Chapter Text
A servant knocked on the door, walking in once she was granted entry. She carried a fine dress, shining cream adorned with gold.
Kiera sighed upon seeing it: it was the ninth gift in five days. But she knew better than to turn it down. She had tried it, the first time—when the present had been a hundred white roses delivered in her chambers—but Valarr had answered to her dismissal with decision: the next day it had been two hundred.
And so every day, since their fight, he had given his wife gifts of every sort, hoping for a reconciliation.
Aelora knew it took more than that.
"At least it's not a dagger this time." the pink haired woman commented.
She had a long vail wrapped around her head, waiting for her newly dyed hair to dry off. Aelora always helped her to do it: she had known very little about Tyroshi costumes when they had first met, but she had quickly learned in her two years spent at Kiera's side, to the point now to know the right amount of colouring needed to reach the right hue of pink that her friend appreciated.
"Do you think I could use it to stab my husband?"
Aelora snorted at her comment, shaking her head. She wasn't a stranger to her sarcastic comments, though she wondered how much ironic her friend was those days, after such a big fight.
It had been bad. So bad that people had already started whispering about the rift between the young prince and his wife and how Valarr would soon dismiss her and send her back to Tyrosh, yet it seemed to Aelora that her cousin was trying everything in his power to make up with Kiera, while she was the one who refused to give him a chance to reconcile.
Not that Aelora faulted her for that: she understood why Kiera didn't want to hear from him again, after what he had said.
Yet the young wife moved now around the room to have a better look at the fabric. Aelora, way too tired from the constant brush-water-dye-dry-brush some more routine, remained seated, her eyes fixed on Kiera.
She was so beautiful, her Kiera, even with a cloth wrapped around her head that made her look like a pink egg.
"Do you think I could wear this to the tourney festivities?" her friend asked.
"You could. But hadn't you planned not to attend?"
In the midst of her fury, she had said as much to Valarr. But now she sighed, looking away.
"My presence is required, the tourney is in Vaelor's honour."
"I don't think that Vaelor would care much about your absence." Aelora stated, trying to make her laugh. Kiera had the most vibrant laughter in all the Seven Kingdoms, second only to the Laughing Storm probably.
And what she had said was true: Vaelor was just three weeks old and slept peacefully in his crib in his mother's rooms.
Another one of Kiera's decision: since Valarr had been spending his time with Viserys, making him play in the gardens with Maekar's younger children, she had taken Vaelor for her, letting him sleep in her bed, the place once occupied by Valarr himself.
"But others will." her friend whispered. Her eyes looked sad, something unusual and almost unnatural in such a sweet person.
And when Kiera wasn't dejected by the nobles whispers, she was the sweetest person alive: just like now, when she knelt before Aelora and took her hands in hers.
Aelora caressed her palm, ever so softly, suddenly feeling a deep rush of affection, especially when her friend sighed and looked at her.
It reminded her of the first night she had summoned Aelora in her rooms, eyes bloodshot after all the crying: her cousins had returned to Tyrosh, after having spent some months with her in Westeros, helping her to adjust to her new life. But once Kiera was happy and freshly pregnant, there was no reason for them to remain longer.
Her hands had been shaking while she passed Aelora her brush, asking her in High Valyrian—she was still very conscious of her accent when talking in Common Tongue—to help brush her hair.
Aelora had held her hands in hers and reassured Kiera that she wasn't alone in her new life.
It had become a habit since then, to take each other's hands when the other was upset.
"I'm tired of this situation." Kiera whispered, looking up at her with her big brown eyes.
"Then make peace with Valarr." Aelora proposed to her. She knew that her friend loved him: he could make her laugh instantly.
And it was the most rational thing to do. Valarr loved her as much as he loved his pride, he would never admit defeat.
But neither would Kiera, the little shake of her head was the confirmation she needed: she wouldn't even entertain the thought.
Didn't matter that she missed having him by her side every night and that Vaelor would wake her every three hours to latch at her breast, Kiera wouldn't let go of the offence. She hadn't been so proud once, but she had become as much after two years in her marriage: one ought to grow claws to survive among dragons.
"He thinks showering me with gifts will be enough."
"He's trying, Kiera."
"He should apologise."
Aelora couldn't say she disagreed with that. But she was a Targaryen and she knew everything about their fiery tendencies.
"It feels like it's three of us in this marriage." Kiera's tone raised, but she still kept it low because of Vaelor's sleeping form in the crib. "Me, him and his mother."
Aelora kept her mouth shut at that as well, knowing that her friend needed to vent and having no heart to disagree with that either.
Jena Dondarrion was her aunt, Baelor's wife and the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms: Aelora respected her for that. But she made Kiera's life a living hell.
"And he keeps listening to her." Kiera's vehement voice turned into a sob. "I'm his wife, I gave him heirs, yet I'm still the second choice."
"There's no choice, Kiera." Aelora sighed, squeezing her hands and trying to make her see reason. "He loves her as a mother and you as a wife, you're both important to him."
"And yet he listened to her words."
"They weren't untrue, Kiera."
"I should have told him!"
She had tried to keep her voice down, she really did. But Aelora knew that one could do as much and each recounting of Jena's actions only made Kiera angry.
So it was no surprise when her friend shouted those words against her and Vaelor's sobs followed.
Kiera pressed her eyes shut, keeping her tears at bay: she had cried enough during those days. Aelora instead sighed and stood up, reaching for the small boy, since his mother was in no condition to put him back to sleep.
Vaelor recognised her touch and calmed down a bit, when she took him in her arms: she had cradled him countless times since his birth and Aelora was the only lady Kiera trusted enough to look after her children. So she now pressed the child close to her chest, looking down at him.
