100 AC

The structure was a daunting thing to see. Two stories tall and held together with the Valyrian black-fused stone famed the world over, it was hollow and demoralizing. With innards filled with wood and kindling and twine, doused with harsh oils and coals, it stood starkly against the slopes of the Dragonmont, a foreign feature that should not have been. And yet, it would remain on these slopes for many more years to come.

Those that surrounded the construct all wished it were meant for celebration, just as they were in Volantis, built and burned in veneration of their Red God, and festivals of all manner would happen as the fire roared.

But no. This was not a pyre of celebration. It was a final gasp of greatness, the end of an era, the last echo of arguably the greatest woman to ever walk the known world.

This was the funeral pyre of Alysanne Targaryen.

Her passing seemed felt all the realm over, and Dragonstone had never been more active. Lords and Ladies from all the Seven Kingdoms, even some reclusive Northermen and barbaric Iron Island Lords, came to the procession, but they were of little note. Of greater import were House Targaryen.

The whole of House of the Dragon was here on this day, together in their mourning yet separated in their own groupings. Prince Baelon and his son Daemon remained together, father and son keeping comfort for one another. Viserys and his wife Aemma and their young daughter Rhaenyra stood near the pair, the princesses consoling the deeply grieving prince with little success. Princess Rhaenys and her husband Corlys Velaryon, with their children Laena and Laenor too held their post, with much greater poise than the others. Even Archmaester Vaegon was there, hawkish and plain-faced as ever, accompanied by a gaggle of apprentices making notes and commentary on his behalf.

The last of them was Gael Targaryen. The Winter Princess. The youngest of the once-queen's children. The favored daughter.

The woman I was proud to call my wife.

I held Gael's shoulders harshly as a Valyrian lore master spoke the traditional last rights. Gael was beside herself, unable to accept their mother's passing, and her mind was not well. I could not fault her this, nor would I. Gael had been Alysanne's greatest comfort in the past decade, after so many of her children died so close to one another: Daella and Viserra, Alyssa and Aemon, and even sweet Maegelle in her septry, with even her grandchild Aegon taken too soon. So many children dead in such a short time, was it any wonder she kept her youngest so close?

But in keeping Gael so close, she also kept Gael isolated. During her great quarrels with her husband, when the two stubborn dragonriders would butt heads, she would abscond to Dragonstone, taking only Gael along with her. Though this action allowed Gael and I to grow close, for I had been the castellan of Dragonstone at the time, and I would be forever grateful for such, I felt forced to admit that Alysanne's coddling did greater harm to her daughter than she realized.

Gael had no friends to speak of, knowing little how to be somebody that was not a vestige of her mother's will, and was slow to speak and react and develop as a result. Many called her simple-minded, something I truly hated to hear, for it was patently false. I would admit that she was shy and meek and unsure of herself in many ways, but her mind was not addled to any degree. Gael was passionate in her pursuits, a lover of music and song and the written word, and remarkably fascinating to debate with when the subject roused her pique.

The court thought her Alysanne's toy. Being frank, Gael was more her father's daughter than most realized.

I only wished others saw what I saw.

Though, it was my vision, clear from the hearsay and doubt of court, that loosened her mother's ironclad grip of Gael enough for us to wed.

"What am I to do, Rion?" Gael croaked through teary eyes, pressing her head against my chest.

I leaned down, tucking my chin over her scalp, enveloping her in an embrace. "You live, Gael. As she would have wanted. We live, and we allow more to live through us."

In saying that, I trailed my hands down her body, resting them over the swell of her stomach. Our child was to be born within the next two moons, according to Dragonstone's newest maester, Gerardys. A light to look forward to in these dark times.

The lore master finished speaking his cadence soon after, stepping away from the tower so another could take his place. Hobbling up the stairs using Blackfyre as a cane, wearing only dark robes and a simple gold band atop his head, King Jaehaerys I Targaryen cut an odd image. He was still of able mind, his lilac eyes still piercing with intelligence, but clearly the years had taken their toll, and never before had I seen him so lost.

