Chapter Text
"Such disrespect is unacceptable." Kiera was pacing back and forth, clearly having forgotten about the Maester's advice of taking rest.
Her hair was a mess of unruly pink curls, yet again Kiera had never adapted to Westerosi fashion. She found it boring, while they found her excessive: she laughed too loudly, she sighed too profoundly.
Vaelor stirred in Aelora's arms, but she gently rocked him and tried to put him to sleep again.
Viserys trolled behind his mother's skirts, trying to follow her footsteps but failing miserably. He had just started to move his first steps, after all.
"Kiera," Valarr reprehended her gently, kneeling down to offer a hand to his firstborn son. "You should rest instead of pacing around."
"I can't stay still." Kiera argued back, before turning to Aelora. "Such disrespect is unacceptable!" she repeated, while Valarr swirled Viserys up in his arms.
"My love, please..." his free hand found her elbow, trying to make her sit at least, but Kiera pulled it away. She was a very tall woman, another detail that she regained from her Tyroshi origins and that set her aside from the rest, but Valarr had inherited his father's height: he stood a feet taller than his wife.
"He's such a brat!" the pink haired woman exclaimed once again, as if she hadn't expressed the same thought over and over again since Aelora had set foot in the room.
The princess huffed in amusement at her friend's language, while Valarr rolled his eyes. "Kiera, Daeron is my cousin." he defended.
"Well, I believe Aelora is as well," Kiera replied, moving closer to her lady in-waiting. "Yet I haven't heard you taking her side."
The prince second in line to the throne sighed, knowing better than trying to argue with his wife. He just sat back on the bed, with Viserys on his lap.
"I was only trying to help him." Aelora repeated again.
At that point, Kiera knelt in front of her, taking her hand in hers. "I know, my dear. But as I said, he doesn't deserve your help."
"I agree!" Valarr stood up abruptly, putting Viserys down to the carpet to play. "Now can we stop talking about this?"
"Not at all." Kiera shot him a look, before standing up. "Daeron is your cousin, you said it yourself. You should teach him how one should act towards a princess such as Aelora."
Valarr huffed in annoyance, but didn't reply. He knew it was the right thing to do, if it weren't for the fact that...
"They can't find him." he replied.
"What?" Aelora asked in disbelief. He had left her alone in the gardens late that evening, now it was broad morning. "What do you mean?"
"He left yesterday night and they still can't find him." Valarr clarified.
Aelora felt her stomach twist.
"It serves him right." Kiera didn't seem affected at all.
"That's quite enough, wife." Valarr took a step forward now, but Kiera wasn't afraid of the dragon's rage. She got closer as well and asserted him a look of far superiority.
Kiera was beautiful, so beautiful. Even in her uniqueness, there was something otherworldly about her.
"Aelora deserves an apology." she stated firmly. "Otherwise the man is no prince at all."
Valarr wasn't obvious to her beauty either, that was why he relented: "Alright," he sighed. "I'll try to find him."
Daella was crying aloud in their grandmother's chambers, wetting her purple dress. It was similar to the one she had worn the night before, but less striking. Anyone could notice it had belonged to an older woman and she was now forced into it: she was a child, yet everyone tried to make her act older than her age.
"Stop with this nonsense at once." her brother Aerion ordered her, receiving a glance of admonishment from Myriah.
Aerion could be quite cruel, when he wanted to. He had never been particularly interested in Aelora—not as much as to pick her as one of his victims—but he always insisted on not letting her play with him and Aelor. And her twin, despite his much gentler nature, did everything his older and cooler cousin told him and didn't want to be embarrassed on the playfield by his own sister.
They had always been friends, sparring together and pranking maids. It was no surprise that, when they all reunited in the queen's chambers for dinner after her kind invitation, Aelor sat by his side with the intention to listen to the stories from Aerion's time at Summerhall.