The baby was adorable: chubby cheeks, purple eyes, a head of dark hair—unlike his brother Viserys—but he also possessed the loudest wail one could ever hear. Uncle Baelor had joked the first night that the whole island could hear him when he cried.
Valarr could put him to sleep with ease, way more capable of Aelora and, sometimes, of Kiera herself.
After minutes spent to cradle the child, the dragon princess turned to the pink haired woman, seeing her distraught expression as she remained sat on the floor.
"You should have told him, Kiera, I give you that," Aelora murmured, trying to comfort her but making her see reason as well. "But Valarr ought to know that you can't have anymore children."
"You don't understand," Kiera shook her head, tears falling down again. She had spent five days crying. "He'll divorce me and marry someone else."
"Why would he do that? You have given him two sons."
"Because I'm Tyroshi!" Kiera shouted again, turning all the efforts that Aelora had put into making Vaelor sleep in vain.
Aelora cradled him again as he broke into other sobs, his mother paralleling him.
Aelora was suddenly overwhelmed, but, as the Hand of the King said, a true leader showed their true colour in the moments of discomfort.
"Kiera, that's not true," she tried again, softer, her hands moving in synchrony to ease up the child close to her chest. "Westerosi nobility might care about that, but Valarr doesn't. He loves you."
Kiera only chuckled at her words, defeated and humourlessly. "He may love me all you want, but you can't deny that he's ashamed of me and my costumes."
"Kiera..."
"The children don't count, they're the blood of the dragon and his heirs: whether contamination I had, his blood burned it down. But their mother is dispensable."
"Kiera, that's not true."
"I bet Jena would be even happier if I were to take a ship by my own accord and sail back to Tyrosh."
"Kiera!"
Now it was Aelora's turn to raise her voice. She cared little about the fact that Vaelor was now very much awake—he wouldn't have slept anyway.
"Enough with this talking, you're not going anywhere." she declared, kneeling down on the floor before her, making her look right into her eyes.
Kiera always said she had purple eyes full of decision. And she must have seen that same sentiment in them now, because her rant stopped with a sudden breath and she nodded.
Aelora took it as an agreement. She wouldn't go anywhere.
She had her.
And she had Valarr.
Especially Valarr.
The lists were nearly complete.
From the gallery above the tourney grounds, Aelora could see the final preparations unfolding in careful order: pavilions being raised in the colors of a dozen great houses, squires hurrying back and forth with arms too full, knights already testing their footing on the packed earth below.
"The Reynes will take offense if placed beneath the Freys." a deep voice talked behind her.
Aelora did not look up from the parchment in her hands. "They always do," she replied, adjusting a name slightly to the left. "But they will attend regardless." Aelora's quill stilled. Slowly, she lifted her gaze.
Baelor Breakspear stood tall behind her, one hand absentmindedly playing with the ring on the other. He had not changed his attire from that morning, when she had seen him right after the Small Council meeting: he always summoned her in his solar right after, to inform her about the topics of discussion or what they needed to concentrate about.
They were a team, he said. Yet only one of them was granted a seat on the Council. It made Aelora's skin crawl with irritation: she wanted that seat, that silver brooch that Baelor showed on his chest.
The man took a step forward now, making Aelora's attention snap back on him. He hadn't changed, yet somehow he seemed different.
Focused on something. On her, she realised.
"I was under the impression," he said mildly, "that you preferred not to rely on certainty where offense is concerned."
Aelora held his gaze. "I do not," she replied. "But in this case, the outcome is predictable."
"Mm." That was all he said, yet it was enough.
Aelora set the quill down with measured care. She knew that sound: it was a small gesture of disagreement, for which Baelor didn't need words. And after so many years together, Aelora had learned to understand him: his words, his actions, his silence and his lies. "If you disagree, uncle, you may alter the arrangement."
"I do not disagree."
Aelora looked at him, at his mismatched eyes that roamed over the pavilions.
He had been rather troubled in the past days, because of Valarr and Kiera's big fight. Their relationship wasn't his business, of course, but it did concern the Hand of the King once the woman had declared she wouldn't take part to the festivities.
Valarr, for his part, had taken the reprehend from his father with a bowed head and a silent pout, storming out once Baelor had told him to do anything to save his marriage.
Not for Kiera.
But for her rich dowry and the Tyroshi alliance. The same country where Rohanne, her children and Aegor had fled to. There were still lords who claimed that the descendants of the Red Dragon were the legitimate rulers.
But there was something else that troubled the Heir of the Iron Throne, a woman who answered to the name of Jena Dondarrion and that, unlike anyone else in the realm, Baelor couldn't control.
"I am observing." his voice brought her back to reality now, his eyes on her face.
There it was: the disagreement.
Aelora resisted the urge to look back down at the parchment. His eyes were kind, but they made her uncertain nonetheless.
Aelora had always deemed herself smart, a quality that made her rather proud of herself. She certainly liked to win over Aelor at chess or put Valarr to shame when quoting random numbers on the realm's agricultural productions.
But if there was a person that could make her lose all her arrogance, that was Baelor.
She suddenly felt small again, just like when her mother used to scold her for helping her father out of his rooms.
"I was not aware I required observation."
"Everyone does," Baelor said gently. "From time to time."
That tone: not the voice of the Hand, not the voice of a prince. Something quieter, more familiar. It unsettled her more than any rebuke might have. Suddenly she wished he raised his voice against her, like Lady Alys had done countless times.
But Baelor never lost his temper. And neither did Aelora, since she had learned to control her emotions and not let them get the best of her. Or so she thought.
A good ruler always used their head and not their heart, that's what her uncle had taught her. And she knew it.
Yet she wasn't as composed and intelligent as Baelor.
She made mistakes and let her temper win her over, like she had done with Valarr after his discussion with Kiera.