Vermithor, his great dragon, hulking and huge with beaten orange scales and tan wings, strode forward with his rider. As the Bronze Fury moved, so too did the rest of the dragons. Vhagar, mount of Baelon. Dreamfyre, mount of Viserys. Caraxes, mount of Daemon. Meleys, mount of Rhaenys. Even little Seasmoke and Syrax, the hatchlings of little Laenor and Rhaenyra, strode forth.

The King, though a well acknowledged orator, had few words to say. Only one, in fact.

"Dracarys!"

Fire erupted from the mouths of all the dragons. The bronze of Vermithor, the green of Vhagar, the two-toned reds of Caraxes and Meleys, the blue of Dreamfyre, the gold of Syrax and the white of Seasmoke. A conflagration of color subsumed the pyre, and Gael let out a pain-wracked sob as the gauze-wrapped body at its peak flecked into dust.

Dragonfire burns hotter than any other in the world, but it also burns faster than any other flame. The fire swept away quickly, leaving only ash in its wake. A pyromancer approached the dais with an ornate urn in tow and carefully pooled the ashes into its confines, sealing the lid shut once all of Alysanne Targaryen's remains were swept in.

We all returned to the castle after that, and watched as her urn was interred with her children and parents. As the urn was interred, the finality of the ceremony came to be, Gael and I stole towards a corner of the hall, away from the well-wishing masses. We were not the only ones to keep away from the rabble, and certainly not the most prominent. King Jaehaerys himself had left the hall entirely, Archmaester Vaegon following along. Daemon too left for parts unknown, towards another part of the castle.

It was good that we separated from the crowd, for just as a solemn feast was announced, so too did the politics of the realm creep in. Noble representatives made platitudes towards Prince Baelon all-the-while showing off their older daughters to the widowed prince. They offered practiced condolences to Princess Rhaenys and Lord Corlys in one breath as they then showed their young daughters to Laenor and their sons to Laena in another. They offered platitudes to Viserys and Aemma on a hopeful son whilst asking over Rhaenyra's need for good counsel. Braying for favor and the blood of the dragon all. Their behavior, hidden behind the triteness of decorum, was atrocious.

My face must have shown my irritation, for Gael poked my cheek, startling me. I looked down on her, at her reddened eyes and her runny nose. I pressed my thumb over the ridge of her brow and swiped away some tears before they could fall.

She hiccupped, leaning into my hand. "You must not let them bother you, Rion."

"They are vultures, the lot of them." I retorted, though I did allow myself to relax a smidge, content in this moment with my wife. Ours was not a marriage of passion, such as it was with Baelon and Alyssa or Aemon and Jocelyn, but of friendship that had blossomed into love over years of toil. Gael was my rock, and I was hers. I dreaded a future without her in my life.

Gael sighed a watery thing, patting the sleeve of my shirt with three quick taps. I removed my hand from her face, recognizing her shifted mood. A silent language we had adapted when words were not enough, or not wanted. "Mother once said that tragedy goes hand in hand with opportunity," she said. "We knew they would act in this manner, did we not? You were the one to warn me."

I scoffed. "A warning of a possibility is not the same as reality. I thought they might have some subtlety to them, at least."

An approaching throat cleared, catching my eye. Ser Ryam Redwyne of the Kingsguard advanced, stern-faced as ever. "Subtlety is a talent few courtiers possess, I'm afraid. They think they are clever, all of them, but in my many years of service I've rarely encountered many truly cunning lordlings."

Gael smiled a sweet thing his way. "Are you the subtle sort, good ser?"

"Not in the slightest," he stated. "I hold that makes me more able in my own role, princess. The King wishes to meet the pair of you in the Chamber of the Painted Table."

I furrowed my brow and frowned, looking down at my wife for guidance. The king was an odd subject between us. I preferred to avoid being in his presence whilst she reveled in the chance to be near him. But her grief was greater than mine on this day. I would defer to her will over mine own hesitancy.