But the children of Maekar had no plan of indulging in conversations that night: Daella kept crying, Aerion kept cursing his older brother for having screwed his chances at the tournament, Egg kept defending Daeron and Rhae kept repeating that the queen might convince their father on remaining.
Myriah had expressively told her that she wouldn't question Maekar's parental authority: if he thought it best to return to Summerhall, then so be it; but Rhae kept begging her for intercession anyway.
"Daella dear, stop crying." the queen pushed a plate of honeycakes in front of her, but the girl shook her head.
Aelora slightly remembered visiting Summerhall when she was younger and Daella telling her that the honeycakes made with their lemons were the best treat in the world. Her brothers had seemed to agree with her.
She must have been really sad now, if even her favourite dessert couldn't raise her spirits.
She was crying because she couldn't give her favour to Aelor anymore. Her brother, for his part, didn't look as upset as she was.
"Please, grandma, can't you just try?"
"Rhae, I already told you."
"It's all Daeron's fault."
"Stop blaming him!"
"He's always been mad. What was he thinking? Leaving the table to seek out whores!"
That much was true: Valarr had left the Red Keep that morning and joined Maekar in his search, to no avail. Kiera had sighed loudly and Aelora's worry had grown: she had been the last one to see him before his disappearance.
But then Daeron had returned—or rather, had been brought up—to the Red Keep by a prostitute, who was demanding to be paid for her services and those of her colleagues.
Aelora hadn't seen her uncle's expression, but could imagine his rage.
The truth was humiliating: Daeron had left her and sought out whores.
Aelor's laugh rang in her ears now.
"But please, grandma!"
"Rhae, do not insist on this matter."
"Why don't you ask your precious brother to go ask Father?"
"Daeron is still in the Maester's rooms."
Aelora swung uncomfortably on her chair: Daella's sobs were oppressing, just like Aerion's complaints and Egg's little acutes when he defended Daeron. Aelor seemed to enjoy himself, while Rhae was basically fighting against their grandmother. Kiera had not joined her, preferring the peace of her chambers, and Aelora didn't blame her now.
But her mind wandered from the oppressing scene to the reason behind it: Daeron, his name would fall from his siblings' lips with affection, anger and sadness.
He had looked so haunted, back in the garden. And handsome, achingly so. Even if he had offended her, Aelora had to be honest to herself: Daeron had looked otherworldly beneath the moonlight.
He was the closest to the gods, after all: he had been blessed by them with the capacity of seeing the future. Aelora wished for such a gift, to know certainly what would await her, instead of the uncertainty that taunted her now.
Perhaps she should ask him, talk to him. She had tried to, but he had ran away.
Yet Aelora had never been one to give up after the first try.
She was mildly aware of looking like a ghost, her complexion paler than usual (and she had inherited most of the Targaryens features, pale skin among them). But that was what one would expect after spending the entire night in the library and skipping breakfast, walking out only to reach Baelor's apartments. The solar was quiet in a way the rest of the Red Keep never was: thick walls swallowing the noise of morning noises, leaving only the low crackle of the fire and the faint echo of distant voices.
"This will simply not work." Aelora scoffed, pushing the parchment aside. The numbers were not making sense.
"Yeah, I thought so, but I wanted for you to have a look." Baelor smiled at her: it was always that small, subtle raise of lips at just one corner, one that spoke of recognition in her abilities.
"Princess Elaena has gone to take care of her pregnant daughter and has left us with her incompetent husband." she groaned, while Baelor shot her a look of reprieve: despite the situation, he never let his mask of polite prince slip.
Aelora returned the same glance. "You know it's true."
"He's still the Master of Coin."
"He barely knows how to count to ten."
"Aelora."
"Baelor."
She was smirking now: she liked when they bantered in this way.
But Baelor's sigh made her understand it was a serious matter: "You can't let your anger fall upon him..."
"I'm not angry—" she began.
"...only because of Aelor."
That words made her stiff in her seat. "So you know?"
"Your mother made it clear and an announcement will follow soon. Apparently she wanted to talk to Maekar before he left the capital."