She wasn't perfect like Baelor.
"I have completed the seating arrangements," she murmured, gesturing lightly to the spread of lists before her. "The Dornish delegation has been placed where..."
"Aelora."
Her name, spoken softly, cut cleanly through her words. She stopped.
She imagined, for a moment, how it would be like: to see him lose his temper. She knew she'd be heartbroken, the reprehend would sting more than a beating or the raised voice of her mother.
Yet she craved for it.
Because she preferred anger to pity. She was a dragon.
Hadn't that been what her brother had done as well? Leaving Dragonstone in the middle of the night, instead of receiving pitiful glances the morning after, like it had happened to Matarys, who favoured his mother in looks and personality.
But Mataryss was a Dondarrion at heart as much as Aelor was a dragon, just like her. They had shared the same womb, had come into the world together.
Aelora hadn't begged him to return—like Matarys had asked her to do—and Aelor hadn't returned.
Baelor stepped closer, not imposing or commanding, simply closing the distance until he stood beside her rather than behind her. "You have done excellent work," he said. "As you always do."
Aelora inclined her head slightly. She didn't understand where he was going with his words. She wasn't as intelligent. "I am glad it meets your expectations."
"My expectations are not the matter in question."
Aelora let out a breath she didn't realise she was holding. But it didn't ease the tension, rather knotted her stomach even more. "Then what is?"
He studied her for a moment, not as a lord studies a courtier or a master would do with his student.
As something else. Something older.
It slightly reminded her of her father—her real one—during one of those days where he was looking better. Most of them, they were on Dragonstone, on the beach.
Rhaegel would sit beside her, because both of them didn't know how to swim. And he would look at her fondly and preoccupied at the same time, like Baelor did now.
"You have corrected the same line three times." he said.
Aelora's eyes flicked, despite herself, to the parchment. The ink there was indeed thicker, the name written and rewritten with minute adjustments.
"I was refining the placement." she lied under her breath.
"You were avoiding the next task."
Her fingers tightened slightly against the edge of the parchment. "I do not avoid tasks."
She was always proper in her work. She folded her nightgown before putting on her dress, she prayed at meals and before going to sleep, she always finished a book even when it turned out to be boring.
"No," Baelor agreed. "You avoid thoughts."
That struck closer than she liked.
Aelora straightened. "If there is something you wish to ask, uncle, I would prefer you do so plainly."
Enough with games. She had never liked games.
Aelor and Aerion always kept her out of theirs, because she wasn't strong enough. Aelora had always kept herself out of Baelor's ones, because she wasn't smart enough.
They relied on the truth instead, that had been the base of their relationship. Both of them were well versed in the lies of court, but there was a certainty in always saying what one thought.
And when one managed the realm, certainty was mandatory.
A faint smile touched his lips. "I have always appreciated that about you."
"Then?"
Baelor's gaze softened, just slightly. "You are distracted."
The word settled between them, simple and unavoidable.
It was like Daeron's dreams: he tried to run from them and yet they kept coming back, to haunt him night after night.
Aelora's responsibility were her own form of torture, one that she craved nonetheless.
They had been oppressing her for as long as she could remember, since she had been old enough to look after Rhaegel and make sure he didn't stuff his mouth with too much lemoncakes during banquets.
But they also meant knowledge, recognition, power.
Aelora did not answer immediately.
Below them, a cheer rose as two knights clashed in a practice bout, the sound carrying upward in a dull echo. She let it fill the silence for a moment longer than necessary.
"There is much to be done," she said at last. "Distraction would be...inefficient."
"And yet," Baelor said quietly, "here it is."
It was true: she had been distracted from her tasks.
But she had her goal in mind and she'd do everything in her power to achieve it.
She exhaled slowly. "I am managing it."
"I do not doubt that."
That was the problem: he never doubted her, not in the way others did or the way that could be dismissed.
She should have been happy: Baelor trusted her, Baelor recognised her capabilities.
But there was something else.
Someone.
"Aelora," he continued, more gently now, "you have been at my side for years. I have seen you balance matters far more complex than seating arrangements and wounded pride."
Her jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly.
"You are sharper than you were a year ago," he said. "Quicker to see advantage. Quicker to act."
Yet I'm losing.
Aelora did not look at him. "That is what you taught me."
"It is," he agreed. "But I did not teach you to carry everything alone."
That made her look up.
There was no censure in his expression, no disappointment. Only concern. Infuriating, quiet concern.
"I am not alone," she murmured.
Baelor held her gaze. "No," he said. "You are not. And yet you stand as though you are."
Something in her chest shifted, uncomfortable and unwelcome.
Aelora looked away first. "The tourney will bring half the realm to King's Landing," she said, returning deliberately to safer ground. "Tensions will be high. Old grievances..."
"Yes," Baelor said softly. "And you are already accounting for them."
She hesitated, only for a moment. "Then what is it?"
It had only been a whisper, but he was close enough to hear her.
"Daeron."
The name landed differently.
Aelora stilled. She wondered for half a second if he had been unwell again, but if that had been the case she would have been told. The Maester had promised as much: and if her closeness to the Hand of the King hadn't convinced the old man, the gold coins with the effige of the dragon—enough to buy him a night with three maidens—had played the trick.
"What about him?"
Baelor watched her, long enough that she felt her skin crawl again. It felt just like when she was small and she would blackmail her brother to sneak into the kitchen to retrieve a lemoncake for her.
But Aelor wasn't astute and would be discovered. So at the end Aelora would find herself in front of the scowl of her mother, because in the midst of his petulant tears, Aelor would say her name.