She seemed content to follow Ser Ryam, and so I reluctantly removed myself from my corner. "Lead the way then, Ser."

He did, escorting us to the hall, through parapets of painted obsidian and carved Valyrian sphinxes, leading to a large room separated from the castle by rare weirwood doors. Opening those doors, we quietly took in the space. The table braziers were lit, the great map of Westeros kindling softly and showing much, whilst a roaring hearth illuminated the great portraits of Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives Rhaenys and Visenya. King Jaehaerys sat at the side of the table, along the table's caricature of the Lannisport in the Westerlands, and Vaegon stood at his side at Oldtown in the Reach, a dour look on his hawkish face.

"Gael," Jaehaerys said, his voice warm. That warmth fell away somewhat as his gaze turned my way, though still remained in a fashion. "Valerion."

I clicked my tongue at the use of my full name. Gael pinched at my arm. I shut my mouth at her action.

We spoke the customary "Your Grace" before approaching the shores of the east, taking our seats in front of the king, me at Gulltown in the Vale of Arryn and Gael at the capitol of King's Landing.

"You are my children," Jaehaerys said, waving his hand waspishly. "And we are in private. Refer to me as children should their parent."

Gael's smile opened up shyly. "Papa," she corrected. Jaehaerys beamed at her.

He directed a hopeful look my way. I rolled my eyes. "Father."

Recognizing that that was the best he would get, he started to speak. "I have not seen the pair of you since you wed near two years ago. I am glad to see Dragonstone has been kind to your growth. I wrote my letters, but I would like to begin with congratulations on your child. I pray for an easy birth and strong lungs."

"Thank you," I said, my leg bouncing. What did he want…? "Maester Gerardys says there seems little reason to worry, though I will take no chances. Maesters have been wrong before, and Gerardys is young in his role yet, with only one assistant that has never birthed a child. I've hired the services of three experienced midwives from the ports to be on hand when Gael's labors begin."

"Good," the king said. Vaegon looked positively mutinous. "Have you a name in mind?"

Gael placed her hand on my shoulder. "If it was to be a boy, Rion wished to name him Aenar, after the Exhile. For a girl, I would name her Rhaena, for your sister."

"Good names," our father rumbled.

"But that was before all… this. With your blessing, we wish to name our child after mama, papa. If it is a girl, she will be Alysanne. If it is a boy, his name will be Aelys."

His eyes turned misty. "…Let us pray for a son, then. So he might not have such a daunting legacy to live up to."

"You did not call them here to speak of their child, father." Vaegon groused. He glared over at me, pompous and vain as ever. "You have remained on Dragonstone for over five years. It is time to return to King's Landing, Valerion."

I growled at him. "I did not come here by choice, brother. I was asked to leave King's Landing last time, remember? What was the wording? For involving myself in matters outside of my concern. Because I told Viserys to wait until Aemma was more mature of body before trying for a child? A pox on that. Decency was my concern. She was eleven when they were wed, and thirteen when I protested, already having suffered a stillbirth."

"She had bled," Vaegon said shortly. "Her body was ready for children."

"Her body was capable of having children, you swot! It was not ready! The Mother is shaped with hips for birthing and the Maiden with the curves of a woman. Aemma was a child, a stick of a girl yet to come near her womanhood when she was first made pregnant."

"Princess Rhaenyra is testament to her capability!" Vaegon protested.

"And the two miscarriages and the dead babe before Rhaenyra are testament to how unprepared her body was! If-" I paused when Gael gripped my arm tight, her nails digging into my flesh. I peered over at her and softened. Her face was pleading. This was… this was not the time.

Taking a breath, I turned away from Vaegon and focused my attention on my father. "It matters not. That was merely an excuse. The true reason is clear. You could barely stand to look at me as I grew."

"That is false, Valerion." The king's rebuke was stern, though not quick enough to prove true in my ear.

"I know, father. I've known for years. I know what the court called me. Do you remember?"

He grimaced. "I do not care to bandy with the rumors of the masses."

"Maegor in miniature." I quoted with a flourish. Jaehaerys winced, and that told all the tale it needed.

Being compared to the man the realm referred to as The Cruel was not something best done in good company, but it happened anyway. Lords and ladies whispered it, maids and cooks gossiped, and even the whores would giggle and speak on it with breathy tones. Where my brothers Aemon and Baelon were strong and sturdy but of slender build, and Vaegon was thin and gaunt and hawkish, I was large and powerful, my face square and stern, and muscled well besides. From the portraits of my father's predecessor, I did indeed appear similar to Maegor.

But that was all it was. A similarity of appearance. I was nothing like that man.

If I were of a comparable nature, would I have convinced Viserys to mount the hale and hearty Dreamfyre over the dying and decrepit Balerion rather than take her for my own? When I was still without a dragon?

Would I have happily helped Daemon in the sparring yard and cheered as he was knighted and became a dragonrider in his own right rather than kill a target in my path?

Would I have tried to encourage Viserra in her upcoming marriage to the Manderly's and the opportunities she would hold to become her own person through them rather than take her for my own?

There were so many things I could have done. And even when I proved myself to be my own man and time and again showed the realm who I wished to be, Father had still been uneasy around me. He tried, of that there was no doubt, but there was always a lingering distance between us. When he was informed of my brawl with Viserys, he chose to send me away, solidifying our distance further.

That I made the best of my circumstances is irrelevant. I was tasked away from the only home I ever knew due to the way I looked, and that was not to be forgiven.

If I were being honest, I likely never would forgive such a slight.

But as I looked at Gael, eyes trailing down her belly, and thought on the future, I could not help but wonder. "Why do you even want me there, father? Things are fine, from what I know."

"Would that they were," he said, a grim look on his face. "I am old, my son. Old and weary. With your mother dead, so too has much of my strength died. I do not know how much longer I have, Valerion. Baelon will be a fine king when I die, but until that day comes, I would see you and Gael home. So that I might know peace in my final days, surrounded by my line."

"Dragonstone is my home, father." I sighed, feeling weary.

His lips pursed. "Dragonstone is the ancestral home of House Targaryen, my son. It will always be your home. But if talks of home will not rouse you, then think of the future. Your child is soon to be born and if the gods are good more will follow. Would it not be better for them to know their cousins? Rhaenyra and Laena and Laenor and any more children to be? Would isolation truly make them happy when they could build friendships with nobility? For your daughters to have their ladies and your sons to have their squires? Not everything is about you, boy. If it would bring you comfort, you need not stay in the Red Keep. A manse can be built for you and yours."

I swallowed audibly, head pounding. Words failed me. I grabbed my wife's knee. Gael spoke on my behalf. "You are rarely so giving, papa. Is there more happening?"

"…I wish to put aside any bad blood I can," he admitted with strain.

"Bad blood?" I repeated with a wheeze. "I am not your only errant offspring. Will you entreat with Saera at all?"

He looked away, shamefaced, and I knew that such an action would never happen. I was disappointed for that, but not surprised. Saera had been my favorite sibling, but her being sent away to a septry was merited. Her escape into Essos after only sealed her fate. Still, I remembered the bawdy tales she would tell, her peeling laughter, the tickle fights we would get into. I missed her.

But that was a matter for later.

Now… Now I needed to think. "May I have some time on this?"

"Of course," he allowed. "Take the day. Walk the parapets, visit your brother and nephews and nieces. But permit me one last request. I would ask you spare your wife to me for the remainder of my visit. It has… been too long, since Gael and I had time together true."

"Oh!" Gael's face lit up, turning towards me. "May I, Rion?"

I felt some tension ease as her enthusiasm. "There is no need to ask, Gael. Be with our father. I will be fine alone for a few nights, I should think."

Beaming, she kissed my cheek and stood. Father righted up with Vaegon's assistance and Gael quickly ran around the table and shooed our brother away, happily taking on the role of the king's aid. He looked on at her fondly and started to ramble a story her way as they left the chamber, Vaegon following along, always an awkward shadow.

I looked around the chamber on my lonesome, my mind awhirl. I would often do my dues in here, taking in the glory and mythos come to life that this room and the table it was named for represented. Gael and I often had our debates in here, or she would take advantage of the strong acoustics to play her instruments, whatever held her fancy, be it the harp, lute, flute or drums. Mother would sometimes join us, keeping a fond gaze as we went about with our means. The Chamber of the Painted Table was a place that represented a state of calm for me and mine.

But this was not a matter of calm. In this moment, I realized that I could not remain. I needed to do something. Father's suggestions proved fair counsel. I needed to move.

And so I did just that. I made way through the court, accepting platitudes and condolences with little interest, making towards the only thing that could distract me outside of the chamber of my wife.

Dragons.

They were near enough the pyre still. Dreamfyre and Meleys were flying high without any sort of distinction, simply enjoying the breeze. Vermithor too was in the air, though he appeared to be flying with purpose, scouting over the Dragonmont. Vhagar was curled up on a grassy knoll, the mossy-green behemoth looking like a scaled hill, keeping a bored eye on Seasmoke and Syrax, the hatchlings wrestling and releasing their energy from the day. And Caraxes remained at ease away from them all, kept placid by Daemon, stood by his dragon's side, whispering quiet things to his mount and rubbing the ridges of his jaw.

It was a peculiar scene to take in, I felt. The Daemon I knew was a vitriolic and ever-active sort that was rare to show softness. Seeing him so calm, so affectionate, even when the subject of this shift of attitude was a dragon, garnered interest.

"Daemon!" I announced, approaching. "It is good to see you again. My compliments to your fine mount. Caraxes suits you well."

"Uncle Aemon chose Caraxes," Daemon countered, an easy smile on his face. His words shifted from the common tongue to High Valyrian. "But Caraxes chose me."

The near awe in his voice warmed me. I echoed his change of tongue. "Then he too chose well."

Daemon turned away from his mount to face me. "And you, uncle? Have you found a dragon to ride yet? There are hatchlings abound, if that would suit."

"No… No dragon has garnered me. Not yet. In truth, I have not thought on it overmuch. Especially not in recent times. When the moment comes, it shall come."

"Mmm," Daemon sounded, one brow quirked up in consideration. "I will look forward to that day then. What brings you, uncle?"

"A walk. I must clear my head. Father has asked for me in the capitol, and I must consider my stances."

Daemon's eyes lit up. "You would be welcomed warmly! The blood of the dragon is stronger together."

"Ah. I do not doubt this. And yet, I am still uncertain."

"Perhaps a flight would clear your mind. It eases my moods. Would you care for one? Caraxes is more than able."

I pondered the question, looking Daemon over. In truth, the last time I had been flying had been four years prior. Mother took Gael and I up together, on a rare cloudless day. But her age and wasting had already taken a toll on her, and it was a short jaunt. She broke her hip after a poor landing on her following flight and was no longer able to claim the skies in any fashion. It was the saddest I had ever seen the Good Queen, worse even than the loss of her children.

When I quartered in King's Landing, I had many more opportunities to fly. Alyssa had been the one to take me in the air most often on Meleys, always happy for an excuse to be with her Red Queen. Before I was of age to train with the Master-at-Arms, Mother would fly with me on a weekly basis. Father took me up on Vermithor sometimes too, trying to force passed his awkwardness and build a bond between us. It never worked. Viserys offered, but I refused him, regardless of his arguments of the placidity of Dreamfyre, too disgusted by how he treated Aemma to allow myself near him in the privacy of the clouds. And Baelon and Vhagar took me for a ride just the once.

Once was enough.

Caraxes would be new. Aemon had never offered, and I rarely interacted with my eldest brother anyway. He was more interested in his wife and daughter when he lived. Them, and his duties as Master of Law besides. I could not fault him his focus.

Daemon mounted the Blood Wyrm in my exile, and though he had visited Dragonstone many a time on the back of his beast, this was the first he had offered this boon.

"I... would like that." I admitted. "If you are amenable, a quick flight might do wonders."

Grinning, Daemon beckoned me forward. Doing as bade, he held my hand out to Caraxes, letting the slender drake take in my scent. When Caraxes seemed settled, Daemon vaulted over his wing and held a hand down for me to take after tightening his straps. I gripped his wrist and hauled my body up, straddling my legs over his neck. Strapping myself down, I held Daemon by his waist.

Caraxes ran towards a cliff face before opening his wings and grazing into the air. Daemon and I both howled gleefully as the Blood Wyrm twirled high into the sky, keening between Meleys and Dreamfyre. Meleys hissed a warning thing our way and Dreamfyre trilled an easy greeting towards us. Caraxes slowed his canter to keep pace with the two, and as we toured the clouds, I felt my mind ease away from my troubled thoughts.

Daemon whistled sharply, startling me from my serenity. Caraxes dove down and I had to hold my nephew tightly for fear that the straps holding me down would fail. We righted just quick enough to spot Vermithor winging away from a vent on the northern slope of the volcano, a great gale of silver fire following after the Bronze Fury's tail.

Only one dragon had flames of that color.

Silverwing. Mother's dragon.

When she died, Silverwing had disappeared entirely. Though it had only happened some eight days ago, I worried. The castellan of Dragonstone not knowing the location of one of its dragons had the potential to be dangerous, especially with the Cannibal abound. The might of my House was centered on our bond with the dragons.

I had called for surveyors and shepherds to report her whereabouts, but none had returned with news. I knew she was nesting on the Dragonmont yet knew not where.

And now that question had been answered. I felt content in that.

Content fell to incredulity as Caraxes banked towards the vent, however.

"What are you doing!?" I hollered, slapping Daemon hard on his back. I had returned to speaking the common tongue, such was my loss of personage.

He twisted his neck around as Caraxes landed at the vent entrance; a wild, almost demented grin on overtaking face. "You have no dragon," he said, and somehow, his words sounded all the more menacing without the lyrical flow of High Valyrian. "We have happened upon a free dragon. One that knows you and has let you ride her before, whose first rider was your own mother. You are her eldest child without a mount. She is yours to make the first claim according to our traditions. It is fate, do you not think?"

I squawked in outrage. Even if I had intended to claim Silverwing, there were protections that need be in place! Securities if I failed! "You're going to get me killed!"

Ignoring my complaints, Daemon undid the straps holding him down on Caraxes and gracefully dropped to the ground. I remained in place, unwilling to go with his farce. Rolling his eyes, Daemon undid the straps of the saddle itself. I lost my balance as the Blood Wyrm shook the device from its neck and heaved out an unsteady breath as I fell to the dirt improperly.

Daemon grabbed my shoulder and hoisted me up. He grabbed my shoulders and stared into my eyes, into my soul, once more speaking our mother-tongue. "You are the blood of the dragon, Valerion Targaryen. Yours is the sky, the scale, the flame. You are three and twenty and it is now your time. Take your right, uncle. Should Silverwing refuse you, Caraxes and I will be near to keep her attention. You will not die this day."

With a quick clap of my neck, he twisted me around and pushed me forward. Swallowing, I stared into the steaming vent of stone and soot with dread pooling churning my belly. When I wanted to leave away from Dragonstone, this was not what I had intended.

I craned my neck back around, hoping for some form of reprieve, and saw none. Daemon had already remounted Caraxes without his saddle and was hovering nearby. Knowing my nephew and his mercurial moods as I did, there was nothing I could do to change his mind. I either succeeded, or I failed. But I must try.

Releasing an unsteady groan, I pulled my collar high and covered my nose with it, to better avoid inhaling sulfur, and trekked into the cave with shaky steps. It led into a wide brimmed cavern, with cruel spiked stones all at its ceiling and slag-turned glass making up its side, seeming some two hundred feet deep by my measure.

But the cave itself, while interesting, for this was the first time I'd ever approached a dragon's nest, it was not of primary note. What truly held my eye was the great dragon at its core, large and imposing, yet slender and graceful, donning silvery-white scales and honey-wine accents and wing membranes. With ivory-white horns curved in a similar manner to that of a grazing ram, Silverwing was a fearsome sight indeed.

And as she opened her eyes, colored a bright teal reminiscent of seawater on a sunny day, a growl reverberated from her muzzle when she recognized my intrusion in her domain. Silverwing hunched up from her position of rest and crawled ominously my way. Though I had ridden her many times and knew this dragon, I saw little recognition in her as she loomed over me. A familiar silver fire began to brew behind those sharp yellow knives she called teeth.

Panic overtook me. Panic and instinct both. "LYKIRI, SILVERWING!" I shouted, holding me hand out. "DOHAERAS!"

The fire dissipated in her throat dissipated with my words. Silverwing blinked for a moment, tilting her head. She looked almost like a lost puppy.

Shaking her head, fire once more started to rise from her mouth. "Dohaeras, Silverwing." I repeated, forcing my voice relaxed. Serve. The fire fell away once more as she backed away from her looming. Craning her body low, so that her skull was level to my person, Silverwing stared at me with… something, in her eyes. I could not place what she saw, but when she breathed out an easy flow of smoke from her nostrils, I recognized her behavior well enough to know she was being more accommodating.

Slowly, with great care for how I moved, I touched her snout. I trailed my hand along her scales, maintaining eye contact with her all the while. She let out another growl and I quickly spoke again. "Lykiri," I intoned. Calm. And calm she did.

With her better settled, I moved my hand over her form. From her snout to her chin, to the boney ridges of her jaw and the ever-sweltering heat of her neck, I kept my hand on her at all times, even when I was no longer able to meet her eyes, for I wanted her to know what I was doing.

"You remember me," I whispered, patting her flank. "Don't you, girl? It's Valerion. I was Alysanne's son."

As if in response to my words, Silverwing rumbled out a whining noise from her muzzle. "I know girl," I soothed, bringing my body flush against her side. "I miss her too."

Silverwing lowered her body even further, her belly scraping against the broken obsidian flooring of her nest. With one last pat against her belly, I backed away and grabbed at a protruding spike by the membrane of her wing before vaulting myself over her back. Her saddle had been long since removed, and thus there was no easy place to sit, but there were age marks where that saddle once lay, the spikes flattened over time. Though it was not easy, it would do. I scooted on them and flopped on my belly, gripping a pair of spiked frills tightly with my hands, my legs curled over two more spikes, my feet pushed down against another pair.

I breathed out, just taking a moment to accept where I was, what I was doing, what was happening. Damnit Daemon, I thought wryly. He's going to hold this over on me for the rest of my life.

It was doubtful that I would ever truly be mad at him for that.

"Soves," I breathed.

Fly.

Silverwing answered with a shrieking roar and rushed towards the mouth of her cave. Emerging in the sun once more, her wings unfurled and she pushed away from her nest, into the sky. I held on for dear life, struggling to maintain my grip as she climbed higher and higher, before she finally righted herself above the clouds, my heart beating the cadence of a war march.

As we flew the clouds, her wings cutting through them, leaving misty trails in her wake, something that I could not explain overtook me. The feeling of a key unlocking a door, wax seal being pressed onto a finished document, of a mother holding her child for the first time after an easy birth. I felt… whole. Like a piece of me was missing all this time, and only now that I had filled it did I realize what I had missed. I knew if I needed her, Silverwing would come to me. And if she ever had need of me, I would know, and I would answer, against whatever barriers the seven hells might put in my way.

I was hers and she was mine. Only death would break our pact of souls.

What did I care for the scrutiny of the court when I had Silverwing in my corner? What did the guarded looks my father gave me as a child matter when she was always with me? King Jaehaerys sat the Iron Throne and looked on at processioners as if they were children. But in the sky, on Silverwing's back, I could look down at the world and see only ants.

Nothing could compare.

We cantered a steady thing in the air for a little while longer, embracing our newly forged bond, before diving back down. Daemon and Caraxes met us quickly, my nephew whistling and clapping for me. I laughed loudly, tipping a metaphorical hat his way.

We separated soon enough, to do our own dues. Daemon and Caraxes went back to Silverwing's nest, likely to resaddle. Knowing my nephew, he would return to the skies for a while longer yet. With my dragon's saddle being kept in my mother's old apartments, I felt it safer to head back for Dragonstone.

The party of nobility had opened to the rest of the castle, and I saw men and woman and children representing various banners all around, though my attention was held more easily by Vermithor, perched on a high parapet. My father and Gael were at the Bronze Fury's wing, enjoying a private moment together. Vaegon was nowhere to be seen.

A thrill ran through me as my dragon roared and Vermithor shrieked back, my father catching sight of her. His face turned solemn at as she grew closer, and quickly twisted into surprise upon seeing me. Silverwing came down slowly, perching on the other side of the parapet, bellowing at Vermithor.

I dismounted Silverwing quickly and walked forward. She nudged her nose into my side as I came closer. I scratched at the ridge of her nostril as I remember mother used to do. My dragon crooned at the motion. Slapping her on the jaw lightly, I watched as she hunched back up to fall down the rampart, gliding away from view. Vermithor follow behind her quickly.

The hysteria of what had just happened seemed to truly hit me in that moment, and I fell to me knees. My wife shrieked and ran at me, kneeling down and putting a worried hand over my brow. Her worry went away when I started to giggle, quickly turning to joy when I pulled her down and kissed her deeply.

Time lost meaning in her arms, her lips on mine. We stopped only because our father, our king, cleared his throat. Disengaging from one another, we looked towards him. A far cry from the funeral, or even our talk in the Chamber of the Painted Table, he seemed almost at peace. Whimsical, even.

"When I told you to clear your head, this was not what I held in mind," he said, a teasing smile edging out.

I snorted, remaining on the floor. I had just ridden a dragon. Propriety could hang. "On that, our minds are alike. Daemon and I went flying, and Daemon left me at Silverwing's nest. It was either fly or walk."

He chuckled. "Such a precocious boy, Daemon is. So much like Alyssa. Ah, it matters not. My congratulations to you."

"Mm." I hummed, snaking my hands over Gael's shoulders as she tried to stand. She paused, eying me speculatively. Nodding at her, I kept my eyes on the king. "I've thought on what I will do regarding your request, father."

"And?" he queried. "What have you decided?"

"Nothing!" I told him cheerily. His easy countenance fell away into hard neutrality. "In that, it is not my decision. You say that King's Landing is where my children will grow. Then it is only fair that the woman who will bear these children make that choice."

Looking back to my wife, I took in her wide eyes and open mouth. Quickly, she took on a contemplative appearance, muttering under her breath a multitude of scenario's. After a few moments, her indecision cleared.

"We will return to King's Landing," my wife proclaimed.

Quick informational note for the relevant AU elements:

Valerion Targaryen – Born 77 AC (Currently 23), brother-husband of Gael Targaryen. Rider of Silverwing. Prefers to be called Rion. (In canon died at 1 years old)

Gael Targaryen – Born 80 AC (Currently 19), sister-wife to Valerion Targaryen. No dragon (In canon died at 18 from suicide)

Viserys Targaryen – Born 77 AC (Currently 23), husband to Aemma Arryn. Rider of Dreamfyre (In canon rode Balerion. Balerion died a year after claiming)