That, instead, left her speechless. "Leave the capital?"
"Because of Daeron." Baelor replied calmly.
Aelora knew, of course she did.
She had heard the maids in the corridors talking about it. Since yesterday's afternoon, it was all anyone talked about.
"The prince has been found."
"Passed out in a brothel."
"A whore brought him here."
"How did a wench get past the guards?"
"Maekar was furious."
"Poor Aelora, left in favour of prostitutes."
That had been one of Baelor's first lessons: to always hear what others said, even people who seemed invisible.
Monarchy stands on the basis of the population, their opinion is as vital for the crown as any other petty lord that demands too much and knows too little.
She had even heard some of them suggesting that the woman knocking at the Red Keep's door could actually be already pregnant with Daeron's child. Aelora found it hard to believe.
That had been Baelor's other lesson: always discern the truth from the lies.
Aelora stood up now, her mind swirling and her feet guiding her toward the window, hands clasped too tightly before her, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the city she could not see.
"You heard." said Baelor Breakspear quietly.
He did not ask. He never did.
Aelora inclined her head, precise and composed as a true lady. "Then there is little use in repeating it."
"A prince found insensible," Baelor went on, as if she had not spoken, "returned at midday by a whore, after making a spectacle of himself at table." A pause, during which Aelora could imagine him swallowing, even if she didn't see him—years spent working together and the knowledge that Daeron's act shocked even someone as Baelor made it obvious. "And before that: him leaving you alone in the garden."
Her fingers tightened.
"Rumor travels quickly." he added.
"Rumor," Aelora said, turning at last, "is rarely concerned with truth."
Hadn't that been his lesson? Discern truth from lies.
"No," Baelor agreed. "But it is often concerned with damage."
Silence stretched between them. He studied her—not unkindly, but too closely.
"You went to him?" he asked. "Did you see him after..." he left the phrase unspoken.
"I did not." she replied, a fraction too quickly.
Baelor's brow lifted, not in challenge but in recognition. "You wished to."
Aelora held his gaze this time. "Would that be so strange?"
"Yes." he said simply. That, more than anything, unsettled her. "He is not a man one seeks out," Baelor continued. "Not now anyway."
"He is a prince," she argued back. "And, whatever else is said, he is not without... interest."
"Interest," Baelor repeated. "Is that what you call it?"
Aelora's chin lifted, just slightly. "I call it a situation that could be understood."
Baelor moved then, slow and deliberate, until he stood a few paces from her. "You mistake him," he said. "You think him a puzzle."
"And he is not?"
"No." Baelor's voice did not rise, but it hardened. "He is a man who sees things that are not there. A man who drinks to escape his own mind. A man his father cannot control."
Aelora said nothing.
"If even half the whispers are true," Baelor went on, "then he is not merely unstable. He is dangerous."
"To whom?" she asked.
"To himself," Baelor said. "To those near him. To any who think they can guide him."
Something flickered across her face, quick and sharp. "Guide," she repeated. "Is that what you think I intend?"
"I think," Baelor said carefully, "that you have spent your life believing that disorder can be corrected. That every misstep has a cause, and every cause a solution."
"You've done the same."
"I've never tried to control people."
"What about your brothers, then? You were the first to manipulate Maekar into coming here for Vaelor's celebrations."
Baelor didn't reply to that.
"And you taught me that."
"I taught you," he said, "that men can be reasoned with. That power can be shaped. That the realm can be improved." He stepped closer. "I did not teach you that you could mend what is already broken beyond your reach."
The words landed cleanly. For a moment, Aelora said nothing. Then, she tried very softly: "You think him beyond reach."
"I think him beyond yours." Baelor said.
"But within your reach?"
"Within no one's reach!"
That did it.
Not the warning, nor the concern.
That.
Aelora drew in a slow breath, steadying herself. When she spoke again, her voice was calm, almost too calm.
"He spoke to me," she said. "In the garden."
Baelor's eyes widened but he waited.