She felt the same now. She felt even worse, as if she had been the one stealing from the kitchens and had been found with her mouth stuffed with lemoncakes. Just like Rhaegel would do every morning in queen Myriah's chambers, if his mother didn't stop him.
"You spend time with him," he said. "In his bedchamber."
"We're never alone."
"I'm not talking about this."
Aelora met his gaze again. This time, she did not look away. "He requires assistance." she whispered. She could have spent her free time in way more useful ways, yet she felt the need to help him.
Maybe she should have listened to aunt Alysanne—king Daeron's bastard sister—when she had asked her if she wanted to take the veil like her. Aelora had been five and had thought at the time that the only veil that would soothe her was the marriage one.
"And you have chosen to provide it."
"I have."
Baelor inclined his head slightly. "As is your way."
There was something in that she could not quite place. She looked at him for a long time, trying to comprehend his gaze.
But it couldn't be what she was seeing: approval.
"Aelora," he said, quieter now, "there is a difference between understanding a problem and believing you can solve it."
She could solve it. This wasn't economics or agriculture knowledge, where Baelor could best her.
This was different.
She held his gaze. "I am aware."
"Are you?"
The question was gentle, but it still cut.
Aelora drew in a breath, steadying. "He is not a problem," she said. "He is...a circumstance."
Baelor's expression shifted, just slightly. "Is that what he is to you?"
The question lingered for too long.
Aelora turned back to the parchment, picking up her quill though she did not immediately write. "He is a prince of the realm," she said. "And what affects him may affect us all."
Careful. Measured. Safe. Just like Baelor had taught her. This had been the result of his teaching: replying with the right words but saying actually nothing.
This was what kept wars at bay.
He smiled now but said nothing. For a long moment, the only sound between them was the distant clash of steel and the faint scratch of her quill finally moving across the page.
Then, quietly: "You have always seen further than most."
Aelora paused.
"Do not forget," he continued, "to see what is directly before you."
She did not answer, but her hand stilled again.
Baelor reached out then, just briefly, and rested his hand against her shoulder.
A simple gesture, familiar. Like a father.
Aelora's shoulder eased completely. It reminded her of those times when she was still small enough to hide in Baelor's arms and cry, because her cousins had left her out from their games again.
There were days when a story from her wise uncle wasn't enough and only his steadying hold could make her stop crying.
"Sweet girl." he used to call her.
More than once Aelora had wished for Baelor to be her father. He would make her his heir in that case, she was sure. Why would he favour talentless Valarr or boring Matarys?
Viserys I had three male children, yet he had named his firstborn Rhaenyra as his heir.
"You need not prove anything to me, sweet girl." he said now.
It landed heavier than anything else he had said.
Aelora's throat tightened, just slightly. "I know." she replied, but it did not sound entirely certain.
He used to rock her to sleep, on those sandy shores, after Rhaegel had tried to throw himself in the sea, creating a great commotion and almost dying.
Uncle Maekar had swam to reach him and save him, claiming after that it had all been an accident. But then her father had shouted that it had been intentional and that had made her mother cry.
Which had triggered Aelora's own sobs. So Baelor held her for hours.
But that had been the past: now he withdrew his hand after thirty seconds. "Finish the lists," he said, his tone returning gently to formality. "We will review them together before dusk."
"Yes, uncle."
He turned to leave, then paused, but he didn't look back.
"Be careful, Aelora."
And then he was gone.
Aelora remained where she was, the quill poised above the parchment.
Below, the tourney grounds continued their restless preparation. Above, the wind shifted, tugging lightly at the edges of the scrolls.
Baelor had gone away minutes before, when she finally exhaled.
He had the sweetest Valyrian accent.
Aelora had always supposed Baelor was the better speaker she had ever heard: he followed the rules with absolute certainty and didn't stumble on the words, making the High Valyrian sound like a song.
She had heard other people speak it, mostly Kiera's relatives, but the Tyroshi dialect was only a pale imitation of the language of her native home.
Her uncle was impeccable in his accent, but Daeron spoke it naturally, without the stiffness that Aelora herself or the Hand could fall in, especially while reading a complicated passage.
He had learned it from his dreams, he had said. He dreamt only in High Valyrian, the language of dragons.
Aelora would lie if she said she didn't feel a little bit self-conscious when reading in front of him, a sensation that she hadn't felt in a long time: she would always be the one better equipped to converse, lacking no knowledge of languages or arguments.
They were reading Jaenara's Adventures again: Aelora had already put down her own thoughts about Sothoryos for the future Small Council meeting, so this time she wasn't interested in the descriptions the book offered.
Instead, they were focusing on the first passage, on the dragon dream that the rider had experienced and that had inspired her adventure. They had been reading it for days now, always the same passage, but to no avail.
The Valyrians practiced blood magic, had a knowledge about this sort of things now lost to them: they could interpret a vague oneiric scene and understand all the metaphors that it contained.
They were trying now to do the opposite process, starting from the outcome and trace back the kind of dream that she might have experienced. The problem was that they lacked the theological and magical knowledge that the Valyrians used for interpretation, not to mention that their only source circa dragon dreams was Daeron himself (and he seemed to see more destruction than adventures).
Daeron had already protested once she had walked in, again with the same book in her hands. But he had shut down after one reprehending look, giving up and sitting down against the pillows.
He was still abed and growing more restless each day, which showed now by the way he shifted in his bedsheets, claiming he wanted a pause. Aelora sighed but gave in to his request.
Daeron smirked once she conceded a pause, closing the book on his knees. "You should practice."
"What?"
"Practice your High Valyrian."
"I do practice."
"Then you should practice more."
Aelora shot him a look of admonishment. "Don't play with fire, cousin."
Daeron only snorted, raising his hands. "I wouldn't dare."
That stole a little smile from her, one that Daeron returned.
