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Chapter 143

Dear Jaime,

It's a boy! Daenerys gave birth mere hours ago. She is, of course, tired, but healthy and resilient. The baby is as perfect as can be. He already has a mop of silver hair. Time will tell if he has violet eyes as well.

Queen Daenerys and I would like to welcome Prince Daeron Targaryen. We will hold a welcome feast in two months' time. Consider this an informal invite. I know we just saw each other at Sansa's wedding a few months prior, so I won't be expecting you.

I dearly wish we were not so far apart. I am delighted and curious to meet yours and Brienne's pride of lions or is it a gang of monkeys? Hard to say given the way you've described them. Tell me, are they still trying to get the soot off of the walls? I imagine they have to use a chisel to remove it entirely.

Your friend,

Aemon

Dear Aemon,

Congratulations! It's so gratifying to hear that your new son and Queen Daenerys are doing well. I look forward to future letters about the prince's antics. I can't be the only one with scamps running in my blood.

I still don't know how they managed to even find any soot! They smeared it on their faces like war paint before trying to paint the walls. If the Long Night doesn't kill me, Tydus and Galladon will. Cassian participated in this escapade, but I can hardly stay mad at him. He's been such a quiet and solemn boy that his mischief feels like a step in the right direction. He still had to do lines for Maester Creylen.

I must send my regrets at not being able to attend the feast. The efforts to prepare for the Long Night continue to increase, which requires a great deal of coordination and dozens of letters sent all across the kingdom. I thought being Hand involved too much parchment. We're still lacking in wool. The Westerlands and the Reach boast the largest forces, but only a third have the proper clothing for winter. If you know of any reserves, I implore you to notify me.

There is … one thing that I cannot bring myself to write to: the Alchemist Guild. The Army of the Dead are vulnerable to fire and I'm sure they mustbe vulnerable to wildfire. As much as I detest it, it would be advantageous to use every weapon at our disposal. It would involve sending a group of them north with the ingredients so that they might mix it at the Wall. If you speak to them personally, they'll hardly be able to refuse.

I received word from David that Master Mott and Gendry used a steel of higher quality and Rhaellon's breath to make a new sword. I've heard the sword is quite lovely. Are you taking it for your own? If not, I intend to send a formal inquiry to Master Mott.

Brienne and I are expecting another child! I pray to the Gods that this one is a girl. We may finally have some peace. I know girls can be troublesome as well, but they're far milder. Even Cersei never stooped to mine and Addam's antics.

Jaime

Dear Jaime,

We missed you and Lady Brienne at Prince Daeron's welcoming feast. Though I fear that if you'd come, your sons may well have reduced Casterly Rock to ashes. Perhaps they will be of use against the Army of the Dead given their penchant for destruction?

Congratulations that your family continues to grow. We're hoping for a third as well, but we like at least some time between children. I don't know how Lady Brienne manages.

We're all lacking for wool. Since young Lord Edric Baratheon has only recently started to manage the armies of the Stormlands, we've been assisting in helping him prepare for the Long Night. What spare wool we find, we split between the Crownlands and the Stormlands.

You bring up an interesting point about the wildfire. I understand your reticence, but I will present the idea to the small council and see if it meets with their approval. No doubt the Alchemist's Guild is going to want payment for their services.

I would prefer my sword to be made by the flames of Rhaegal since he and I are bonded. But since Dragonsteel does not boast the same properties of Valyrian Steel, I think it would be best in Lady Brienne's hands. I may have to commission Lord Mott for just such a sword or dagger for Prince Daeron when he reaches his majority. Still time enough to think about that.

Careful what you wish for, my friend. I think any daughter of yours is apt to command her brothers as if she were Queen Nymeria. Given your stories, I'm quite pleased that Aemma is so far a mild child. She has a tendency to run when we want to bring her in for a bath, but that is the extent of her mischief.

Your friend,

Aemon

Jaime XLIX

He chuckled to himself as he read the letter. He could always count on Aemon to be lighthearted. All the rest of the lords he communicated with twisted themselves into knots for the highest level of formality. It was enough to give him a headache. He could already feel himself going cross-eyed as he read the reports. The letters were beginning to run together at times, forcing him to go back and reread every third word. Reading had always been a struggle, but it became so much worse when he was tired and yet it was barely noon. He tried again until he got the gist of the report and then set it down. He preferred not to test his head's resilience.

Since he'd left King's Landing, his seizures had primarily fallen by the wayside. He had just the one beyond the Wall and none on the trip to Casterly Rock. However, despite no longer having to field conversations on a daily basis, he began struggling with the letters. His role as master of war was only going to grow more intense as the days shortened, heralding the coming of winter. Though his seizures were few and far between, he had noticed a slight increase. It took him six months since returning to have his first, but then after that three months, and then two. Though he loved his sons, he was forced to beat a hasty retreat if they ever started squalling.

As master of war, he was responsible for coordinating the wardens of each kingdom and assisting those who were having difficulty with getting the proper supplies. It was far more letter writing than he had ever expected and he'd had to use a myriad of threats, cajoling, bargaining, and diplomacy to navigate it. The Freys kept pleading poverty. Stevron Frey would send him especially flattering letters that leaned quite heavily on their ties through his Aunt Genna's marriage. He grudgingly consigned them a small percentage of supplies and then heard third hand from the likes of the Blackwoods and Brackens that the Freys had approached them about selling a cut of said wares. Jaime had responded by submitting a report to Lord Willas with his evidence. When he received word that Black Walder had been arrested for his crimes, Jaime had then sent a strongly worded letter to the rest of them that he would ring them all up on charges if they dared to attempt such a thing again. Lord Stevron's letter pleaded ignorance, but Jaime knew the old bastard who still ran the family had been knowledgeable.

The Westerlands was in need of wool for outfitting their soldiers. At Lord Willas and Lady Sansa's wedding, Jaime had prowled amongst the Reach lords present. At one point, Lord Florent had approached him with all of the swagger of a peacock, but he had rightly faltered at the vicious glint in Jaime's eyes. Though his bluster had been blown out of his sails, he still dared to make implications that the Tyrells were not being fair in their distribution of supplies. But Jaime had all of the numbers and was aware of the lasting grudge the Florents had ever since the Targaryens elevated the Tyrells over them. Compared to the Freys, he had been lenient, merely demanding a larger supply of their wool be made available to the Seven Kingdoms at large. Jaime had quickly purchased ten thousand pounds and then in the coming weeks had felt his headache as he sent more than half to other minor lords and landed knights. What was left barely covered a fraction of the Lannister army. It wasn't enough, not nearly enough. He could buy bits of wool roving here and there, but he hated the idea of piecemealing it.

As a result of the predicament he found the Westerlands in, he beseeched his brother for any leads. His brother mentioned that Aemon was stockpiling wool as well and he wasn't soon to reveal their source given that their stores were even lower than the Westerlands.

You may as well buy a herd and tend to them yourself for all that you could buy, Tyrion had written.

At first, Jaime had snorted at the very idea. But as he was overlooking the reports of trade and mining, the idea kept niggling at him like a pest. While the veins in Casterly Rock were nowhere near depleted, he found it disconcerting how much of the ore they dug up was the main item of trade. There was some fishing, a little lumber, and a myriad of other tiny drops in the ocean of gold, but the bulk of it was ore. Should the veins in Casterly Rock ever dry up, the Westerlands would eventually become the most destitute of the Seven Kingdoms.

I will not suffer my children, grandchildren, or any of my successors to concern themselves with fostering new industries as the old one is waning, he thought. Perhaps there was something to Tyrion's suggestion. Best to start now when coin is hardly a concern.

So he took his concerns to Maester Creylen. The withered old maester actually managed to appear pleasantly surprised beneath his brow. Though his mind was there, Creylen had slowed considerably with age. Nonetheless, he'd been maester of Casterly Rock for some forty years. Though it sparked a long-winded lecture that nearly bore Jaime to tears, Jaime learned some interesting things about not just the Westerland's trade but the Seven Kingdoms.

"Truly, my lord, I think this is a worthy endeavor. The Reach and the Riverlands may be fertile, but much of their land is to be farmland. The pastures for grazers will be few and far between. The Vale has a few fields also dedicated to growing, but still mostly forest that gives away to the mountains and the craggy coastline. The Crownlands are the next best region for grazing. While they do have sheep, they boast far larger herds of cows and goats with some sheep. The Stormlands are mostly farmland, though not quite as large as those in the Reach. Some herding animals, but not a huge concentration. They farm the sea almost as much as the land. The North do tend sheep. They also have a much sturdier cow called a yak that is better suited for the insistent bitter cold. The point that I'm trying to make, my lord, is that while sheep do abound, it's only in mere pockets. Not large concentrations. If you built up herds to the same degree that the Lannisters collected gold, you will be the largest provider of wool in the Westerlands within a decade," he said, with a wizened smile.

Jaime blinked in surprise. "You really think so?"

"Yes, my lord, though much of the Westerlands is rocky, many of the hills less suitable for farming are good for grazing," the maester replied.

Jaime nodded to himself. He turned away, throwing a "thank you" behind him as he left. He was deep in thought mulling over his options when something ran headlong into him and fell to the floor. "Whoa! Tydus, what have we said about running in the hallway?"

His son grinned sheepishly at him, his eyes as clear and blue as the sapphire seas around Tarth. His hair looked like a mess of straw, sticking out in every direction. "Sorry, papa, we play hide-n-capture! Cass' coming!" In the next instant he was back on his feet and had darted around him.

"What have we told you about hide-n-capture?!" Jaime shouted.

"No kitchen, no storage, no armory, no serveses quarts."

"Servants quarters. Good boy," Jaime cried. "And remember, you're to come out for dinner!"

He heard an answering cry as the boy darted around the corner, but he couldn't make out the words. Jaime sighed and shook his head. I was hardly that mad as a child. My father would have tanned my hide for the shenanigans we allow them to get up to, he thought, but it was with a fond smirk. He was deliberately not as strict as his father would have had him. Truthfully, though, hide-n-capture was the safest game that kept the boys out of harm's way. No brawls, no ill-favored attempts to ride in barrels down the storage stairs, and little chance of them ending up underfoot as they tucked themselves away.

Jaime remembered one incident where Tydus had hit his head when he'd fallen out of the barrel. Jaime's heart had fallen into his stomach. Brienne had swept by him and picked him up, cradling him like a baby and hauled him off to the maester, with Jaime and Cassian trailing behind. The story for it was a familiar one: it was Tydus' idea, Cassian tried to talk him out of it, Tydus went and did it anyway, and Cass had supervised, running to get them as soon as Tydus' wails began echoing down the hall.

The boys were going to be the death of him.

Jaime had nearly reached his solar, when Cassian turned the corner. "Hi, papa," he said, giving him a wave and a courteous smile. It had been less apparent when he was a toddler, but now that he was six, he was slowly growing into Jaime's miniature double. He had the same eyes, the same smile. All except for Jaime's own boisterous disposition. He was still far quieter and more serious than he should be for his age, but he had improved by leaps and bounds and had eventually become a happy child.

"Let me know if Tydus picks a bad hiding spot."

Jaime and Brienne had been forced to hire no less than three nursemaids to make sure the children were minded. The nursemaids would be hunting for Tydus right along with Cassian. But it kept the castle quiet for a time, so Jaime and Brienne allowed the games of hide-n-capture to continue.

"Yes, papa."

"Is Galladon with the nurse maid?" Galladon was no less impish than his older brother, despite only being a little less than two. Though he was still a bit young, he seemed to be all Lannister whereas Tydus was mostly Tarth. He'd joked that perhaps the two boys should switch inheritances. Brienne had only rolled her eyes.

"Mm-hmm."

"That's a good lad. Have you seen Lady Brienne?"

"She's sleepy. Said she was takin' a nap."

"Thanks, son, run along now."

With that Cass turned to skip down the hall.

Jaime twisted his mouth in disapproval, but he bit his tongue. Any time Cass had outbursts of activity was a good thing and he feared stifling it any more than it had been. He ducked into his solar and quickly penned a rather haphazard letter to his brother about his idea of cultivating sheep. He walked it back to the maester and headed straight for their bedroom.

Just as Cass had said, Brienne was stretched across their bed. He carefully sat on his half of the bed, causing Brienne's eyes to flutter.

"This is the last one. No more children after this," Brienne said with a hard edge to her voice.

Jaime chuckled.

She said the same thing almost once a week. Her other pregnancies had come with the typical aches, pains, and vomiting. This pregnancy, however, was a little bit different, mostly because it seemed to entirely drain her of energy. Though she was barely four months, she'd been forced to retire to bed early and often. Her previous pregnancies had barely shown with little more than a rounding. But this one had already started protruding; the maester predicted twins.

Jaime had simultaneously felt a leap of his heart and a twisting in his stomach at the news. What if they're like me and Cersei? How would he keep his own twins separate? Though he and Cersei had long been driven apart even before her death, Jaime still thought fondly of their childhood. He remembered the fun, the games, the discovering of each other's bodies. It had seemed such innocent fun. Even when their mother had placed them on opposite ends of the castle, still within reach, it had torn at Jaime's very being. How was he supposed to live without whom he believed to be his soul mate? The bond between twins was often very deep. Would he have the gumption to do to them what his mother had?

"I certainly never expected you to have twins," Jaime said to Brienne. "I'll make sure we have whole stockpiles of that tea."

"I will drink it every morning after this if I have to," Brienne grumbled to herself.

He kicked off his boots and sidled up to her, throwing an arm over her. "It won't be much longer now. Then you'll have a year or two to get back into fighting shape for the Long Night."

She eyed him archly.

Despite his promise that she would accompany him to the North, she seemed to have her reservations. Jaime did balk at the idea that he would leave his children without parents, but he refused to deny Brienne her own opportunity to protect their family. He and Brienne had talked about the idea of inviting a new maester before Maester Creylen passed so that the new one would have enough time to become familiar with the family.

"How go the preparations for the Long Night?"

Jaime made a noise of disgust.

"That's hardly comforting."

"I can say that Westeros is taking the threat seriously. It would've been better if we'd had more than five years to prepare. I can't find enough wool for the army. So few want to part with that which their own armies need. The Lannister army was already one of the best outfitted but even my father would never have anticipated fighting in a winter as severe as the one that is to come. The mining for Dragonglass has gone well. After that initial shipment to the Wall, Aemon is keeping the rest in King's Landing and has commissioned multiple forges to work on Dragonglass knives. I've put in an order for ten thousand, but I think we'll be extremely fortunate if we get even that."

Brienne sighed. "That's hardly enough to outfit our soldiers."

"Yes, but it's better than the pittance we had before," Jaime grumbled. "It'll have to do."

"How confident are you that we'll win?" she asked.

"We're in a vastly better position now than then. It will not be easy, but it should be easier by far. There are bound to be surprises, but I'm confident we'll be able to weather the Night King. The goal is to keep him behind the Wall after all."

"Good. Any more news of this other threat? The Blackfyre?"

"None, I fear. Where he's gone, news is exceptionally slow and most are too fearful to get close enough to enter Asshai. We are blind to his inner movements, but our sources insist he is still in the city," Jaime replied.

Brienne snorted. "A Blackfyre. Of the things for history to repeat, I thought we'd seen the last of them …."

"It seems Maelys littered the countryside with plenty of his bastards. I doubt this one is any more legitimate than any one of those; he just has the coloring, if the rumors are true," Jaime grumbled.

"I'm confident he'll fold underneath the might of the Seven Kingdoms," Brienne said, her eyes shining with her faith in him.

Jaime puffed his chest up. "The Gods willing, it will be enough."

He was surprised when he received a letter from Tyrion barely two weeks thence.

Dear brother,

What you have outlined does, indeed, sound like a worthy endeavor, though I chuckle at the thought of the great lions herding sheep. Must I send David and his lot out to you then?

Jaime rolled his eyes at the joke and continued reading.

I may jest, but your concerns about our family's continued prosperity are noteworthy. However, I have an idea of my own brewing that would be an equally if not better use of Lannister money. I think it's high time a bank was established on this side of the Narrow Sea. Why should Westeros rely on the likes of the Iron Bank in Essos for loans when there is more than enough wealth here? They increased the interest rate once more, narrowing our funds. While the kingdom—and by extension you—are doing an admirable job of preparing for the Long Night, I can't help but wonder what leaps and bounds we might have been if not for our reliance on them.

If you agree, let me know. While I have every confidence in you and Maester Creylen that you could manage such an endeavor, the small council will want to approve. I will make the proposal to the king and I will let you know what has been decided.

You need not work on this alone,

Tyrion, Hand of the King

Jaime balked. While he was very conscientious of Lannister funds and its budget, he could hardly imagine managing more than one account. Numbers were already difficult for him and this suggestion by Tyrion would make it worse. He conceded, though, that Tyrion had a point about the Iron Bank. While House Lannister had never had the need for loans, they were still all too familiar by their association with the crown. Jaime had a feeling that the Iron Bank was a thorn in his father's side that he'd wished they could be rid of. It surprised him that his father hadn't thought of establishing a bank of his own.

He went searching for Maester Creylen, but decided to take a detour through the training grounds where he found Brienne still putting Podrick through his paces.

"Did the Freys try to sell supplies behind your back again?" she asked.

He chuckled. "If only. I would rain Seven Hells down on them. No, Tyrion suggested we start a bank."

She raised her eyebrows at the news. "Challenge the Iron Bank?"

"That is one way of putting it," he mumbled. "I see the merits, but the prospect unnerves me more than excites me. This sort of management is not my strength."

"Your herding sheep idea is far less risky," she said.

"I agree and Tyrion agrees on that one. He thinks we should pursue both."

"Hmm…" Brienne said, she stared off into the distance, clearly thinking. "It may be a good project for after the Long Night. You should have plenty of time then to work on it."

Jaime grimaced. "I have half a mind to demand Tyrion resign from his position as Hand to lead this. He was always the smart one."

"Admitting weakness?" Brienne tried to contain her mirth. "Never thought I'd see the day."

"I know where my strengths lie and it's not with this," he replied with a scowl.

Her smile became gentle. "I'm sure your brother would do well managing a bank if he agrees. If he doesn't agree, I'm sure you can find someone else. After all, you don't sew your own clothes; you don't need to do this by yourself."

"That's different. This is about money! Petyr Baelish was said to be a genius with money and he was rotten to the core. To hire the wrong person might be crippling." And end violently, Jaime thought grimly.

"All the more reason to pursue the shepherding of sheep as well then," Brienne said.

Jaime frowned. "I will write to Tyrion my tentative agreement, but my stipulation is that he must take the lead."

"Is that all you needed me for?" Brienne asked with some amusement.

He tilted his head and his smile became longing. He wanted a battle, but with Brienne as far into her pregnancy as she was, it was far too risky. He was eager to see her back in the ring. "How is Pod handling his paces?"

"He's rote. A good battle will jar him out of his habits," Brienne commented wryly.

Jaime smirked as he searched for a lathe. Podrick looked paler than normal as Jaime settled into a fighting stance opposite him. "We can't have that. Come now, Pod. Show me what you've got."

Daenerys XIV

She mounted her horse and was pleased there was only slight discomfort on her saddle. Though Daeron was a perfect baby, labor had been somehow harder than with his sister. She'd been much sorer for longer than she would've preferred. The grand maester had insisted that she do nothing more strenuous than taking a walk in the garden after nearly two weeks of bed rest. It felt good to be able to return to her horse once more.

Aemon had been most helpful, bringing both Daeron and Aemma to her when she asked every time. In the early days after the birth, he sat at her bedside and read an array of books to her, whichever piqued her interest at the time. She'd become exhausted from her endless search into Targaryen history, so Aemon had read her a book of folktales. Though it included an ancestor, she particularly enjoyed the tales of Dunk and Egg. It was a wondrous surprise that the crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms would've been allowed to roam free as a squire to a great knight, but the notion had certain appeal. Maybe if she had another son, she could promise Daeron just such a journey. But as the sole male heir, she was going to be hard-pressed to get Aemon to agree. He was overly protective of their children.

Perhaps this instinct has something to do with the Long Night, she mused.

It had taken her some time after Aemma's birth to forgive Aemon for not telling her sooner. She begrudgingly admitted to herself that if he'd tried to tell her his story before their marriage, she would have likely dismissed it for lunacy and refused the marriage in the end. It hadn't been fair for him to keep that from her, but she could no longer imagine a life without him and she didn't want to. As far as she was concerned, their children were the most wonderful in the entire world. Daenerys loved Aemma's dark curly locks. Perhaps it was just the hair, but she thought she already saw so much of Aemon in her. Her eyes were bright and kind, something that she had attributed to him. Daeron was only a few months old, but he was an especially happy babe, not given often to crying. In his early days, he stared wondrously at both her and Aemon, even when the wetnurse had a hold of him. As soon as he was able, his wondrous stares turned to smiles and he burbled happily in their presence. When she held him, Daenerys couldn't keep herself from stroking his silver hair lovingly.

It had taken a couple of weeks to forgive Aemon for withholding his story, but it had taken longer for her to actually speak the words to him. After the birth, she'd felt an overwhelming love for Aemma and her heart had been keen to move past the lies, but her head resisted. When she'd asked her maids about it, they assured her that her brain was fogged from birth and that she would need time for her head to clear. She gave it until she was certain her love was once more greater than her anger. One day she'd woken up and her anger was no longer there.

While his story had altered her view of him—as well as herself, given what he'd described—it changed very little of the present. By all accounts, his previous life could be discounted as a mere bad dream. Nothing of what happened previously had come to pass.

For that, Daenerys was thankful. Aemon had still been her lover; they were betrothed to marry, but waited until they had combatted the Long Night, only she hadn't lived to see the end. There had been no possibility for Aemma or Daeron. She would not give or trade her children for anything, especially not for missed chances to rule in her own right.

"Are you certain about this?" Aemon asked her for the countless time.

"If you ask me that question one more time, you will resign yourself without my company tonight," Dany replied, but there was little heat to her voice. Just as well, she felt for the horn that was hanging from a cord, wrapped across her like a sash.

Aemon grunted in acknowledgment and remained quiet for the rest of the journey to the Dragonpit.

In the lead up to Prince Daeron's birth, she and Aemon had spoken extensively about the dragons. They consulted the dog masters and the horse masters for extensive knowledge of training methods. By all accounts, most of them had emphasized positive reinforcement. Unless they were training for aggressiveness, striking an animal was ill-suited in inspiring obedience. It was something of a relief to hear that, since neither she nor Aemon had any idea how they'd even try to strike their dragons for misbehavior. They were more apt to be burnt alive, so it was with some relief that they learned that it may still be possible to train them.

Food was the best motivator, though Daenerys thought Rhaellon responded better to affection and touch. She was hardly as aggressive as her brothers, but she and Drogon had gotten into a major fight. She'd been early in her pregnancy when the terrifying roars could be heard from afar. She'd rushed to saddle her horse, but Aemon had hurried after her and would not budge from her path. After the roaring was done, Aemon had promised he'd find out what happened, saddled up with his kingsguard, and rode off.

When he'd returned, he reported that Drogon was gone and Rhaellon was nursing her wounds, in particular a deep claw mark on her neck. Aemon had dared to approach her, but at her low belly growl, he'd relented. The servants who fed the dragons had hidden in the lower tunnels of the Dragonpit and reported that Drogon had picked a fight with Rhaellon over a particularly large boar. After a brief scrap, he'd claimed it for his own and had flown off with his prize.

That fight was what decided them that they couldn't wait any longer on training. They'd left the dragons to their own devices for far too long. Even as intelligent as they were, they were still young and needed guidance. They also needed to know to heed their riders, even if they weren't quite big enough.

Given that she was pregnant, Aemon had done most of the training, though she had managed to talk him into having her in attendance.

"Training them would hardly do much good if they don't respect me because I did not put in the effort," she'd shouted at him.

He'd grudgingly conceded the point. She'd even managed to convince him to allow her to do some training, calling out commands to Drogon, and then throwing him boar flank when he'd followed through. Drogon was willful, by far, but he was not quite as dangerous as she'd feared from Aemon's report of the confrontation with the Ironborn. Drogon had looked at her with a marked obstinance, as though deciding if he cared to heed her words, but at no point had she felt in fear for her life. He'd initially been slow, but she had stood firm and fearless in front of him until he followed through. After that first reward, he'd more readily listened to her.

It was only then that Aemon felt he could relax and turned to focus his efforts on training Rhaegal. The younger dragon was far more like a dog, eager to please for the time being. He was stubborn in his own way. He'd snapped playfully on occasion, daring to allow his attention to stray. But Aemon took a leaf out of her book and stood firm until Rhaegal had assented.

Rhaellon, compared to the other two, had needed some brow scratches before she'd felt motivated to follow the same commands.

After that first day, she and Aemon had vowed to go twice a week to train the dragons. The days weren't always that easy. Though Drogon never snapped at her, he often grew tired of her commands and would take to the air to leave her behind. If all went well, those times would become fewer and further between.

Daenerys glanced back at the wagon they were pulling through the city and swallowed nervously. Despite seeing Drogon's continual growth, it still stunned her that he was now twice the size of a horse. His shoulders were considerably broader and his chest had rounded out like the sides of a barrel. He was robust and insatiable. Important traits to have when the Blackfyre eventually landed on their shores.

It unnerved her that little more than a whisper had been heard about the Blackfyre since he'd turned east and settled in Asshai. David's efforts to uncover news were met with frustration. The mercenary companies were deft at rooting out spies, so it wasn't long before David's newly tapped information sources went dark. At the least, they knew where he was and their eyes trained on Asshai would let them know the moment he struck out west.

Her temper flared at the thought of the Blackfyre. Like a lion taking over a new pride, he threatened Aemma and Daeron. Their deaths were all but assured if he somehow got his hands on them. Bile rose in her throat and tears pricked her eyes at the very notion. She would use her bare hands to rip him to shreds if that's what it took to save their children. She would make sure he had to kill her before she would ever consent to another marriage.

"Are you well?" Aemon asked.

She snapped her eyes to him and let out a sigh. She nodded, giving him a smile.

"You're better with the dragons than I am. I'm sure you'll be fine," he said, reaching out to pat her hand consolingly.

Her mouth quirked into a smile. "You sell yourself short. Rhaegal loves you."

He rolled his eyes. "And he loves you too. Neither Drogon nor Rhaellon seem to have much love for me. I'm not convinced that they simply don't have an affinity for women," he replied dryly, winking at her.

She laughed.

In their private talks about the dragon's behavior, Aemon often called her dragon whisperer. She seemed to know when they were in a mood to listen and when they weren't—though they often had to persevere over their willfulness. Daenreys had been the one to suggest that perhaps food was not the only motivator, but affection as well. Drogon did not submit himself to have his brow scratched in the same way Rhaellon did, but he still occasionally deigned to drop his head within her reach.

She hoped that this apparent skill served her well today.

When they entered the Dragonpit, only Rhaellon was there to greet them. Her long neck snaked out of the den and she grumbled a greeting, low in her throat. Stretching like a cat, she lumbered her way out.

"Rhaellon, my darling," Daenerys said, walking up to her to offer her scratches on her brow. "Any particular reason you're here and not hunting?" The dragon had been more sedentary since Euron had brought the Dragonbinder. While the effect it had on Rhaellon appeared to have faded, she seemed either less confident or simply lazy in her activities. Given her need for reassurance and affection, Daenerys was leaning toward the former. She wasn't sure what needed to be done to give her daughter confidence once more, but she hoped it would happen eventually.

"Bring me the saddle before I call Drogon," Daenerys called out.

Servants gave deep nods and reached into the wagon for the saddle. The size of the saddle itself was hardly larger than a horse's saddle, however, the belts needed to fit around Drogon's deep chest were considerably thicker and lengthier. The servants laid these items out, keeping a fair distance from the dragon. Aemon took two trips to bring them the full way.

"Would you like some help?" he asked.

"I would," Daenerys replied, giving Aemon a warm smile.

He held up the saddle and she looped the belts through the buckles, splaying them out. Given her petite frame, she was grateful that there was at least one person who was not so frightened of the dragons so that he might help her actually put it around Drogon. She imagined her own bloodriders and the kingsguard would have been willing were Aemon not present, but they gave the dragons an equally wide berth as the servants. Were the dragons to rampage, there would be hardly any stopping them. The weapons of the kingsguard were apt to feel like little more than needle pricks against their tough hide.

Once Daenerys felt she was ready, she took the horn at her waist and blew into it, producing a mellow call that sounded through the sky. She waited for a moment and then blew again. This time, she heard Drogon's answering cry and could hear his wing beats as he came in. Aemon had tried to teach her to whistle, but she couldn't seem to manage it with the same amount of shrill power that he managed. In the end, they thought it would be prudent to get Drogon accustomed to the sound of a horn instead. He was as reluctant to answer it as heed her commands at first, but he learned the sound of its call quickly.

He swooped in and produced a bellow similar to a lion's. He also leaned in for a scratch across his brow, which she provided happily.

"Drogon, there are times when I will need to ride you," she explained as she scraped her nails along the grooves of his scales. "When that happens, comfort and safety will be important. Aemon and I are going to put this saddle on you and see how it works."

He made a deep groan in answer.

Given that it lacked the aggressiveness of a growl, she took it for assent.

Drogon curled up like a cat, keeping his head up. She and Aemon picked up the saddle and walked around where she could clamber on his backside. She had to actively keep from hissing at the heat coming off of his scales. Yes, a saddle will be most useful, she thought.

She felt clumsy as they both fumbled about. The straps were fashioned like a leather belt buckle. It was long enough to make it around the girth of his neck, but it left only two holes to allow for growth. They would need to put in an order for even longer straps.

Once the saddle was in place, Daenerys took her seat and smiled, peering over everyone. She felt powerful, as if she could conquer the world. She was just about ready to give Drogon the command, when Aemon waved at her and pointed toward the horn.

"Clip in?" he said. Though he smiled, she could see his nerves.

Daenerys rolled her eyes. Among the precautions for riding, Aemon insisted that they should tie themselves to their saddles. She'd eyed him in the small council and when she pressed about it later, he confessed it had to do with her manner of death in the other life.

Once she was tied to the saddle, she leaned back to feel the tug of the leather keeping her secure. Aemon fell back to stand with the kingsguard.

"Soves," Daenerys commanded.

Drogon shifted to his feet, coiled up, and leapt into the sky. Daenerys felt the air part around them as he climbed higher and higher. She looked back towards the ground in awe, already so high in the air that she could not tell the face of one person from another. The Dragonpit quickly fell behind them and was replaced by the rooftops of King's Landing. They were headed towards the Red Keep up on the hill, but Drogon tilted and turned so close to the wall that she thought she might be able to see someone going about their day if she looked hard enough.

In mere minutes, they'd passed over King's Landing and all that lay ahead of her were the dark waters of Blackwater Bay. She threw back her head and laughed in excitement, feeling like a little girl who had her wishes come true. At first, she allowed Drogon to go where he pleased, but now she wanted to do her own steering. She placed her hands on two of the protrusions on his back and leaned left. He leaned with her. She did it to the other side and he followed her lead, much to her surprise. When she leaned back, he turned his nose up towards the sky, however, he quickly turned away from that route as he circled the Bay for his usual prey.

Of course, she thought with a sigh, but she was still giddy with excitement. She was flying; they were flying! For the first time in over a hundred years, a Targaryen takes to the air once more, she thought. Drogon swooped down and pulled up a fish. With that, she leaned over to guide him back toward the Dragonpit.

If the Blackfyre dares to invade these shores, I will ensure dragonfire is the last thing he sees, she vowed.