"He looked at me as though..." she faltered, just for a heartbeat. "As though I were something to fear. And then he left."
Baelor's expression did not change, but his gaze sharpened. "And you would follow a man who recoils from you?"
"I would understand why he did."
"And if the answer is madness?"
"Then it is still an answer."
Baelor was silent for a long moment. "You have been wronged," he said at last. "By him, perhaps. By others, certainly." His voice softened, just slightly. "That is not a reason to entangle yourself further."
Aelora almost smiled. "Is it not?" she asked.
He studied her again, more intently now. "This is pride." he said.
"This is clarity."
"This is wounded pride," Baelor corrected. "And wounded pride makes for poor judgment."
Aelora turned away from him then, back toward the window, though there was nothing to see. "Everything I have built," she said, her voice low, controlled, "rests on the assumption that I understand the pieces before me."
Baelor did not interrupt.
"I knew my place, my future, my alliances." she took a deep breath then. "My brother."
"And now?" Baelor asked.
"Now," she said, "things move without reason, without pattern." Her fingers curled slightly at her sides. "I will not accept that."
Baelor's voice, when it came, was quiet. "Then you will be disappointed."
"Or I will be right."
Baelor took a step of retreat, hands clasped behind his back. He pondered in silence for a moment, until: "If you go to him, you do so without my counsel."
Aelora inclined her head. "I would expect nothing else."
"Aelora—"
She turned back, and for a moment the composure slipped, just enough to reveal something sharper beneath. "I will not be made a fool of." she said.
Baelor held her gaze. "No one has said you were."
"I will see for myself what he is," she went on. "Madman, prophet, or something in between. And if there is reason in him—any reason—then I will find it."
"And if there is not?"
Aelora's expression stilled. "Then at least I will know," she said, "that the fault does not lie with me."
Baelor exhaled slowly, the faintest trace of resignation in the sound. "You are very certain." he said.
"No," Aelora replied. "I am not."
She had lost all her certainties, in a couple of days.
She moved toward the door, pausing only briefly. "That," she added, without turning, "is precisely the problem."
And then she was gone.
Maekar's apartments were on the far end of the Red Keep's lodgings, something that didn't surprise Aelora, knowing his position and his rare visits to the capital.
She had actually tried Daeron's own quarters first but found no trace of him, then she had tried Egg's—the boy seemed so affectionate to his older brother, he surely would know where he was—but ended up with the same conclusion.
She had had much more luck when visiting Daella and Rhae's rooms: the two girls were there, finishing breakfast with their youngest brother. They had been so kind, offering her to join them and then telling her where Daeron actually was.
Apparently he had gone to his father's apartments to speak on his siblings' behalf, in order for them to remain until the tourney. Aelora had been surprised when hearing that, but actually pleased. She was mildly certain by then that what had occurred between her and him was nothing but a mere incident.
That's why she walked up to Maekar's rooms with a sense of relief, only for that sense of peace to be shattered when she would step outside, minutes later.
"Princess Aelora." the guard standing at the door announced her when walking in: she had a big smile on her face and two honeycakes in her hands, which almost fell from her grasp when she noticed a third person in the room.
Not a person.
Not really.
There was probably one other person close to the gods like Daeron and it was the man right before her eyes.
Even Aelora's complexion would look vigorous compared to his skin, only a red birthmark adding colour to that otherwise white face. That and his shimmering red eye, the only one he had left after his half-brother had taken the other out. That eye looked at her intensely now, as if it could see past her. Aelora had always had the sensation that her grandfather's bastard brother could see more than the sight that one remaining eye could offer.
After all, there was even a riddle about it.
How many eyes does Bloodraven have?
A thousand and one.
"Niece." Maekar greeted her. His voice made her eyes snap back to him, taking in the rest of the room. Her uncle stood tall next to Bloodraven, who had always one hand on the hilt of Dark Sister. Maekar's tone was cold and harsh, like a man made of stone. Aelora thought about the statues back in Dragonstone, those dragons which wings would never move.