He looked better, less pale or tired, yet shadows still lingered beneath his eyes. But he didn't look half dead anymore.
"What do I get wrong?" she whispered after moments of silence, without tearing her eyes off of him.
The corner of his mouth raised in a small smile. He was cocky, Aelora would give him that. "It's not a matter of making grammatical mistakes, rather the pronunciation."
He opened the book again, pointing to certain words; Aelora didn't even need to read, she remembered them by memory now, after spending five days straight on them.
"Sometimes you stumble here or the pronunciation is far too quick here." he pointed some passages to her, but she was only half listening.
All her attention was on his eyes, that looked way more focused, or his rosey cheeks as he spoke, or the scent of lavender of his freshly washed hair. It filled her with a sense of relief, seeing him getting better.
"Aelora," her name on his lips brought her back to reality. "Are you listening?"
She snapped out of her disattention, blinking twice before finding her focus again. "Yeah, sorry. I got distracted."
"By my beautiful face?" Daeron joked, stealing her a chuckle.
"To be fair, I was recognising the fact that you seem to look better."
"I feel better."
"I'm happy to hear that." she smiled, looking back at him again.
Daeron's gaze remained on her for a long beat, before smirking. "You should thank Valarr."
She swallowed.
While Kiera had secluded herself in her chambers and only let Aelora in (she had other ladies as well, but she only tolerated them when she was in a good mood, which had not been the case for five long days now), Valarr had spent all his time out training or back at Red Keep, seeking out—to everyone's shock—Daeron's company.
"Really?" she asked, trying to mask her own surprise.
Daeron smirked at her tone. "We're friends." he said, but he sounded as if he wanted to add more.
Aelora looked away, trying to make sense of the sudden knot around her throat. In truth, she didn't want to acknowledge the feeling that surged within her.
Valarr.
Always Valarr.
He took everything away from her: he was a man, he was the heir, he was Baelor's legitimate son, he was Kiera's husband.
And now he was Daeron's friend.
"It is surprising," she murmured after moments of silence, raising her gaze on him again. "I did not recall the two of you being close."
"We were, many years ago," Daeron revealed, looking away with a fine smile, as if reliving those old days. "Then...I guess life happened." he added more quietly, his smile faltering for just a second.
But it was enough for Aelora to notice. Yet she resisted the impulse to reach for his hand: it wouldn't be proper and he wasn't losing his balance on reality, so there would have been no excuse for her to do so.
"We were born a few weeks apart from one another, you know," he murmured, smiling again as he looked at her. "Though I'm older."
"I know that," she offered back a little smile. "The queen always calls you her 'first sweet boy.'"
The surprise in his gaze didn't pass unnoticed. "Does she?"
Aelora nodded. "Oh yes. And you had immense privileges because of it."
"I did not!"
"First son, first grandson and first nephew. I bet you were spoiled." she continued with her teasing, not being able to hide a smirk.
Daeron chuckled at her words. "Well, not for long. Soon enough Valarr came along and he was the heir. The king probably showed him to the entire Red Keep the moment he was born."
Aelora laughed softly at that. "Yeah, I can see that happening."
She remained quiet for a moment, but for once it wasn't an embarrassing silence, like the sort that weighs on your shoulder and demands you to find something to say in order to break it. "But you were named after the king himself, so I bet you had your own leverage over dear grandfather."
"Well, I believe Father called me like that to appease him. You know, a premature boy strong enough to wail all night long was a strange sight, indeed." Daeron winked, making her sigh and shake her head. But she couldn't deny it was funny. He was funny.
"Careful, one might think you're a bastard." she giggled now at her own joke, while he smirked at her tone.
"Do not worry. Unlike Daemon Blackfyre, the chances of me starting a war are very slim." he laid back against the pillows, looking up at the ceiling. "And you're the one to talk!" he accused her with a chuckle after a moment. "You were the only girl among boys until Daella was born. You were practically reigning."
"I was not!"
"You were!" he laughed out loud, raising his head again. "Whatever you told us to do, we were at your service."
"Aelor and Aerion were never at my service."
"But I was," Daeron pointed out, raising a finger up to her face. "I always stole lemoncakes from the kitchen for you."
That made her stop in her tracks.
Daeron had been brought up in Summerhall for most of his life, a lightly fortified castle assigned to the king's youngest prince as his permanent residence. After the Blackfyre Rebellion and because of Dyanna's frequent pregnancies, Prince Maekar and his family seldomly left the castle, therefore it was them—Rhaegel's family—the ones who travelled often to spend time with his younger brother and his children.
Aelora didn't particularly like those journeys: it meant relentless hours of listening to Aelor and Aerion's teasings, Daeron's recounting of his strange dreams and Aemon's sudden bursts in tears when his older brother pinched his cheek too hard. Not even Daella, her first female cousin, could offer any real consolation: she was a cute baby to look at, but she wasn't old enough to play with her.
Summerhall wasn't exactly her favourite place to visit, but there Aelora, who had been a picky eater as a kid, had discovered her love for lemoncakes, that tasted differently from the ones she only partially enjoyed in King's Landing. Whether it had been the lemons—that grew in Summerhall and soaked in the summer sun—or some other secret ingredient that the cook put in them, Aelora had come to the point that lemoncakes had become her only source of sustainment.
Which soon enraged her mother: she understood now that she couldn't just keep going by only eating sugar-filled pies, but it still hurt when Alys had forbade her from ever consuming another one.
She had cried and stamped her feet on the ground, shouting like a disobedient child, but Alys had not given in: she never did. And her poor attempt to send her brother to retrieve one had ended in an even bigger punishment.
So at the end Aelora had given up and retreated to her room, only to find a small lemoncake on her nightstand, waiting for her after dinner. And so had occurred the night after, and the night after that.
"It was you?" she looked at Daeron with newly found surprise and...something else, something that strangely felt like affection. "You brought me lemoncakes?"
He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes unreadable, before he sighed and looked away. "Aye," he slumped back. "You were shouting so loud, not even Aerion cried as loud when he broke his leg. Bringing you a lemoncake was the only way to make you stop complaining."
She had always supposed it had been her father. Yet now she discovered she had been wrong.
"I..."
Aelora found herself at loss for words, which was surprising, considering she liked to discuss so much.
"Thank you," she murmured, unsure on what to say. "It meant a great deal for me, back in the day."
Daeron nodded, without looking back at her.
The silence that followed was a familiar one: tense with words left unsaid, words that neither of them had the courage to utter.
Aelora looked down at the book they had been reading for days, of the brave Jaenera who crossed seas atop her dragon, seeking out new adventures.
Aelora had never been brave, otherwise she would have ventured into the kitchen herself, without caring about the possibility of being found.
But, despite the vast knowledge that she had build for herself, she hadn't learned much in that regard.
That was probably why she retreated back to her own chamber, after muttering some excuse about Kiera needing her services.
Because to remain there would mean danger to fall into something she wasn't prepared to face.
The clash of swords rang loud in the courtyard, sweating knights engaging one against the other. One might have thought that the training had only incremented, what with the tourney being so close, but anyone who was acquainted with Aelor Targaryen knew that his pace in training never eased and each day he worked himself to the bone.
He was the son of a third son: his sword was everything he could count on.
Yet now he engaged his opponents even more aggressively than usual, as if he was fighting for his own life and not a simple tourney where he should prove his valor.
Aelora noticed it while observing her twin: knights, masters at arms, even Kingsguards didn't stand a chance against the rage that her brother reversed for them the moment they picked up a sword, whether it was a wooden one or made of Valyrian steel.
She was about to take a step forward, to interrupt Aelor in his relentless training, but a hand held her back.
"Princess, please step back. You might get hurt." a Kingsguard stepped up, pushing her to the side gently while the men tossed and turned on the ground.
Her brother looked to be the one in charge, but then again when wasn't he?
Aelora swallowed, standing to the side and watching the scene: when she had come to the training yard, she should have expected to find him in the midst of fighting.
But she had waited enough: they needed to talk.
She turned around, seeing various familiar faces: other members of the Kingsguard fought against masters at arms, but Aerion was making the most noises and shouted for Aelor to "show the dragon's prowess."
They had always been like that: loud, violent, egotistic. The only difference was that Aerion wouldn't discern from enemies and friends, while Aelor would only fight with grown people that could stand a chance.
That had been the case until then: now a younger boy stepped up, aged six and ten (just a year older than her and her twin), yet half Aelor's size. But despite their clear differences, that young man had been knighted before her brother, only because of his status. But he had recognised her twin's capabilities, because his first act as knight was to appoint Aelor as one.
"Cousin." he drew his sword, standing tall on the ground. He had red hair, favoured his mother's family in appearance, but had apparently gained the Targaryen's bravery, because he stepped up as the next opponent.
Aelor always used to smirk the moment he saw him joining the committee back on Dragonstone. Her brother would best everyone else on the training yard and looked out for someone he could unload his rage upon: someone strong enough to take it, if not to answer it back.
But instead that day the smirk died on his lips.
"Matarys, no." Valarr had turned, eyeing his brother with a worried glance.
Aelor turned as well, but he looked like a predator seizing his prey. Matarys didn't look scared, he didn't step back.
Aelor's blade came down again, heavy enough that Matarys had to catch it with both hands. The impact jolted through him, boots scraping against packed earth as he was driven back another step.
Her brother charged with a rage that was impossible not to notice: that wasn't a fine knight or a competent sell sword. That wasn't even a man who needed to kill, that was a man that wanted to.
Matarys's answer was a twist of his wrist, deflecting the next blow just enough to slip sideways and strike for Aelor's flank.
He was faster, everyone knew it, lighter on his feet, sharper in his angles. Under normal circumstances, that would have been enough to keep the upper hand.
These were not normal circumstances.
Targaryen madness, that's what the Maesters called it. That's what Aelora called it as well. Her father Rhaegel was mad, Aelor might have lost his wit as well, for all she knew. She had been away for so long, her brother had changed so much.
A murmur spread through the watching knights, but no one stepped in because no one quite dared.
The next strike came without warning, Matarys barely caught it. The force of it nearly knocked the blade from his hand. The red haired man was panting, clearly unable to withstand Aelor's brutal force, yet he didn't yield. Because despite his Dondarrion's appearance, Matarys was a Targaryen and had that fiery temper.
The ginger boy's expression hardened. If Aelor wanted force, then force he would have, but not blindly.
He shifted his footing, waited, while Aelor lunged. Matarys moved at the last second, letting the weight of the strike carry past him, turning sharply and bringing his own blade up toward Aelor's side.
For a heartbeat he had him. But then Aelor's hand shot out, faster than it should have been for a man his size, catching Matarys by the shoulder and wrenching him off balance. The motion broke the angle, the strike glancing uselessly aside as Aelor drove into him.
They looked like two dragons who danced together, one around the other, one against the other.
They crashed together, armor ringing loud in the silence of the training yard.
Matarys staggered, breath knocked from his chest, barely managing to keep hold of his sword as Aelor shoved him back again.
"What was that?" her brother shouted against Matarys, holding him down by the shoulder hard enough to bruise.
Someone who would have walked on them now and seen them might have believed Aelor was teaching him to fight, acting as a severe teacher.
But that wasn't a friendly match, it wasn't even a rivalry. That was a deep rage that had no explanation.
Matarys kicked the ground off his feet suddenly, his ankle trapping Aelor's leg and pushing him down suddenly, while his sword was knocked out of his hand. Her brother was strong, but her cousin was faster: he trapped Aelor beneath his body and started to punch his face with his bare hands.
That wasn't tournament practice, that looked much more like a bloody scene from a relentless battle, where either one of them was going to perish.
And yet they didn't yield.
Matarys' blows started to slow down, while he grabbed Aelor's face with both his hands and crashed his skull into the ground: once, twice, thrice.
Aelora was frozen in her place, her breath stopped: she had never seen her brother being beaten like that on the training ground. Aelor had never been bested since he was seven and the men who he challenged—masters at arms, Kingsguards—could never do him any harm: the firsts treated him as a pupil, the seconds had sworn an oath to protect him with their own lives.
She wanted to shout at Matarys to stop, but her body had stopped cooperating.
"Stop them." she caught the hand of a man beside her, her breath uneven. She wasn't able to look at his face, she just couldn't tear her eyes off that scene.
Aelor's skull would now have been teared open, if it wasn't for the helmet protecting his face. That was the reason why he soon gained back the high ground, twisting beneath their cousin's body until he could turn their bodies around, pining Matarys beneath himself.
He teared the same hulk from his head now and stared down at their cousin, his hand wrapped firmly around his throat.
It was an ugly scene to witness: both man panting, twisting, fighting with their bare hands as if they were lowly born and not royal knights. They were covered in mud and something else that clearly looked like blood, even from that distance: Aelor's nose was red like Matarys' hair and this one's leg was bent in a strange angle.
But they didn't stop. Matarys' breath was so loud that it was the only audible noise in the training yard, while his hands grabbed Aelor's throat and tried to reach for his eyes; her brother, for his own part, tried to keep his opponent pined to the ground with one hand, while his other one searched blindly for the closest sword around them.
Matarys' hand collided with her brother's face, the noise ringing in the space between them, making him turn his head and spat blood on the ground.
A flicker of something crossed Aelor's face, rage sharpened into focus. He surged forward again, but this time Matarys didn't fully turn the blow. It crashed into his guard, driving him down into the mud.
The yard erupted: voices now, shouts. But too late: Aelor had finally found what he was searching for.
He raised his blade again and...
"Enough."
The word cut through everything.
A third figure stepped in, catching Aelor's descending strike with brutal force. Steel screamed as it met steel.
Aelora teared her eyes off the scene to find Valarr standing near the two, his sword catching the blade that was about to make him brotherless.
Everything stilled around them, while Aelora finally found her breath again.
Her brother's blade remained locked against Valarr's for a heartbeat longer than necessary, then he wrenched it free.
Matarys pushed himself up from the ground, breathing hard, one arm slower to respond than the other.
"It was just practice, my prince." Aelor's gaze was fixed on the second in line to the Throne. Valarr's expression was dark, as if he was resisting the urge to fight against her twin himself. But if Matarys could stand a chance against Aelor under normal circumstances, his older brother couldn't even in that case.
His poor capacities were already known around the court, despite Valarr's own attempts to hide it. To fight against Aelor now—so full of rage that even Kingsguards barely managed to withstand—wouldn't just add fuel to the rumor, but make it burst into a giant fire.
"He's right," Matarys took a step forward, eyeing his brother. He could barely stand. "There was no need to intervene."
Valarr didn't even turn to look at him: his gaze remained on Aelor, threatening probably for the first time in his life.
"This ends now." the dark haired man ordered, with all the authority of a future king.
Aerion let out a soft, almost disappointed breath. "Pity," he murmured. "It was just getting interesting."
Valarr shot him a look, but Aerion only smiled. The yard began to breathe again, noise returning in cautious waves as the moment passed.
Aerion, despite his comment, wrapped an arm around Aelor's shoulder, pushing him back towards a corner of the training yard.
Aelor let himself be guided by their cousin, but his eyes never left Matarys, who was limping while his brother held him by the shoulder and helped him sit down on a step
Aelora had never ran faster towards her brother: Aerion was walking him inside, surely to have a Maester take a look at his bloodied nose.
Aelora moved before her mind even knew.
The corridors of the Red Keep were never meant for running.
They twisted too sharply, turned too often, opened without warning into stairwells and shadowed galleries. Yet Aelora moved through them with uncharacteristic haste, her slippers whispering against the stone as she gathered her skirts in one hand.
"Aelor!" she shouted. Despite the fact that he was hurt, him and their cousin were moving fast into the corridors of the Red Keep.
It slightly reminded her of when they were kids: Aelor used to replace her with Aerion, whenever his cousin was back at the capital or they went to visit him and his family at Summerhall.
The first years she had tried to be included in their games, running right behind them while they tried everything to get rid of her: pair her up with Daeron, tell her to go grab something in their chamber and disappearing when she returned, even ignore her purposely when she ran after them.
Soon Aelora had grown, found her interests and stopped chasing after them. Yet now she felts as if all those years had been cancelled in an instant: she was running after them, again, and they were ignoring her, again.
But she was not that little girl anymore, with her small feet that hurt after hours spent walking around the halls of the Red Keep. She chased after them now and reached them: they couldn't just quicken their pace—not with Aelor in that condition anyway.
She grabbed his wrist and turned him around: he was so weak that he didn't put a resistance.
He turned halfway, his posture rigid, as if the simple act of pausing cost him something.
Beside him, Aerion Targaryen did not bother to hide his irritation. He glanced back first, eyes flicking over Aelora with quick assessment before settling into something sharper.
"Well," Aerion drawled. "Here comes the other half."
Aelora ignored him, scanning her twin's face instead. Up close his face looked even worse. His face was swollen and his nose was surely broken, blood still flowing down his face: droplets ran from his nose down to his lips, his chin and then falling onto the ground. He had formed a trail of blood in the corridor. His knuckles were even worse, already bruising.
But his eyes—so blue like their mother's—were alight with something else, something that looked like pure rage still burning within him.
"You're hurt." she observed stupidly.
"I'll live." he dismissed her, pulling back his wrist from her hold. "I've had worst."
"We must go now, cousin." Aerion interrupted, his arm moving between her and her twin to separate them.
But Aelora didn't back down, her gaze still burning holes into her brother's eyes.
He needed to go see a Maester immediately, Aelora knew that, it was the most rational thing to do. But she couldn't let him go, not like this. Not when his eyes appeared like this.
They had always reminded her of the sea: not the stormy, grey one that crashed on Dragonstone rocking shores; but a calmer one, where the sun set after a heated day and lovers kissed languidly in the water.
But now it looked as if the sun had set for hours, waves crashing on the sand, lovers drowning beneath the water. They reminded her of the sea that night on Dragonstone, when he had ran away without notice.
Matarys had wanted to drown, that night. Valarr hadn't told her as much, but she had heard it from the fishermen who had ran out of their houses the moment they heard desperate screams.
"You should not have been there." her twin said. He didn't listen to Aerion's words either.
Aelora's fingers tightened slightly around the fabric of her skirts, since her had left her hand. "You could have been killed."
A breath of something like a laugh escaped Aerion behind him. "That would have required effort from the other side."
She shot him a look sharp enough to cut, but he only smiled wider. "Stay out of this, cousin." she said coldly.
"I'm enjoying it."
"Then do so silently."
Aerion's grin did not fade, but he inclined his head in mock concession.
Aelora turned back to her brother. "You need a Maester."
"We're already going." his tone was flat.
He turned again, as if that settled the matter. He didn't expect Aelora to step in front of him, to prevent him from leaving.
"What happened?" she insisted. She had been wanting to ask that question for so long. "You were not sparring, that was..."
"I know what it was."
"Then why..."
"Enough."
The word landed harder than it should have.
Aelora stilled, while her brother exhaled slowly, as if reining something in.
"It is done," he said, quieter now. "There is nothing to be gained from picking at it."
"I'm just trying to understand." she tried again, but her brother interrupted her: "There is nothing to understand."
Aelora searched his face, those eyes so familiar to her. Not a day had gone by where she hadn't known her brother. "You are lying." she said softly.
Aerion huffed under his breath. "Gods, she's persistent."
Aelor's jaw tightened. "You are imagining things."
"I am not."
"You are."
"You were trying to hurt him."
That left them all speechless, Aelora herself didn't know where that had come from. But now she had said it, and it wasn't as if she hadn't thought it.
Silence stretched, broken only by her twin's threatening murmur: "Are you accusing me, Ael?"
"No, I...I don't know what to think." she shook her head, looking away. That was not the brother she had been brought up with, the one who always upholds his knightly vows and doesn't let rage consume him.
"For once, you are mistaken."
Aelora raised her gaze, but he was deliberately avoiding hers now. "I have never seen you fight like that."
"You have not seen me fight often."
"I have seen enough."
Aerion stepped forward then, breaking the line between them with casual ease. "And I have seen quite enough of this conversation." His hand landed lightly on Aelor's shoulder, steering him past her. "The Maester," he added, tone turning practical in a way that did not suit him. But if Aerion could sometimes act less like a monster and actually care for someone, that was Aelor. "unless you intend to bleed across the floor for her benefit."
Her brother allowed himself to be moved this time.
Aelora turned quickly, falling into step beside them. "I am coming."
"No." Aelor said immediately.
"Yes."
"There is no need."
"There is."
He stopped again, more sharply this time, and turned to her fully. "Aelora." her name, spoken like that, usually softened her.
But it did not now; she was far too worried for him, to let him have his way. The flight from Dragonstone, his hard glances at Matarys, the betrothal to Daella, the fight: everything was piling up.
"You will not dismiss me like a servant," she said. "Not when you walk away bleeding like that, after fighting as if your life depended on it. You cannot expect me to pretend not to see it."
"I expect you to trust me."
"I expect you to be honest with me."
Something in his expression hardened. "This is quite enough, sister."
Aelor never called her sister. She was Aelora, Ael, princess most of the time. Never sister.
Aelor held Aelora's gaze for a long moment. Then, more quietly: "You do not need to involve yourself in this."
"I already am."
"You should not be."
"You do not decide that for me."
Aelor sighed, as if exhaustion—from the physical fight? the discussion?—was finally settling over him. "Go back," he said, not unkindly this time. "Please."
The word sat strangely between them.
Aelora's resolve faltered. She studied him, the set of his shoulders and the way he held himself too still. She looked at her brother, seeing for the first time those blue eyes—the ones she always gazed at since she was born—completely drained.
Sun had set forever.
"You are not fine," she whispered. "Let me..."
"No."
That hurt worse than a slap. Her twin, the person she had known even before coming into the world, was openly rejecting her now.
Aelora's lips parted, another argument ready, but something in her own heart stopped her. She had learned, through her years as Baelor's pupil, when it was pointless to argue and when to pursue one's ambitions. This was a case of the formal rather than the latter.
Aerion shifted beside them, impatience returning. "If this is concluded..."
"It is." Aelor replied.
Aelora did not move and, for a heartbeat, neither did he.
Then he stepped past her. But this time, she did not try to stop him.
She turned as they walked away, watching the distance grow between them. Aelora felt a strange sensation settling on her while she watched their figures become smaller, as if a door had been shut, not in her face, but behind him.
For the first time since she was born, she felt completely lonely.