violet and the other brown, one for each parent. He was the perfect synthesis of both of them, probably the greatest monarchs that the Seven Kingdoms had ever had since the days of the Old King Jaehaerys and his Good Queen Alysanne.
Baelor was a bookish person like Daeron, but had a fierce courage like Myriah.
They called him the Hammer, after Redgrass Field.
He took her hand, as gently as that day in the gardens, when she had been excluded from the games. He had asked her then if she wished to wield a sword, but she had shaken her head. She knew now that defending the realm was more than sword fighting.
"Just the idea of returning to court, face my mother's expectations again."
She knew that Lady Alys wished to see her married. Sometimes she felt as if she—and her prospects—represented a burden much more than a daughter. She loved her, that much was undisputed, but she wasn't sure if she understood her. After all, she didn't value her knowledge at all.
She wasn't like Baelor, who had fed her curiosity and accepted her in his arms. He had been in favour of making her his daughter in-law formally, by giving her to one of his sons.
But his wife had spoken against it. And he had relented. That was their agreement, after all: Baelor governed the realm, Jena ruled the family.
While he made sure lords remained loyal to the Targaryens, the Princess of Dragonstone asserted their daughters features and fortunes, deciding if they'd make fine wives and mothers.
Aelora still remembered the bride show that her aunt had put up to select Valarr's wife. The King had proposed a ball, like the one organised for his grand uncle, Aegon III, after his first wife's death: it would have been less formal and more personal; her cousin would have been able to talk to the noble ladies selected, see which one of them got along well with him.
But only foreign ladies had been summoned to court and Princess Jena had thought it improper to have them dance.
People from the Free Cities danced with less formality and much more liberty, being true to their name and costumes. Aelora had asserted that much at Valarr and Kiera's wedding: the bride's relatives had stunned the whole Westeros reunited to celebrate and the court had talked about their peculiar behaviour for days.
Jena had not joined the dance floor, not even by her own child's request, while her husband had dance with Kiera at least twice.
"You're a grown woman now," Baelor didn't indulge in hypocrisy to reassure her; Aelora enjoyed his truthfulness, it was a rare quality to find at court. "It is time for you to find your own match."
Aelora sighed. "And what if I don't like the match made for me?"
"Aelor would permit you to remain at court, even to become my own Hand one day." Baelor replied. "Isn't that what you want?"
Aelora looked away, knowing full well he was right. Women were not permitted to join the Small Council, yet many men's appointments had been a mere formality, while their wives actually took on the job. The former Princess Elaena was an example of this: her husband Ronnel had been made Master of Coin, yet she was the one behind the calculations.
Aelor had no interest nor capacity to be the Hand, but he would prove no obstacle to her taking up the position.
If she married another Lord, she would have to transfer to his Keep, bear his children and, even if he were to be appointed as Hand of the King, he might have the desire to take up the position for himself, without having the need to listen to her counsel.
Aelor was her safest option.
"Or have you fallen for someone else?"
Aelora raised her gaze on her uncle's face. She could never lie to his face. "No."
Aelor was her only option.
They would stay in King's Landing for a full moon, that had been Valarr's decision, claiming that Kiera needed time to recover and couldn't face the same journey twice.
The trip back to the capital would take them two days, since the wind was in their favour; it was already set that Aelora would share her room with the other ladies belonging to Kiera's household.
Now she was on the ship's deck, holding Prince Viserys, who squirmed in her arms and tried to catch the wind.
The future king was a glad child, with surprisingly silver hair that looked almost white. Valarr had laughed when he had seen it, saying that Targaryen genes had won over and, after two black haired kings, Westeros would have another Valyrian sitting on the Throne.
Kiera, gentle soul, had pointed out that Viserys might also decide to dye his hair, like it was Tyroshi costume. No one had replied to that.
"What are you doing?" she chuckled, tickling his belly and making him laugh with delight. The baby looked otherworldly—people at court had already started calling him the God Prince—but his eyes, those came from his grandfather: just like Baelor, Viserys had one violet eye that reminded her of lilacs and a warm brown one that would win anyone over, Aelora already knew that.
"Mama!" the child protested suddenly. His first name day had been only three weeks prior, but the future king was a bright kid and knew already how to get everyone's attention, his parents' especially. Not to mention that he had recently started to stand on his two feet: Aelora could already imagine him running around and making servants go crazy.
"Mama is in bed, we can't disturb her." Aelora tried to explain to him. It was mandatory for her to keep in bed still, although two weeks had passed from the birth and she insisted more and more on standing up and resuming her old life.
She had tried to go to the sea, mere days before their departure. Aelora had tried to hold her back, but no no avail: Kiera loved the beach, she said the perfume there reminded her of Tyrosh. And Aelora, ever loyal, wouldn't leave her alone.
Valarr was there as well, taking care of some business. The moment he saw his pink haired wife, he took her back to the castle immediately, though Aelora was sure they had offered quite the spectacle to the fishermen, what with Kiera shouting against her husband and Valarr carrying her away.
Since then she had been secluded to her rooms.
"Mama!" Viserys requested again, looking at her expectingly.
Aelora sighed and tried to distract him, but the child could be as difficult as his mother when he was set on something.
Thankfully for her, another lady arrived. She turned with a smile, before her heart dropped: Joy Penrose, one of her distant cousins.
"Princess." she bowed when she reached them, her expression polite before breaking into a smile down at the toddler. "How is the little prince faring today?"
"A bit needy." Aelora answered, as the child pressed his little face against her neck. She started rubbing his back soothingly, looking at her companion.
Despite her Targaryen heritage—her mother was the former Princess Elaena and her father, Ronnel Penrose, was the son of Laena Velaryon, the eldest daughter of Lady Baela Targaryen and her lord husband, Alyn Velaryon—Joy did not possess the Valyrian beauty, looking exactly like a Penrose: brown eyes and brown hair, if it weren't for the golden streak down the middle, that reminded Aelora so much of the girl's mother, Princess Elaena.
She had also inherited her mother's intelligence, the two of them had bonded so much over that. But while Aelora had a love for the histories, Lady Joy preferred art and poetry.
They had shared a beautiful friendship, spending afternoons together in the library back in King's Landing and then travelling together to Dragonstone, to be in Kiera's service.
It only had been when Aelora had suggested for her to marry Matarys—a match made regarding her desire to continue to have Joy close—that their friendship had declined. Her cousin hadn't been most gallant towards the lady, who had taken offence and thought that her friend had tried to prank her when she had proposed to such a match.
Joy had left temporarily after that and, when she had returned, it had been announced of her betrothal to the heir of House Celtigar, Ser Ardol, the same one who's sister was now engaged to Matarys.
Now she spent less and less of her days on Dragonstone, visiting Claw Isle very often. Any other lady would have lamented about her disservice, but Kiera didn't.
"I don't care about the others. You're the only one I like." she had told Aelora more than once, with her thick but sweet accent that the dragon princess had learned to love.
Yet each time she looked at Joy, she couldn't help the pang of sadness that rose in her heart. Aelora would lie if she said she didn't actually miss her. If only she had simply said nothing or proposed another match for her: Aelor would have never acted like Matarys.
But Aelor was her only chance.
Their relationship was now mid, but not uncivil. They talked about the discomfort of the journey, the favourable weather, Kiera's health—no one knew about the little escapade to the beach and Aelora would never betray her friend's trust—until they arrived to the only thing that Joy talked about with interest: her betrothed and his family.
Aelora remembered how she had been eager to talk about poetry to her all night long, that's why the change of demeanour had been shocking; Kiera had argued instead that Lady Joy had always been a silly girl, only interested in elevating her position. She had gone so far as claiming that she pretended to care so much for Ser Ardol only to rub it in both hers and Matarys' face.
Her cousin didn't care a bit about it—Aelora even doubted he knew they were soon going to be married to two siblings—yet she didn't know what to think.
"Lord Celtigar, my betrothed's father, is very generous, his mother is an amiable person and so is Lady Daenaera, Ser Ardol's sister." the young woman was saying.
Aelora smirked, hearing the name she wanted to hear. She had asked after the Celtigars with intent, not truly interested about them: she had heard about Ser Ardol and his firm grip on the axe made of Valyrian steel far too many times.
But if hearing about it once again meant learning more about Ser Ardol's sister, then she would endure it.
Her mother had often reprehended her for bluntness, claiming she was far too direct, but Aelora had been a girl then, not yet trained in the fine art of court life like Alys was.
She had learned a great deal since then.
"And what are the plans for Lady Daenaera?" she inquired, deigning ignorance.
"You'll know her shortly, princess. She'll come to court soon enough."
"Is that so?"
"Soon I'll be married." Lord Penrose's daughter explained. "She will take my place in the household and, as it is her family's wish, she may find a suitable match for herself."
"Of course."
She had heard nothing about it and she bet that Kiera didn't know anything as well. The promise of a future appointment must have come from Jena, desiring to have Matarys get closer to his future wife.
Valarr hadn't had the chance to even hear Kiera's voice before she pronounced her vows, yet his brother and his betrothed would live under the same roof.
It came to no surprise: Matarys had always been his mother's golden child, while Valarr had belonged to Baelor and the Throne.
Aelora didn't ask further, she didn't want to appear pushy. Besides, that was what she required to know.
A royal wheelhouse had been sent to recollect them, with several Kingsguards and a man on horseback waving at them. Gold hair, blue eyes, fashionable robe and jewelled fingers: Aelora recognised her twin immediately.
Once the ship docked, after having handed little Viserys to his wet nurse, she didn't wait a moment longer to run into his arms.
The dragon twins, they were called, so different and yet so similar. They had come together into this world, had known each other for nine months before that, sharing their mother's womb. Being away from him always felt painful.
"I missed you." she sighed, holding him even tighter.
"You're killing me, Aelora." he falsely choked, making her chuckle and pull back with a "sorry."
Her brother was so handsome, with his Arryn features and his body of a warrior. She had seen him fight at Dragonstone, many ladies used to spend their afternoons by the window just to steal a glimpse of him.
He looked her in the eyes now, as if asserting with his own that she was alright, before smiling at her. "How was the journey?"
"Pleasant." she answered quickly, desiring to talk about other matters than such frivolous things as voyages. "How are you? How are Mother and Father?"
"Fine, we're all fine." he chuckled again at her worries. He caressed her temples, aware of her frequent headaches caused by hours spent reading. "They're eager to embrace you again and..."
But he stopped abruptly, looking at something behind her. She knotted her eyebrows in confusion and turned, surprised to find Matarys not far behind, looking at the two of them. Once he noticed that he had been caught staring, he didn't look away but, instead, tilted his head, as a greeting gesture toward Aelor.
But her brother didn't say hello back, rather he kept throwing daggers with his eyes at their cousin.
It strangely reminded her of herself and Joy, even though their rift wasn't as big as this one.
"Aelor..." she began, but he interrupted her: "Actually, Mother and Father sent me to fetch you. They want to see you immediately."
She didn't have the time to protest, before he grabbed her hand and brought her back to her horse, helping her atop it.
Aelora knew it was a lie, but didn't question it.
"My sweet girl!" Prince Rhaegel exclaimed for the seventh or eighth time, embracing her tightly in his arms and kissing her cheek, as if she were still a little girl. Her father was always childish in his acting, but his love was ever truthful: he had a feeble mind, that much was true, but he had the gentlest heart.
"Rhaegel, I think that's enough." Lady Alys Arryn smiled indulgently at the scene.
"Not at all." her husband replied. "How I missed you." he added against his daughter's hair.
"I missed you as well." Aelora smiled at her father, pulling back to look at his violet eyes, so similar to her own.
"The capital was so boring without you, my dear." The man winked at her, stealing her a chuckle: they both shared a passion for festivities and dance.
Her father kept rambling for a while longer, Aelora only pretending to listen, before her mother interrupted: "I trust the travel was pleasant?"
"Yes, the wind was in our favour."
"It's because I prayed for it." her father intervened, showing his usual smile, the most beautiful one that could be seen at court. "I was eager to hug my girl."
Aelora knew that her father rarely prayed and, if he ever did, it wasn't to honour the Andal religion.
He knew only one god: fun.
Lady Alys paid him no heed, sitting down on an armchair. "How's the new prince? And the parents?"
"Little Vaelor is a delight, Viserys already loves him. And the parents are, of course, overjoyed." Aelora answered, her gaze moving to her brother: he hadn't said a word during their ride to the Red Keep, nor had he talked once they had reached their parents' chambers.
She and their mother continued with their small talk, which he didn't seem to listen to, until a name brought him back to reality.
"And Prince Matarys?"
"What about him?" Aelor's voice startled both his sister and his mother.
"Just wondering how he took the news that his position has been pushed further down the line." Alys replied, but Aelora could notice his hard, frustrated look.
"With absolute grace." she answered her mother. "He loves both his nephews very much."
Aelor stood up abruptly, babbling some excuse and walking out. If such a behaviour was judged strange by their parents, Aelora didn't notice it.
But once he was out of the room, they did talk about it, only not in the way she expected.
"Your uncle Maekar is arriving this afternoon." her mother began, standing up from her seat.
"I know, mother." Of all the invitations she had wrote and sent on Baelor's behalf for the festivities organised in Vaelor's honour, the one that reached Summerhall wasn't among them. Her uncle had written that personally, claiming he knew which words to use to convince "that grumpy dragon"—as he had called his younger brother—to come to the celebrations. It seemed it had worked in the end.
"I intend to propose a betrothal between Aelor and his daughter Daella."
That caught her off guard.
Aelora turned around, to have a real look at her mother: hair styled perfectly, dress impeccable, her back straightened. Nothing was out of place, but after all when had her mother ever appeared untidy?
Yet, even though she was the most serious woman Aelora knew, she had just said the thing that she was least expecting from her.
A joke. It must be a joke.
Aelora stood up, speechless. "What?"
Alys blinked at her, always composed. "Does this surprise you?"
She let out a chuckle, but it turned out as a huff of shock and annoyance. "Of course it does. You never mentioned that."
"I'm mentioning it now."
"Well, you could have said it in one of your letters!"
"It was a rather delicate matter, better discuss it in person. Your uncle doesn't know anything about this as well, he will hear from me later." her mother explained calmly, while Aelora turned to her father: "Did you know about this?"
Rhaegel blinked, as if just now realising where he was. "About what?"
"About Aelor marrying Daella! Besides," Aelora looked at her mother again. "isn't she too young for marriage?"
"That's why I only talked about an engagement." Alys pointed out, while Rhaegel smiled as if he was seeing his wife for the first time: "You're such an intelligent woman, my dear."
Aelora blinked again at her father's words. "So you agree with her?"
"Always," he replied. "Your mother always knows best. Besides, Maekar is my little brother, I would wish for no one but his daughter to marry my boy."
"So you would prefer her to me?" The words left her mouth before she could control herself.
Now she had really screwed over.
Didn't her uncle always tell her to not let her emotions get the better of her?
What kind of Hand of the King would she make?
She wondered now if she even had a possibility.
Not without Aelor, surely.
Alys' eyes widened, while Rhaegel made an amused sound. "So this was what it was about."
"No! What do you mean? You're getting the wrong idea!" Aelora protested.
Alys' eyes widened in shock and disgust—she knew that Targaryens married brothers and sisters, of course she did, but the practice had fallen in disuse—while Rhaegel chuckled again.
Then his giggles stopped abruptly and he stood up, the most grave expression on his face. He was known for his sudden changes of mood.
"My dear," her father began, taking her hand. "you want Aelor for yourself?"
"No!" Aelora's eyes widened just at the idea.
"I'm a Targaryen like you, sweet girl, I understand this kind of things. If you wish to marry your brother..."
"No!" She pulled her hand away and shook her head repeatedly. "As I said, you're getting the wrong idea."
"Then what is it?" Alys asked, a bit in disbelief.
To make her lady mother upset was a marvel in itself. She was rarely unsettled.
Aelora took a deep breath, before continuing. Her mother was right, she was acting like a child.
"I just...I believed that Aelor and I would be married one day, that is all." she murmured, taking a step back. "By that, I don't mean that I have any particular interest in him. He's my brother," she shrugged, before adding: "not in the Targaryen way."
Alys still looked confused and rather uncomfortable, but Rhaegel looked at her, his eyes shining with understanding. Maybe what they said was true: only a dragon could really understand another one.
"By the way, I sincerely hope you talked to Aelor about this." she clarified, but her mother's smirk made her suspicious. "Did you?"
"If I have to be truly honest—and not even you, Rhaegel dear, know this—" the former Arryn took her husband's hand. "Aelor proposed such a match to me."
Aelora sank into an armchair, a huff of surprise. She had really been away from King's Landing for too long.
Aelora had hidden away in the library afterwards. And she would have remained there all night long, if it weren't for the dinner that her grandmother had organised.
A book would always keep her company, did not matter where she was or what she was going through. She had learned to read at the age of four, studying more languages throughout her years and reading an incredible amount of books, losing herself in each world they described. And during times like this she felt as if they were her only true friends.
She didn't love Aelor—at least not romantically. But he was her brother, her twin. They had come into the world together, shared the womb even before that. People could testify they would never be seen around without the other and, even when they were apart, Aelora still felt that sense of belonging: it didn't matter where she was, her other half was always in her heart.
What had hurt about the news was the fact that it had come from him, Aelor had come up with the idea himself, and he hadn't talked to her about it. Such an important decision in his life and he hadn't even thought about consulting her. Maybe it was just her being silly, but she couldn't shake the feeling of being left behind.
And it wasn't only that. Maybe her mother hadn't understood it, but his father had certainly got it: only a dragon gets another one.
Prince Rhaegel was said to have been touched by Targaryen madness.
What's the saying? Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin: one side greatness, the other madness. And her father's had landed on the latter, or so they said. Aelora loved him despite everything, she valued his infectious laugh and sweet demeanour over his odd behaviours. But she understood him, as he did with her.
His brother Baelor was already the picture of the perfect king: a fine politician and an incredible warrior. The latter quality was something that he shared with the youngest of the four sons of King Daeron II: her uncle Maekar. And the second of them, Aerys, despite his shy demeanour, was the greatest scholar that lived in Westeros at the time. Aelora could see why her father felt excluded from their brotherhood: the third child with his unstable mind.
That wasn't her case, clearly, and yet she felt out of place, at court and at Dragonstone both.
Every single lady of Kiera's original household had now married and gone away, Lady Joy being the last of them, making Aelora feel like a spinster. Even though she was young—she had been the youngest when she had been admitted into the household two years prior—she felt as if time was running out for her: Valarr and Kiera already rejoicing for their second son, Matarys soon marrying Daenaera Celtigar, her brother Aelor engaged to her cousin Daella.
Her brother had always been her safe option, her sure future. She could remain at court, continue to work with Baelor, pretend as if she wasn't a lady and use her knowledge to some fruition. She could become Hand of the King. But now even that seemed to crumble. And Aelora, despite her fierce nature, was scared of falling.
"Princess!" a woman's voice startled her, making her snap back to reality. The book laid open on her lap and she was staring out the window, but after a quick blink her head turned, finding a breathless maid looking at her.
"Yes? Is there a problem?"
"The dinner, Princess."
Aelora knew only 'fuck' as a curse word: her brother Aelor and Matarys knew many more and had proposed to teach her some, back on Dragonstone, but Princess Jena had reprehended them from doing so and she had always refused. Despite knowing many more words and languages than they did, her knowledge paled in comparison to theirs on that front.
Now, as she ran through the Red Keep's corridors with her long dress on, she wished she knew more than just 'fuck'.
Her mother would surely reprehend her (and she'd be correct), while her father would laugh about it. She could already imagine the look on the rest of her relatives' faces and her brother...
Truth be told, she hardly knew her brother anymore.
But she had little time to think about such stuff, since she was running late. And Aelora was never late.
She was just about to reach the door, when she slipped and held onto a statue at the entrance for her dear life. She faintly remembered her grandmother saying once that it had been a wedding gift from some lord for her marriage. Unfortunately for her, the statue—that seemed to be of great value and, she remembered as she crumbled, came from the far land of Asshai—landed on the floor, with her upon it, and shattered into pieces.
"Fuck!" she yelled this time, unbothered by who may hear her, but she didn't have time to hide her mishap. So she stood up, straightened her skirt, put on the falsest of smiles and opened the door.