Her eyes roamed from the two men to the boy sitting there with them: Daeron held the arms of the armchair with a tight grip, his red rimmed eyes staring at her from the moment she had walked in.
He looked...scared.
"Princess." the Master of Whispers followed in his greeting, his voice raspy. It wasn't soft like uncle Baelor's, sweet like her father's, or harsh like Maekar's.
"I..." Aelora looked back to her arms now, feeling completely stupid for going there. What had she hoped to achieve?
It reminded her vividly of her childhood, whenever Aelor would let her play with him and their cousins. They purposely gave her the heaviest wood sword to fight, letting her make a fool of herself. Her twin and Aerion would start laughing and she would giggle along, before understanding that they were laughing at her and not with her.
Then she would started crying and go to complain to her mother. She would sigh and tell her that their cousins had just lost their mother and she ought to be patient with them.
Hadn't that been the reason why Daeron kept hiding under the covers, instead of joining them in the courtyard?
She was about to turn around and run away like she had done when she was little, all the decorum that she had learned going to hell, when two hands gently took the pies from her hands.
Aelora's head snapped up, ready to mutter an excuse and snatch the sweet treats away: she didn't want to be asked questions and be put to total shame.
But she stopped when those red rimmed eyes met hers. Again.
"Honeycakes." Daeron's voice murmured, recognising the smell once he got closer.
It wasn't a question, it was his favourite dessert after all.
"Yes." Aelora whispered, her gaze roaming down in total shame. Really, what was she thinking?
A beat passed, embarrassing silence stretching between them. Aelora mentally cursed herself again.
"Are they for me?" his voice was still unsure, but it didn't sound lost like it had done in the garden.
"I heard you were feeling unwell." Aelora lied. She had at least mastered that, during her years at court.
"I'm better now." he lied back.
A moment of silence passed between them, both too ashamed to look at each other.
"How kind." Maekar wasn't strange to the ways of court as well, even if he always performed in his stiff way.
Daeron wallowed over to the table to put them down and then turned around to offer her a kind smile.
He didn't look scared, like mere seconds before.
Either he was a good actor or he'd gone completely mad.
Maekar cleared his throat once and then Aelora's hand was surprisingly gripped by Daeron's one. Daeron's hold tightened just slightly, as if he feared she might slip away if he let go.
"I-" he began, then stopped, swallowing hard. "I owe you an apology."
Aelora blinked, caught off guard by the suddenness of it.
"My behavior yesterday was..." His mouth twitched, like he could not find a word that would not damn him further. "Unworthy. Of you. Of my house."
That sounded rehearsed: something learned, something expected.
Aelora's eyes moved to Maekar for just a second: he was staring at them, looking the scene unfold with precise attention.
But then Daeron's fingers shifted around hers, less steady. "I should not have left you." he added, more quietly.
That was not rehearsed, Aelora could tell.
"I should not have..." His voice faltered, and for a moment his gaze flickered: not to her, but past her, as if recalling something only he could see. "...done what they did."
Aelora felt her breath catch. There it was again, that same unease from the garden.
"I frightened you." he said. It was not a question.
Aelora found her voice, though it came out softer than intended. "You did."
Daeron swallowed, looking directly at her. "I am sorry."
He didn't look drunk, nor did he reek of alcohol. A sweet smell of lavender filled her nostrils instead.
"It's alright, cousin, I forgive you." she smiled, squeezing his hand back. "I understood that you were not yourself."
Daeron's eyes moved away the moment she met his gaze, as if afraid to look at her for too long.
Aelora was about to pull her hand away from his grasp, when he tightened his grip, suddenly interested in her skin. A gasp escaped her as he caressed her palm, stretching her fingers as if some secret was hidden there.
Aelora felt unease rise in her belly.
"Do you...do you like my rings?" she tried to offer an explanation to his strange behaviour.
Aelora's eyes moved behind his back, noticing Bloodraven's red gaze fixed on them. He looked deeply interested by whatever was happening.
Aelora had no idea of what was happening.
Daeron's caress was soft, as if she was on the verge of disappearing.
"That will suffice," Maekar said sharply. "You forget yourself."
And just like that, Daeron snapped out of it.
He took a step back, shaking his head as if to stir off whatever thought had made him act in such a way.
"I...yes, thank you, princess. I'm..." his voice was shaking, just like his hands at his side. "I'm grateful for your forgiveness."
Aelora tried to smile, but she just couldn't. So she only nodded and set her gaze down.
Her hands were equally shaking, but she closed her eyes and took a deep breath to steady herself.
What was happening?
When she opened them again, the sight of her hands—clutched together so that no one could notice their trembling—reminded her of who she was.
She was a Princess of the Realm, there was no reason to be so afraid, not in a room filled with familiar faces anyway.
Her fingers moved before her mind could think clearly, taking off a red ring and putting it on her palm, presenting it as an offer to Daeron.
His father had gifted it to her, when she was still a small girl more interested in dolls than books. It felt like a lifetime ago.
And now...
"As a symbol of our reaffirmed friendship." she smiled. Small, posed, like she had been taught to do.
Daeron looked at her for a long moment, surprise and something else etched on his face.
Then his trembling fingers moved on her skin again to take it, while Aelora held her breath.
"Thank you." he whispered. "I'll treasure this gift and our friendship."
His words sounded sincere. It was at least something.
The rest was a swift of formal questions between her and uncle Maekar, with Daeron standing in a corner and turning the ring in his fingers, his gaze on the shining piece of jewellery as if he still couldn't believe she had gifted it to him.
Aelora was out of the room not even two minutes later, feeling her heart pounding in her chest and her head spinning.
She had lied, acting like the proper princess used to court life.
But in truth Daeron hadn't seemed well.
He had looked even worse.
"But are you certain?" Aelora whispered for the third time, squeezing Kiera's hand in hers.
Her friend didn't even look up, keeping her eyes on Vaelor, latching onto her breast.
Kiera had refused wet nurses from the first moment Viserys was born, claiming that women fed their children personally in Tyrosh. And the court, surprisingly, had relented. Most of the time, they tried to eradicate whatever Tyroshi costume or heritage she upheld.
"The Maesters said so." Kiera replied quietly. She was rarely quiet: it meant she was upset.
"But we could hear other opinions."
"I can't have any more children!" Kiera interrupted her, raising her voice. She looked at the dragon princess for half a second, before sighing and looking back at her kid again.
Something in her tone, so raw and honest, made Aelora's heart break.
"Does Valarr know?" the silver haired woman asked in a whisper.
Kiera only shook her head, refusing to meet her gaze still.
"He must know, sooner or later." Aelora murmured.
"His mother probably already told him."
Aelora heart dropped. "Jena knows?"
"Jena was there." Kiera spat out. "She was the one to suggest to have me checked over by that disgusting old man."
"Kiera..."
"And you should have seen her smug expression. She almost looked glad at the news. She's happy that I failed just like her. And yet she'll make a tragedy out of it in front of my husband, like she always does." she was talking so fast, because of fury, that her accent was even more pronounced.
Aelora swallowed dry at the words. "You gave Valarr a heir and a spare, just like she did."
"He wanted a daughter. Daughters make good alliances." Kiera argued.
"Kiera," Aelora grabbed her hand now, unable to watch her friend break and do nothing. This wasn't the Kiera she was used to. "Look at me."
Reluctantly, the pink haired woman raised her gaze, revealing red rimmed eyes full of fresh tears. It reminded her of Daeron.
"It's not your fault."
"But it is." her voice was a soft murmur now, almost a sob.
"No, it's not." Aelora placed a kiss on her knuckle, like Valarr did with his wife all the time. Kiera had beautiful, slender hands, adorned with rings.
The one that Aelora had gifted her, after Viserys birth, shined brightly on her index, pink just like her hair.
Vaelor had fallen asleep on his mother's chest and Aelora was quick to take him from Kiera's arms, obliging her to lay back down and rest a bit.
But her friend was restless, fidgeting with the jewels on her hands.
"Did you go to talk to Daeron?"
"I did."
"And?"
"We're friends."
Kiera looked away, toward the ceiling. "I hate him." Aelora saw the tears on her face and knew she didn't mean it. It was her pain and desperation talking. "I hate everyone in this family."
"Even me?"
"No." her voice croaked out, while her body shook with sobs. "Not you."
Late night reading had always been her favourite activity. Yes, she enjoyed dedicating her mind to complex calculations or important matters of state during the day, but by the end of the day she craved what had sparkled her imagination at the start: stories.
She had grown up reading Andal ones, coming from each region where her uncle would travel and come back with a book just for her: typical stories depicting the Vale's high mountains, the Reach green gardens or the river shore of the Riverlands.
The Westerlands preferred fables with tricky riddles and the Dornish stories—that aunt Daenerys was kind enough to send after Baelor's request—always depicted strong female women that had been Aelora's inspiration growing up.
Once she had learned the various Valyrian dialects, she had read for herself the legends based on Rhyonar water magic and the millions of different tales that arrived from Essos.
The stories from the North still remained mostly unknown to her, because fewer people nowadays learned the Old Tongue.
Yet her favourites were the one composed in High Valyrian, last shrewd of a civilisation that had been the cradle of her own family and reminded her of a time when Targaryens used to be closer to the gods.
So while the Andals depicted feeble princesses and the Dornish narrated about strong leaders, the Valyrian's chanted of magical beasts that soared the sky: dragons.
Aelora was re-reading the Flying Adventurous of Jaenara Belaerys, the Valyrian dragon rider that had followed a dream sent to her by the gods and started her mission of discovering the southern continent.
Sothoryos had been a thorn in the side for some time now, with corsairs carrying off captives from there and selling the preys off to flesh markets in Essos; but they had gone as far as trying to sell them off in Westeros, even if the practice of slavery had been outlawed in their country. There had been rumors of Lords taking part in such filthy activities, so the Small Council had started an inquiry.
Aelora had found herself rather lacking of good information that could provide a solution to end the problems, so she had decided to combine business with pleasure and learn more about the continent and its people.
That had been her plan, but she couldn't have forgone the first pages, where Jaenara's life was depicted in details and her green and purple dragon Terrax was described.
Baelor had been so kind to find an illustrated version for her, when emissaries from the Free Cities had come to visit the capital. Aelora still remembered sitting on his knees in the courtyard and listen to his warm, wise voice reading her the story, while her male cousins played with swords.
The little girl had been completely in awe at the drawing and had touched the outline of Jaenara's slender figure with the tip of her finger, asking him if she could get her own dragon someday and fly off to adventures. Her uncle had smiled to her and told her that he had no doubt she could do everything she set her mind to.
Aelora found herself doing the same now: brush lightly her fingertips on the drawing and imagine a life as a dragon rider.
When a sound caught her attention.
It had been just a soft creak on a broken tile on the floor, but Aelora had spent so many years in the library to known that it meant someone was approaching.
If it weren't only for the fact that, fifteen seconds after—that was the time necessary to cover the distance from the tile to the window where she was sitting, with her book on her lap and a lit candle beside her—no one arrived.
Then it meant that this person wasn't seeking her out.
Rather, this person was hiding from her. Or spying her.
"Who's there?" she called out. The other person was aware of her presence in her room, so she thought it pointless to remain silent and act just as secretly.
She heard the footsteps now: quick and growing distant.
She should have taken a sigh of relief: whoever had been spying her was now leaving. This meant she was safe.
But Aelora had always been curious, maybe too curious.
"One day, your curiosity will get you in trouble." the Hand of the King had told her.
And so she stood up and ran after the intruder.