Chapter 20
Chapter 20: New Paths
The sea breeze carried the tang of salt and the whisper of impending storms as Grey Ghost descended onto Driftmark. The pale, elusive dragon roared softly as Rhaena Targaryen slid from his back. Her movements hurried and unsteady conveying a sense of urgency.
The guards at High Tide rushed to meet her, but Rhaena waved them off, her focus unyielding as she pushed open the heavy wooden doors of the keep. The great hall was dimly lit, the flicker of firelight casting shadows across the stone walls.
At the far end, Princess Rhaenys stood by the table reviewing documents. Her sharp gaze snapping to her granddaughter, with a presence that filled the room.
“Rhaena,” Rhaenys said, her voice calm but edged with curiosity.
“You’re here without warning. What news do you bring?”
Rhaena struggled to catch her breath as she approached.
“Mother’s labors… they’ve begun,” she managed, her voice trembling with urgency.
Rhaenys’ expression tightened, but she remained composed. “Laena is strong. She will make it through this birth.”
“There’s more,” Rhaena added, her eyes wide with worry. “Just before I left Dragonstone… Rhaenyra’s labors began as well.”
Rhaenys’ hand gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles whitening. For a moment, the news hung heavy in the air. Then Rhaenys exhaled sharply, her expression shifting into something fierce and determined.
“Two labors at once,” Rhaenys murmured, her voice low but resolute. “Targaryen women never make it easy, do they?” Her lips quirked into a wry smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Rhaena fidgeted, her urgency unrelenting. “Grandmother, we must go. Mother will need you. And Rhaenyra…”
Rhaenys raised a hand to steady her. “We go now. Meleys is always ready for flight.” She strode toward the door, her crimson cloak billowing behind her. As she passed Rhaena, she placed a reassuring hand on her granddaughter’s shoulder. “Thank you for bringing this news so quickly.”
Rhaena nodded, swallowing her fear for her mother and aunt as they headed toward the dragon pit.
The skies over Dragonstone burned orange with the setting sun as Meleys and Grey Ghost descended, their massive forms casting long shadows across the island. The keep’s courtyard was bustling with activity, midwives and healers hurrying in and out.
Rhaenys dismounted with practiced ease, her boots striking the cobblestones as she turned to her granddaughter. “Find your father. I’ll see to your mother.”
Rhaena hesitated for a moment, then nodded and hurried off.
Inside the chambers, Laena’s labors were reaching their peak. Her cries echoed off the stone walls, the sound raw and visceral. A healer from Volantis hovered nearby, her hands steady and her voice soothing.
“Breech,” the healer explained as Rhaenys entered. “But the child turned hours ago. The exercises were successful.”
Rhaenys moved to Laena’s side, taking her daughter’s hand in hers. “I’m here now, my fierce girl,” she said softly, brushing damp hair from Laena’s forehead. “You’ve done so well.”
Laena’s grip was weak but determined. “Mother…” she gasped.
“I’m here,” Rhaenys repeated, her voice steady.
With a final, shuddering cry, Laena brought her child into the world. The room was momentarily still as the infant’s wail broke through the tension.
“It’s a boy,” the healer announced, wrapping the child in soft linens before handing him to Laena.
Daemon entered moments later, his expression unreadable until he saw his son. His face softened as he knelt by Laena’s side.
“Baelon,” Laena whispered, her voice hoarse. “We’ll name him Baelon.”
Daemon nodded, his hand resting gently on Laena’s shoulder. “Baelon he shall be.”
The healer stepped forward, offering Laena a series of potions. “These will ensure your strength and prevent risk of complications. They were prepared by Prince Lucerys himself.”
Rhaenys raised a brow at the mention of Luke but said nothing. Instead, she leaned down to kiss Laena’s forehead. “Rest now. I’ll see to Rhaenyra.”
Across the hall, Rhaenyra was in the throes of her own labor, her cries muffled but no less intense. Laenor sat by her side, his expression a mix of fear and helplessness.
When Rhaenys entered, Laenor stood abruptly. “How is Laena?”
“She’s well. She delivered a son,” Rhaenys replied before focusing on Rhaenyra. “And you, my brave girl, are not far behind.”
Rhaenyra managed a weak smile through her pain. “Always… the competition,” she joked between gasps.
“You’ll both have stories to tell,” Rhaenys said, her tone light but encouraging. She moved to Rhaenyra’s side, taking her hand. “Focus, Rhaenyra. Breathe. You’ve done this before.”
It wasn’t long before the room filled with the cries of a newborn. The midwife cleaned the baby and handed her to Rhaenyra, who cradled the child against her chest.
“She’s perfect,” Rhaenyra whispered, tears streaming down her face.
Laenor knelt beside her, his expression softening as he gazed at his daughter.
“Aemma,” Rhaenyra said, her voice firm despite her exhaustion. “Her name is Aemma.”
Rhaenys smiled, a rare warmth in her expression as she placed a hand on Rhaenyra’s shoulder. “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl. Your mother would be proud.”
Later, after both Laena and Rhaenyra rested a bit with their newborns, the family gathered in the great hall. Daemon held Baelon, while Rhaenys held Aemma. Rhaena hovered nearby, her face glowing with relief.
Rhaenys looked around the room, her gaze lingering on each member of her family. “Two new dragons in one day,” she said, her voice carrying a mix of pride and exhaustion. “If the realm doesn’t tremble at this, they are fools.”
**************************
The halls of the Red Keep were dimly lit, the torches casting long, flickering shadows against the cold stone walls. Alicent Hightower sat in her private solar, her hands resting idly on her lap. Her once vibrant green gown hung loosely on her frame, her mourning weighing heavier than the fabric.
She had not left the room for hours, staring out of the narrow window at the setting sun, her thoughts consumed by loss.
Otto Hightower entered unannounced, his face set in its usual mask of steely determination. His sharp eyes studied his daughter’s withdrawn form for a moment before he stepped closer, the heels of his boots echoing against the stone floor.
“You cannot let grief keep you idle, Alicent,” he began, his voice clipped but not unkind. “The realm will not wait for you to mourn. Action must be taken to secure our position.”
Alicent turned her gaze to her father, her eyes red-rimmed but dry. “What position do we have, Father?” she asked bitterly. “With Helaena gone from this world, Aemond gone from my side, Daeron shipped off without so much as a word, and Viserys barely clinging to life, I wonder what remains to secure.”
Otto stepped closer, lowering his voice as though speaking to a fragile child. “We still have Aegon,” he reminded her. “The strength of our house depends on his future. The Lannisters have been… dealt with, but we must not let that loss weaken us. We need allies—powerful ones.”
Alicent’s expression hardened, a flicker of the queen she once was returning. “And where do you suggest we look, Father? The Riverlands? The Vale?”
Otto shook his head. “No. Dorne.”
“Dorne?” Alicent repeated, her tone incredulous.
“Yes,” Otto said firmly. “Their independence has long kept them outside the grasp of the Iron Throne, but that independence also leaves them vulnerable to isolation. They would benefit greatly from a strong marriage alliance with the crown.”
Alicent’s lips thinned. “And you mean to offer Aegon.”
Otto inclined his head. “Yes. Aegon’s marriage to a Martell princess would strengthen ties with Dorne and bring them into our fold. It would send a message of unity and strength to the other kingdoms.”
Alicent looked away, her gaze distant. “Aegon is unfit for marriage,” she said quietly. “He has no interest in duty, only in indulgence. What woman would endure him?”
“A Martell woman,” Otto replied bluntly. “Their people are pragmatic. They understand the value of alliances, even difficult ones.”
She hesitated, the weight of the decision pressing heavily on her. “And who would negotiate this alliance?”
“Criston Cole,” Otto said without missing a beat. “His loyalty to you is unwavering, and his reputation precedes him. He will approach Dorne as your emissary, offering terms and securing the Martells’ agreement.”
Alicent rubbed her temples, the throbbing pain of her mourning and the endless political maneuvering merging into one. “Very well,” she said at last. “Send Sir Criston. But do not expect me to celebrate this union.”
Days later, Alicent sat once more in her solar, now cloaked in muted greens to signify her lingering grief. A soft knock at the door drew her attention, and a servant entered, bowing low.
“Your Grace, a raven has arrived from Harrenhal,” the servant announced.
“From Larys Strong?” she asked, her voice sharp with curiosity.
“Yes, Your Grace,” the servant confirmed, handing her the scroll.
Alicent unrolled the parchment, her brow furrowing as she read. Larys had written to inform her of his imminent return to King’s Landing, though without his father, Lord Lyonel, who was remaining at Harrenhal to resolve a dispute among his bannermen.
Her lips pressed into a thin line as she considered the implications. Larys was a man of many secrets, and his return was unlikely to be without purpose. She glanced out the window at the fading daylight, her mind churning.
*********************
The morning air on Dragonstone was crisp, carrying the salt of the Narrow Sea and the faint scent of volcanic smoke that lingered near the island’s rocky cliffs. Jacaerys stood in the courtyard, the sword in his hand feeling more like an extension of himself than it ever had before. His recovery had been slow but purposeful, every step back to strength fueled by the memory of being caught unarmed and vulnerable.
Across from him, Daemon paced in a slow circle, his own blade resting lazily on his shoulder. His piercing violet eyes studied Jacaerys with a mixture of pride and scrutiny.
“Keep your stance lower,” Daemon commanded, his voice firm. “You’re leaving your legs exposed. A skilled opponent will have you flat on your back before you can draw breath.”
Daemon circled him like a predator, Dark Sister glinting in the light. His expression was unreadable, but
his tone carried approval. “Your recovery is no excuse for weakness, boy. You want to wear a crown one day? Prove you’re fit to bear it.”
Jacaerys gritted his teeth, lunging forward with his blade. Daemon parried effortlessly, the clang of metal echoing across the courtyard.
“I’m not weak,” Jacaerys hissed. “And I’ll prove it.”
“You’ll prove nothing with a sloppy lunge,” Daemon snapped, countering with a swift strike that forced Jacaerys to stumble back.
“Keep your feet planted. Anticipate your opponent.”
Jacaerys adjusted his footing, his brows furrowing with determination. “I won’t let anyone catch me like that again,” he said, his voice steady despite the strain of the practice. “Not ever.”
Daemon smirked. “Good. But saying it and proving it are different things.” Without warning, he lunged, his blade sweeping toward Jacaerys’s side.
Jacaerys barely had time to react, parrying the blow with a loud clash of steel. He staggered but held his ground, countering with a strike aimed at Daemon’s shoulder.
Daemon dodged easily, spinning to the side and tapping Jacaerys lightly on the ribs with the flat of his blade.
“Too slow,” Daemon said, stepping back and sheathing his sword.
“Your instincts are good, but your movements are predictable. You need variety—unpredictability. Which is why we’re moving on to daggers.”
From a nearby table, Daemon picked up two finely crafted daggers, each one with a hilt wrapped in black leather and inlaid with silver filigree. He tossed one to Jacaerys, who caught it awkwardly, the weight unfamiliar in his hand.
“You’ll train with both sword and dagger,” Daemon explained, demonstrating a series of fluid movements with his own blade. “In close quarters, a dagger can be the difference between life and death.”
Renly leaned against a stone pillar watching the exchange. “If Jace gets a dagger, I want one too,” Renly said, stepping forward with a boyish grin.
Daemon raised an eyebrow but handed Renly a smaller dagger. “Fine. But if you lose a finger, it’s on you.”
********************
Meanwhile, Lucerys Velaryon strolled along the cliffs of Dragonstone, the salt air heavy around him. Baby Aemma rested snugly in a harness strapped to his chest, cooing softly as Lucerys murmured to her. The girl was growing heavier by the day. Lucerys had enlisted the help of the craftsmen on Dragonstone to fashion a sling embedded with dragonglass and runes that would ensure both warmth and protection.
As they walked, Lucerys’s free hand traced the faint runes carved into the carrier, their intricate patterns faintly glowing with enchantments he had imbued. The sling was more than just practical—it was a shield of sorts, designed to ward off harm and keep Aemma secure.
Lucerys adjusted it with a smile, the weight of his sister a comforting presence. “You’re getting heavy, little one,” he murmured. “I might need to adjust this carrier soon.”
Aemma babbled in response, and Lucerys chuckled, his footsteps leading him toward his workshop. Inside, the air was filled with the scents of herbs and melted wax, the wooden shelves lined with jars of ingredients, glowing stones, and books bound in aged leather.
On a long workbench, a series of glass vials shimmered in the light of a nearby brazier. Lucerys set Aemma in a cradle near the corner of the room.
Reaching for a vial of deep green liquid, Lucerys uncorked it and added a few drops to a basin filled with crushed dragonglass. The mixture hissed and bubbled, turning a brilliant shade of blue.
“This will fortify any blade,” