Chapter 11: Courtly Favors

Feeling the gentle bobbing of the carrack as it sailed through a rather calm morning upon Blackwater Bay, Queen Visenya Targaryen laid upon the bed and reflected on the man she had spent her life with almost from the cradle - the year spent before his birth either one of freedom or one of loneliness and lack of purpose depending on whether she held ire at him. All in all, such a lifetime brought her heart nothing but warmth.

Aegon I Targaryen, King of Westeros and rider of the Black Dread. A name that filled the world with a sense of awe and fear - both oft intertwined and deriving from the same source. Fierce and infamous herself, Visenya both understood the fire and blood her husband possessed and found quite a reservoir of affection and… frankly lust at such a personality.

Only a dragon can truly love another dragon. Their daughter was proving that direwolves, magic themselves, were part of such a statement but Visenya always considered that the exception that proved the rule.

Given such power, such might and terror that the mere name of Aegon I Targaryen elicited from the Wall to distant Astapor, it made the scene before Visenya all the more amusing. "Can you believe this?!" the King raged, though less from anger and more from despair.

"Believe what, dear brother?" Visenya teased, unable to resist stoking the flames.

Planted in front of her vanity, Aegon stared into the looking glass with the biggest wince. "You see this?!" He tugged on a tiny clump of hair. "This is white. Not silver, white!" A quick darting in to comb a loose strand of hair led to nearly half an hour in front of the thing, despairing about his 'greying hair.'

"Oh it's not white, you idiot." Fighting a giggle the whole time, she eased herself off the bed and walked to embrace him from behind. "You still have a full mane of silver hair to go with your health."

"What health, Vis? I'm falling apart." Aegon groaned, covering his head with his hands. "Raven's feet on my eyes, a damned creak in my back and hips whenever I ride Balerion." That unfortunate fact had led to a week's moping - not brooding as he normally did, but actual moping - about Dragonstone drove Visenya and the dragons insane. "And now I'm going white. Face it, Vis, I'm a fucking old man." Even saying it seemed to bring him physical pain.

Sighing, Visenya hugged him harder. She'd be lying if the attitude of his was completely silly. Each twinge or slowdown of her reaction time while sparring or riding Vhagar struck a nerve within her, but she admitted to considering it with more of a level head. "Husband, you need to give yourself a break. We've been rulers for thirty-five years. One and six namedays upon the earth, four and four of those spent as my beloved husband." She nuzzled his neck, feeling the still powerful sinew and muscle of her brother and husband.

Aegon snorted. "Has it really been four and four namedays?" It amazed him. "Sometimes it's just yore that I married you… and others it feels like a lifetime."

"Do you regret it?" Visenya asked, half teasingly. The time where she'd seriously ask that question was long past.

And his answer was always the same. "Not a single second of it." Tilting his head, their lips met sweetly.

Visenya rested their foreheads together after the kiss. "You've lived a full life, Egg. There isn't a reason you shouldn't take easy some of the time rather than chasing your martial youth as Argilac Durrandon did."

"You have a point there," he acceded.

She smirked. "That shocks you?" Before he could respond, Visenya resumed the kiss. Even at one and six, Egg was still the handsomest man alive - objectively too, not just in her eyes. Some men aged horribly. Not her Egg.

As heated as it got, they reluctantly pulled apart. "Oh of the times where that would lead to something," Aegon sighed, smiling.

"Last night wasn't enough for you, lecher?" Visenya shot back, winking. Theirs was still active to the envy of Court. "Besides, there is much to do."

"Had we ridden dragons to the capitol, those things would've been done."

"We'd have just needed to wait for our entourage so there's no difference." Hugging him once more, she made for the door to their cabin. "I trust there won't be any further breakdowns by yourself?"

He rolled his eyes. "I shan't be long. Go check on our granddaughter." Visenya blew him a kiss and slipped out the door…

Only to nearly stumble as she ran into her Lady in Waiting. "Oh," the young girl exclaimed, stumbling back but recovering herself. "Forgive me, your Grace. Allow me to help…"

Visenya merely chuckled, smoothing down the pleats of her red-lined black dress. "I am not an invalid, Tyanna. No need to fuss too much over me. Are you alright?"

Tyanna of Pentos nodded, nevertheless helping to straighten out the Queen's outfit. "I am fine, your Grace. Princess Rhaena merely asked for me to check up on you and his Grace."

"Both of us are fine, and I was going to see her anyways."

The girl was older than Rhaena by about three years, in Visenya's company for two ever since a royal visit to Pentos over trade agreements. Likely the unacknowledged bastard daughter of one of the magistrars of the city, she was found in the highest of circles when catching Visenya's eye. A little digging and one look into Tyanna's Valyrian lavender eyes and the request from the Pentoshi council was granted. Visneya didn't regret the decision one bit, for Tyanna proved invaluable to her over the years.

As she did for Rhaena, surprisingly enough. "She is on the main deck… practicing her swordsplay."

Either swordsplay or dragonriding. Visenya knew her granddaughter. "Time as any to see her."

Aside from those darting about on their duties, the sailors aboard the Dragonfire all milled together, watching the drama unfold. They parted ways for the Queen, who herself crossed her arms and watched with a smirk. "How long have they been at it?"

Lord Commander Corlys Velaryon, resplendent in his plate armor but forgoing a helm and keeping his own silver mane on full display, shrugged. "Bout ten minutes, give or take. She's most certainly your blood, your Grace."

Visenya nodded, seeing Rhaena dodge a blow from her sparring partner - Ser Raymont Baratheon, knight of the Kingsguard and the nephew of the Queen. Built like an ox, much like his father, Raymont didn't hold the same clever streak of his mother Argella even as he took after her in coloring. He was unimaginative, but brave and gallant, a worthy opponent. Hefting his dulled greatsword, Raymont lunged at the Princess…

Only for Rhaena to jerk back with dexterity, spinning her own sparring longsword and slashing at Raymont's legs. She missed as he himself retreated, but the move blunted his momentum. She's learning.

Seeing her covered in sweat, Visenya interrupted before someone truly tired out or was hurt. "Enough, go back to your duties," she called out. The sailors and servants scrambled away. No one refused to heed an order from Visenya Targaryen. Looking at Rhaena, she shook her head. "It was foolish, actually fighting with a sworn brother of the Kingsguard."

Her granddaughter glowered. "I had it under control."

Visenya shook her head. "You remind me of me when I was your age. Reckless and with something to prove… you don't need to prove anything, Rhaena. By the gods, you are already a force to be reckoned with. Allow it to build slowly and naturally."

The glower subsided. "Alright, grandmother."

A smile curved on Visenya's lips. "That was your instructor. As your grandmother, you were amazing." The glow in her sweat-drenched, exhausted expression rivaled the sun in brightness.

Four and ten, anyone that remembered the Princess Rhaena Targaryen of six years prior wouldn't have recognized her. Gone was the shy, scared wisp of a girl. Years of training under Visenya and fostering at Dragonstone once the crumbling Aegonfort grew too dilapidated for the King to live there anymore had transformed her. In her place was a young woman slender yet toned, delicate in beauty but strong of body and mind, friendly and fierce. A perfect blend of both Rhaenys and herself - the Queen was so proud of her.

"Can we continue with a spar, grandmother?" Rhaena was nothing if not eager.

But the Queen shook her head. "No, you must get cleaned up and dressed. When we make landfall you are to see your parents again." Overhead, three dragons shot by - the massive shapes of Balerion and Vhagar, joined by a pale blue dragon only a third of the size. "And no disappearing to ride on Dreamfyre." That drew an eye roll from the Princess. "Save that for tonight."

Sometimes only Visenya could understand Rhaena these days. Just as sometimes only Aegon could understand their own son.

Withdrawing his palm from the head of the helmless knight, the austerely-dressed High Septon gazed down at the kneeling form of Ser Joffrey Doggett. "Good Ser, Knight of the Realm," he began, the sun sparkling off the silver-colored plate armor and rainbow cloak. "Do you accept the mantle of the Father, always to be true? Do you accept the mantle of the Mother, to strive always for the will of the Seven who are One? Do you accept the mantle of the Warrior, for your sword to be the avenging might of the gods' will?"

"I accept them with all humility, by the name of Father, Mother, Smith, Warrior, Maiden, Stranger, and Crone." Ser Joffrey's dirty blonde locks and handlebar moustache blew in the winds off the Sunset Sea… adding to his fierceness. "With only death to extinguish my vow."

High Septon Hugor Flowers bid him to stand. "Rise off your knees, Ser Joffrey of House Doggett, Captain of the Warrior's Sons and Shield of Lannisport."

"Seven Eternal!" In one smooth motion, the five hundred Warrior's Sons of the Lannisport Chapter drew their swords high in the air. Heralding their new Captain with the glory of their august order. Dressed in their cloaks of glittering rainbows and with seven crystal spikes protruding atop their dress helms, the denizens of Lannisport cheered. Tens of thousands were gathered in the square of the Sept of Gerold, built for the glory of the Seven by King Gerold Lannister of the Rock, all to watch the anointing of Joffrey Doggett as the new Shield of he Lannisport faithful.

Clapping his hands, the aged form of Lord Loren Lannister strode forward next to Hugor. He walked with a stoop and a slight limp, but nevertheless carried himself as the King he used to be. "A son of the Westerlands," he began, looking at the son of Lord Kevan Doggett, his loyal bannerman. "May this land prosper with the beneficence of the gods."

"Yes, and I am confident it shall!" announced Hugor, the crowd eating it up with wild cheers. In perfect discipline that moment, the three thousand Poor Fellows standing at attention behind the knights of the Warrior's Sons took their spears and smacked them upon the cobblestones. Echoing a loud thunderclap that showed off their might.

In the presence of his ultimate commander, Ser Joffrey drew his blade, its crystal pommel glittering an aura of color. "My sword is yours to command, your Holiness."

"I am in no need of it now, Ser Joffrey, but be vigilant. Our Faith is peaceful, but rises to arms at the need of the innocent." Again, the Poor Fellow's smacked their spears onto the cobblestones, drowning out the cheering crowd. "By the Grace of the Seven! Go forth and bring their peace upon the world!"

"Seven Eternal!" boomed the throats of the two thousand sworn swords, the Warrior's Sons clicking their bootheels before marching towards their barracks - leading the Poor Fellows alongside them.

The show over with, the crowd began to disperse, House Lannister bannermen sworn to Lord Loren blocking off the adulating faithful from mobbing the High Septon as he made his way to the wheelhouse that would take him back to Casterly Rock. "It seems that their training paid off handsomely, your Holiness."

Hugor nodded absentmindedly, waving to the crowd - driving some of the zealous faithful to tears at the perceived blessings of the Seven's Emissary to the Earth. Some in the Most Devout would speak ill of these people in the most elitist of manners. Not Hugor… he welcomed such devotion, and the boost it gave to his ego. "True, but I'm not surprised. Ser Joffrey is a professional warrior, Barth, and he would run a tight ship with the Lannisport Chapter."

Forehead wrinkling in a frown, Septon Barth - Secretary to the High Septon - looked the reedy, bookish child in spite of his seven and ten namedays allowing him entrance to manhood. "I was referring to the Poor Fellows." No one that truly knew him let looks deceive. He was smart… the smartest and most strategic mind Hugor had seen other than himself.

Such was why the High Septon allowed his young secretary to speak more plainly to him than others. "Oh… right. That too." Two Warrior's Sons of Hugor's personal bodyguard flanked the entrance to the wheelhouse, rainbow-pattern shields at their sides and allowing them entry. "They clean up nicely, don't they?"

"I still remember when they entered the hamlet where my father tended his forge… gave us all fleas with how filthy they were."

"They still likely have fleas, Barth," he smirked. "But your point has validity." Barth placed his hands in his lap, smiling at the soft praise - for Hugor, it was golden.

The years had been both kind and exhausting to the bastard High Septon upon his election by the Most Devout - after the unfortunate funeral service of Gerold Hightower, his predecessor. Too many useless husks to slowly purge out of key positions, too many feelers needing to be sent out for actually trustworthy and competent replacements, and too many zealous fools that couldn't be done away with. He owed too many people too many favors in his rise to power. Hugor hated compromising his plans, but Sharra had taught him the necessity of it.

I must, but like it I cannot.

Among the Faith Militant, the greatest change occurred. For the Warrior's Sons, the inclusion of such key allies as Damon Morrigen meant Hugor could only expand the order thanks to the charter given by Crown Prince Aenys - bringing in the best of warriors such as Ser Joffrey, many of them bastards that flocked to the call of the Seven. But the biggest overhaul was the Poor Fellows. Initially an armed component of the Begging Brothers, with the help of Barth and several sympathetic Lords and knights, they did away with the axes, pitchforks, and scythes of the ineffectual mob and replaced them with a proper fighting force. Well-drilled and well-armed. Many even sported chainmail.

However, there was still much to do. Six years wasted in clearing out the old to make way for the new. Hugor would not waste the next six if he had anything to say about it. "Gods, when will this thing move?"

Move it didn't… not until two other passengers entered. Few could invade the privacy of the High Septon - Loren Lannister and his son and heir Tyrion were among those few. "Mind if I take a seat, your Holiness?" asked Loren, not waiting for permission before lowering himself across from Hugor.

"Don't you have your own wheelhouse, Lord Loren?" Hugor replied, narrowing his eyes.

"We do, but I wish for your esteemed company… your young prodigy here is merely a bonus."

"I do believe, father," piped up Tyrion. "That Barth was the one who selected Ser Joffrey as Captain of the Lannisport Chapter." Unlike Loren's previous heir, there was nothing craven about Ser Tyrion. All the Realm knew of his prowess on the jousting field, in the melee, and between the sheets of a maiden or lady's bed. Although his mother was a Tully, his features and demeanor were all Lannister.

Barth was unresponsive. "I hope Lord Lannister isn't displeased with my choice," he said with a firmness that seemed uncharacteristic of his type.

Tyrion chuckled. "Not at all. I squired for him, the best of warriors. It was smart, though our House is all the lesser for losing him."

"We have our capable knights, your Holiness," Loren interjected after his son. "I do not mean offense, but considering the recent leadership of the Warrior's Sons are a… how do I put this?"

"A bunch of bloviating, arrogant characters with less tact than a rhinoceros?" Barth finished for him. Hugor stifled a laugh.

Loren didn't stifle his laugh. "Took the words right out of me, young Barth. In any case, you are done ill service by these people, especially if your goals… haven't changed in the intervening years."

"We are as the gods made us, Lord Lannister," Barth said. "Strong and weak, good and bad, cruel and kind, heroic and selfish." Both lions raised their eyebrows at the cryptic statement. He was known to speak in intellectual riddles on occasion, to throw people off balance.

"I believe my secretary means to say that we must deal with our allies as they are… and forge new ones of better character." The wheelhouse passing over the uneven streets of the city, Hugor decided to breach what he wished to discuss in the privacy of Casterly Rock. This is a reasonable place. "There is a favor you can grant me, Lord Lannister. One I would rather discuss prior to our journey to King's Landing for the jubilee."

"Oh?"

Hugor folded his hands. "Thousands from across Westeros are flocking to the banners of the Poor Fellows, but they are undisciplined - even my soldiers are untested in the ways of war. Not tourney fighting, but war."

Loren wasn't alive and kicking into his seventh decade by having an addled mind. "You wish for my men to help train the new thousands of Poor Fellows?"

"I want your son to lead the effort, but yes." Both Lannisters looked at each other, digesting what Hugor's offer could mean for them. "You need not decide till after the Jubilee… especially if your efforts to secure a betrothal for Ser Tyrion prove fruitful."

"You shall support our efforts at such, and you have a deal, your Holiness."

"Done."

"Ally…" Rhaena gasped, waist squeezed nearly beyond the point of endurance. "I can't breathe…"

Undeterred, Princess Alysanne Targaryen refused to break her tight embrace. "I'm so happy you're here!" she exclaimed, voice bubbly with gentle excitement. "I missed you."

"I… missed… you too…" Rhaena choked out.

A laugh came from her younger brother Viserys, all of eleven namedays. "Enough, let our sister breathe." He always had a way with words, managing to convince the five nameday old Alysanne to disengage… though she did so with a pout. "Don't mind her… she hasn't a troublesome bone in her body."

Rhaena smirked even as she rubbed her stomach. "Neither did I till Dreamfyre hatched, yet now they brand me a terror."

"I am not one of those, and we both know little Ally has not a malevolent bone in her body," Viserys laughed, the siblings taking each other in a hug. "We did miss you… did you have to wait six moons between now and your last visit?"

"Blame grandfather for that… you know how he prefers Dragonstone to this gaudy place." Rhaena wrinkled her nose at the lavish decorations in her kepa's manse.

Viserys raised an eyebrow. "You used to not mind it much."

No, she didn't… aesthetically it was beautiful, but the gilt and gold that made it so extravagant was just… "A dragonlord needs not these trappings to command respect. We ride dragons for that."

A wide, superior smile emerged from the fourth Royal in the room. "When my egg hatches, I shall bond with the biggest dragon in the world!" Though a mere six name says, Prince Jaehaerys spoke with such imperious pride to rival Sharra Arryn or Theo Tyrell. It was both charming and… quite irritating at times.

"I don't think you'll be riding Balerion any time soon, Jae." Rhaena, a mischievous twinkle in her eye, ruffled Jae's hair - mussing it up. "He's grandfather's."

"Hey!"

Her baby brother's indignant attitude was quite amusing. "Yours shan't outgrow the Black Dread."

"Yes it will." He stomped his foot in insistence. It seemed childish, but there was an element to it that indicated a more permanent part of his personality. I would find him a proper foster if I was muna and kepa. "I will have the bestest dragon."

Rhaena smirked. "Of course you will, Jae-Jae."

He reddened. "Don't call me that, I am a prince!"

But Alysanne giggled. "Jae-Jae… Jae-Jae…" The little Princess skipped off, teasing him without even knowing it… Rhaena doubted she had it in her to tease for amusement.

Jaehaerys wasn't amused. "You better stop that!" He ran after her, the two of them ending up chasing each other through the halls.

Brother and sister shared a chuckle while making their way to sit. "Forgive our brother for his haughtiness. Egg gave him his own egg and Jae's been dreaming of being our uncle every night since - especially after it was confirmed he'd show up for the feast."

A warm flurry in her heart filled Rhaena at the mention of their uncle. "Uncle Maegor's coming here?" Not a day went by she didn't remember his kindness to her… how he gifted her the world twice, first taking her to Balerion and second in giving her Dreamfyre's egg. I wouldn't be a rider without him… "I haven't seen him since after his wedding."

"With all the adventures he's been on, not surprising, though mother's not keen on it."

She furrowed her brows. "Whyever not? He's our uncle."

"Our uncle is a brute, according to our mother that is." Eyes turned to see the newcomer enter the chambers - Prince Aegon Targaryen, eldest son of Crown Prince Aenys and the second in line to the Iron Throne according to him at least. "Dearest sister, forgive me for not greeting you with the others." He embraced his elder sister, kissing her cheek rather affectionately. "I was otherwise preoccupied."

While his kiss elicited merely a sisterly affection in her, their closeness induced Rhaena to sniff him. Her brother reeked of sweat. "Were you sparring?"

Unlike Jaehaerys, who seemed almost eager to show off and preen his feelings of superiority, Aegon was far less blatant about it. He carried himself in a charming manner but with an innate swagger that made him near irresistible to those of court - even at such a young age. "Aye. Ser Gregor says I am a natural at it," he bragged rather casually. "I wished to take a bath for your arrival, but I couldn't bear delaying our reunion."

"Quite." Rhaena was immune to his charms and regarded him as he was - her beloved brother, but sometimes a bit offputting. "Perhaps we should try sparring together. Grandmother says I am improving daily."

"I am sure you are, sister. Grandmother teaches you, after all."

Rhaena waited for him to continue, sensing something dismissive in his tone, but he didn't. She knew what he wished to say, though. 'I'll go easy on you when we do. "There we go, it's settled then." When did you become this way, Egg? They always had been so close, and he a sweet boy, but his occasional selfish outbursts ended… like this. It was disconcerting, but Rhaena put it aside to address something else he said. "But why do you speak of our uncle so?"

His brow rose. "You don't believe our mother?" he asked skeptically. Viserys looked the same to Rhaena… while he enjoyed hearing tales of their uncle from father, grandfather, grandmother, or Aunt Rhaenys, he was always the closest of the royal brood to their mother.

"I believe muna, but uncle Maegor has been nothing but kind to me."

"Ah yes, he gave you Dreamfyre's egg." Aegon laughed gently and patted Rhaena's shoulder. "I believe a conversation father and Murmison the other day had would enlighten you. Apparently, grandmother wished to betroth you and our uncle around that time."

Her eyes widened. "What?"

"She did?" Viserys was completely shocked.

"Aye, I wouldn't lie about something our father said." He looked affronted for a moment before the smile returned. "Thank the gods cooler heads prevailed. Aunt Ceryse is a proper alliance to better our house, and it allows you and I to wed."

"Would you really marry Rhae?" Viserys asked Aegon.

Egg shrugged. "It is the way of our family. Our uncle has no children, Ally is too young, and I wouldn't wish to wed any of the wild babes our aunt quickens with the Stark." He and the Starks never got along - never since Brandon Snow made him do pushups till he vomited for letting out the keep's pigs as a prank during a royal progress their father made to Winterfell. Muna was enraged but Aunt Rhaenys thought it so amusing that Kepa refused to make a stink of it.

"You could marry Larissa?"

"Our sister's friend? Not in this lifetime - she's basically a wildling the way she acts."

Rhaena heard none of this, her mind focused on what Egg had revealed. Me… and uncle Maegor? Husband and wife? Eight-nameday her couldn't have understood it, but she was four and ten now. The thought was… quite heavy to digest for the moment.

"Anyways," she heard Aegon say. "Mother told me to escort you to your lessons, brother. Rhaena," he said, pecking her lips and making her jump slightly. "I shall see you at dinner."

Watching her brothers leave, Rhaena sat there - thinking of her uncle. No… it couldn't possibly have worked. He was in love with her aunt Ceryse.

Wasn't he?

"That dirty cunt is up to no good again!" Orys Baratheon slammed his steel fist upon the table, causing a clang to ring out in the cavernous strategy chambers. "He's been quiet for too long, but I know he has a foot in it."

Narrowing his eyes, Prince Maegor Targaryen glanced at his cousins - both Aerion and Davos held the same resentment for their father's mutilation at the hands of Lord Malcolm Wyl, but bore themselves with the reservation of their mother. Argella Baratheon, still the same beauty as she was in her youth, was not one to make any rash decisions. "Forgive me uncle, but do we have any proof of Lord Wyl's involvement?"

Uncle Orys may not have been a dragonrider, but he clearly inherited the same Targaryen fire that Maegor's parents had in spades. "The Marches? Nightsong? Blackhaven? That's just his old stomping grounds, Maegor. Has to be him… toying with me after five long years hoping I let my guard down. Well not anymore…"

"Husband." Argella's voice was soft but firm - decades of marriage to the bastard son of Aerion Targaryen left her perfectly able to temper his more mercurial side. "This is not the time to act stupidly."

"I agree, father," added Davos, always the calmest and most calculating of the Baratheon brood. "There is no gain from aggressive moves without further confirmation of Dornish involvement…"

A groan came from Aerion, the heir of Storm's End. Though black of hair and blue of eye, he carried himself as a true dragonlord. He and Maegor got along swimmingly, but his tendency to ruthlessness reminded the Prince too much of his younger years. "He took our father's hand and butchers our bannermen. I say we infiltrate and slit his throat." Aye, he could have used Lord Snow's tutelage.

Argella glared at her eldest. "Do so and we risk war with Dorne. The Realms are not ready, much as we all would want that." Durrandon by blood, her family's longstanding hate of the Dornish predated the perils of the Dornish War.

"May I make a suggestion?" All eyes turned to Maegor. He may have had a headache and felt the fatigue of the long day darting back and forth with his uncle and cousins about the day to day activities of Storm's End, but the Prince's mind was still sharp on matters of war. Even if Uncle Orys had a vexing tendency to call councils after dinner hours. "There is an abandoned keep here just past the border between Dorne and the Stormlands, Vulture's Roost."

"I've heard of it, cousin," Davos replied. "Been ruined since before Arlan the Conqueror."

Maegor looked him in the eye. "It's located at the mouth of the Wyl, perfect to keep watch on infiltrators without officially encroaching on Dornish soil. Refurbish the keep, give it to one of your favored knightly houses, and have them fortified against any incursions."

Seemingly open to the idea, Orys looked to his wife expectantly. Argella gave nothing away as she thought, but simply nodded. "Aye, it is done!" Orys smacked his nephew on the back. "You have your father's way with armies, nephew."

He smiled softly. "I try, uncle. I try."

About half an hour later, Maegor made his way through the halls of the guest quarter - the howling wind smacked against the outer walls of the great keep, but as they did for Durran Godsgrief the walls held firm. It did leave a draft that wafted through the keep, chilling Maegor to the bone.

Long would he look forward to the warm blankets of his bed… till he ultimately realized what waited for him there. Not a malevolence he needed to do battle against, but something altogether worse.

"Another night in the True North, yer' Grace?" grinned the large man in chainmail armor standing outside his door.

Maegor glared at him, but sighed. "Tis not a jape that draws amusement, Dirk. Just sorrow." Night in the True North… a cold night… no warmth. The implication was obvious from there.

The guard shrugged. "Gotta find amusement where ye' can, dragonprince." Put the man in the best plate armor of the Reach or Stormlands, and he'd still give off the vibe of the Free Folk. They turned eyes when Maegor brought the band from Winterfell to be his sworn swords - oaths they forewent, since it was fighting alongside the Prince that acted as their bond - but he wouldn't change it for the world. They were loyal companions… and more. "Ralla's bed is always warmer than ye southerners are used to… ooh, apologies. Lady Ralla." Dirk snickered at the last.

A half-hearted laugh left Maegor's lips. "Perhaps, my friend. I just hope it does not come to that." He loved Ralla still, but their resumed nights were just a reminder of how far he had fallen. "Goodnight."

"Night, yer' Grace." The wildling remained at his post as Maegor slipped into the guest chambers.

A candle burned dimly beside the bed, a sign that his dear wife remained awake. "Where were you?" Ceryse rested on the bed. She sat up against her pillow with a book in hand, but her green eyes were directed at him instead. Once, they held nothing but warmth - now, a coldness mixed with sorrow.

Of this I cannot blame her. That was the tragedy of it. "With my uncle." Maegor began removing his doublet and boots. "Wyl of Wyl is likely making mischief again."

"Are you sure it wasn't with your whore?"

Maegor looked back at his beautiful, distant wife. "Do not call her that."

Ceryse narrowed her eyes before chuckling - a laugh that held no humor. "What should I call her then? I know you graced her bed the last two nights, so what changed? Was she unable to…" she trailed off, instead looking away. Lip quivering.

Left in only a sleep tunic and loose trousers, Maegor wouldn't argue with her. Wouldn't hurt her more than she already hurt. "I wished to be with my wife tonight, tis all."

"I wish I could believe you."

"Believe what you want." Empathetic that he was, Maegor was just too tired. "Goodnight, and snuff out that candle." He rolled onto his side, back facing her.

She complied promptly, assuming the same position as darkness filled the room.

"Hurry up, Princess," Ser Symond Crayne urged, though making sure for his voice to be soft and non-threatening. No one wished to antagonize Rhaena Targaryen… and why would they? For those of the court of Aegon and Visenya Targaryen, she was undoubtedly the favorite - a mantle once held by her aunt before her - and her grandmother before that. "The ceremony is undoubtedly starting."

"You need not urge me, Ser Symond." The young knight was the newest addition to the Kingsguard, accepted by her kepa and anointed by grandfather. Generally quiet and modest, he was nevertheless a loyal knight - of one of the houses of the Stormlands sworn to her uncle Orys, Rhaena had no doubt. "It was Larissa who couldn't choose which dress to wear."

The Velaryon maiden scowled. "Don't blame me, Rhae - it was Samantha that kept bombarding me with addled nonsense about 'what matches and what doesn't?'" She rolled her eyes.

Samantha Stokeworth blinked, as if shocked she was being blamed. "But we need to look our best for Prince Maegor's arrival."

"It isn't just my uncle that's arriving, Sammy." Rhaena giggled under her breath. "My aunt and her husband are also arriving on Arrax from Winterfell." The whole family needed to be in King's Landing for the Jubilee - thirty-five years since her grandparents had been crowned. Thirty-five years of Targaryen rule over Westeros.

"I know, but Princess Rhaenys comes every year. This is the first time your uncle is coming to court since he left to fight the Lysene Pirates six years ago." A sigh. "The great conqueror returns," she swooned, hand over her heart.

Brow raised, Tyanna eyed Samantha queerly. "Is she always like this? So… dramatic?"

"Yes," replied both Rhaena and Larissa.

Luckily for them, the ceremony hadn't begun yet… though Rhaena couldn't be sure if grandmother and grandfather waited for her or not. Everyone that was everyone in Court was there. Her kepa and muna stood among his friends and their wives. Alyn Stokeworth - Samantha's father - Ronnel Arryn, Murmison, Tybolt Reyne, Aethan Velaryon - Larissa's father - and Myles Smallwood, all of them some of the most noble highborns of the realm and 'lovers of fun' as kepa would often say. Rhaena liked them all, though lately Murmison's fondness for quoting the Seven Pointed Star began to chafe on her.

While Tyanna excused herself to stand behind her grandmother, seated in a black chair directly beside her grandfather upon the Iron Throne, the other girls stayed with Rhaena rather than go to their parents. "You're late," hissed Alyssa, adjusting Jaehaerys' doublet and Alysanne's gown.

"We got here as fast as we could, muna," Rhaena replied. "Apologies." That mollified her, and now standing beside her brother she looked over the rest of court.

Most of the Crownlands lords were there, as was Theo Tyrell. Daeron and Gargon Qoherys were hard to miss, the latter wearing a garish outfit of white and black that looked like the skulls of his sigil. Off to the right were Sharra and Jonos Arryn among the Vale Lords - she was still beautiful in spite of being older than Queen Visenya, while Jonos looked nothing as his tourney-winning brother. Almost cunning in appearance, like a rat or fox.

Beside them was Allard Royce of Runestone, a favorite of Lord Torrhen. With him was a young girl Rhaena's age, hair the color of a raven and with kind eyes. Their gazes met, and the girl smiled at Rhaena. She smiled back, resolved to seek her out at a later date.

Two rather young lords had the look of northerners. Rhaena had to wrack her brain before matching the faces to names… Theomore Manderly and Marlon Umber.

She noticed some absences. "Egg, where are the Lannisters? Or Uncle Orys?"

Aegon huffed. "Uncle Orys is arriving a day behind uncle Maegor, I believe. As for the Lannisters, they were sidetracked by the arrival of High Septon Flowers in Lannisport… or so mother tells me."

"Oh." Her eyes darted to where the delegation of the Faith stood. Archsepton Boniface was there, tall and proud in his robes. Beside him was Ser Damon Morrigen, Grand Captain of the Faith Militant, and Wat Hewer of the Poor Fellows. While Wat just looked bored, the others had hard looks about their faces. Rhaena instinctively mistrusted them, the opposite of her fondness for Murmison.

Her grandmother would approve of her instincts there.

Rounding it up were the most important individuals - her grandmother and grandfather at the dias, joined by the small council of Osmund Strong, Grand Maester Gawen, the gout-hobbled Corlen Blackwood, and Hand of the King Torrhen Stark. "Let it begin," announced the King. "My granddaughter has finally arrived." He winked at Rhaena, who blushed.

Trumpets blaring, Lord Commander Corlys cleared his throat. "Presenting before court, Lord Brandon and Princess Rhaenys of House Stark, heirs to Winterfell - and their children Lord Aegon, Lord Alaric, and Lady Saera."

The black-coated guards pulled open the massive ironwood doors to the great hall - a gift from House Forrester of Ironrath upon the birth of Princess Alysanne - revealing a dozen Northern spearmen. Wearing Stark insignia, they surrounded the young future rulers of the Realm's largest kingdom… cultural attitudes knowing but not fully trusting the southern Targaryen men-at-arms to protect their future lord and his beloved family.

All of the North had practically adopted their Valyrian lady and her children, almost more popular than the older Starks in their eyes.

As for the King and Queen, they failed to hide their beaming smiles as their daughter, goodson, and grandchildren knelt before the Iron Throne. "We swear our undying fealty, your Grace," they said at once.

Sharing a look with Torrhen, matching grins on their faces, Aegon rose from the Iron Throne and walked down the dias. "Rise, daughter." Damn the proprieties of court, he immediately embraced his daughter - the embrace immediately returned. "Gods, it's been too long."

"I agree, kepa, " Rhaenys replied, enjoying the comfort of her father's embrace.

"You look like a Stark."

She smirked. "A compliment, given my status." Still possessing the almost otherworldly Valyrian beauty of her mother and aunt, Rhaenys was nevertheless styled as a northerner. Silver hair let down in soft curls about her shoulders, the fancy dresses of the south that she used to wear were eschewed in favor of a thick woolen gown. Grey and white suited her coloring, Rhaenys looking like a snow Princess… the nod to her blood were red and black etchings on the hem of her dress, mimicking dragons spitting flame from their maws.

"Don't hog her, Aegon," came the firm, feminine voice. Mother and daughter practically squealed as they embraced, softly gushing over more… feminine aspects.

Leaving them to their reunion, the King looked over his goodson. "Lord Stark, you have the look of your father about you." Brandon did harken back to when Aegon first met Torrhen that chilly day in the Riverlands, where the King of Winter avoided another field of fire by bending the knee. A friendship and familial alliance born of such inauspicious beginnings . "I see the pups have grown like weeds."

Brandon nodded. "Aye, your Grace. Wee terrors they are."

"Now I wouldn't know anything about that. They get it from their grandmother." That comment drew a glare from the Queen.

Instructed as how to behave, the three dragonwolves as they were known somehow resisted the urge to leap into their grandparents' arms and pepper them with questions. At least Aegon and Saera did. Both of their mother's coloring - five and three namedays respectively, Rhaenys having the dubious honor of three births right after the other - aside from Saera's grey eyes, they held a mischievous fire to match. Four nameday-old Alaric by contrast was as much a Stark as his dark hair, quiet and taciturn. If it weren't for his sparkling violet eyes, no one could tell he was half-Valyrian.

"Your Grace," they bowed, though only the boys did so fluidly. Saera was unsteady and demure with youth, not that people blamed her.

Aegon ruffled his namesake's silver hair just as the heralds blared for the second arrival. "Alright, go to your cousins. We shall continue later." Rhaenys leaned in to kiss him on the cheek while the pups raced to where Aenys' brood waited.

"Rhae-Rhae," Aegon said, hugging his eldest cousin.

"Gods, wolfie," she chuckled. "Do you even have a bit of Stark about you?"

"I have a direwolf," he chirped.

Rhaena smirked. "That'll do," she replied, seeing Ally hug a rather standoffish Alaric while Jaehaerys cuffed him affectionately in the shoulder.

It was quite the boon for relations between the North and the crown that the children were close.

Rhaenys standing next to the seat of her mother, Aegon took his place at the Iron Throne and cleared his throat. "Send…" his voice caught a bit from emotion. He hadn't seen his son in several years. "Send him in."

"Enter the maiden's dream," whispered Larissa to Rhaena.

"Oh stop it."

"I'm serious, my loins are on fire," she continued to quip, to which Rhaena rolled her eyes…

Until the doors opened once more and her breath went away. There, striding in with a fierce purpose, was her uncle Maegor. So long ago was their last meeting, Rhaena's memory had focused less on him and more on the dragon egg - his kind smile and empowering words framing her view of him.

All of it changed now as she was exposed to him in full. "Gods…" Samantha swooned at her other side. "He's so dreamy."

Rhaena couldn't disagree. With thick muscles, a trim waist, clean-shaven face, and the otherworldly beauty of the Valyrians, he looked like one of the pantheon gracing the world with his presence.

Beside him was the black direwolf Syndor - just as gorgeous a beast as Rhaena remembered - and Princess Ceryse, her own comly looks only eclipsed by her husband's. What a lucky woman. For an instant, Rhaena felt a pang of resentment for her. Huh? Gods, what was it with all these confusing emotions?

This was just her uncle.

The uncle that made her the dragon she was always born to be…

"We pledge our undying fealty to you, my King," the two of them stated in unison, kneeling. The direwolf cocked her head at the King and Queen before sitting on her haunches, drawing guffaws from the northmen, Lord Blackwood, and the Royces.

Aegon clapped his hands, chuckling himself. "Rise." They did so. "Welcome home, my son. Gooddaughter. I trust the travel from Storm's End was uneventful."

"It was, your Grace," Maegor replied evenly.

"Perfect. Now I believe dinner is soon to be served in the private dining quarters of the Crown Prince's manse. Court is dismissed." He stood and walked to Visenya, leading her out of the great hall. Familial greetings would wait for more… casual accommodations.

As the exodus of courtiers passed out of the hall, Maegor spotted the rest of his family and headed to them. "Brother," Aenys said, responding to Maegor's outstretched hand by clasping it… and bringing him into a hug. "Welcome home."

Maegor pulled back. "I was unaware that this was Dragonstone, Aenys?" They stared at each other for a moment before chuckling together. "They always say home is where the heart is, so I suppose this is home."

"That's the spirit!" He clapped Maegor on the back.

Smile faltering as his eyes fell upon Alyssa, Maegor merely nodded. "Goodsister."

"Goodbrother," she replied just as chilly, though her eyes momentarily gave him a once over.

Gaze riveted on her uncle, Rhaena felt her heart skip a beat when he was now standing directly in front of him. "By the gods… this can't be… Rhaena?"

She steeled herself, daring to look up into his eyes. They were a different shade of violet than her father or brothers - a bit darker, with more focus and… passion about them. Rhaena felt close to melting. "It is I, uncle Maegor." A sudden confidence passed through her. "Assurances for you, I have allowed the dragon to be awoken inside."

He smiled, equally warm and proud. "For the shortest of intervals, I confused you with your grandmother. A powerful dragonrider, you have become dearest niece." Taking her hand, he placed a kiss upon the skin. "Till dinner, Rhaena."

As her uncle moved on to her brothers and sister - without the watchful eyes of the Targaryen court, Jaehaerys and Alysanne took advantage and jumped on their uncle in a flurry of giggles - Rhaena couldn't help but feel the tingling of the skin on the back of her hand.

Larissa was right… he was a dream to behold. In every way.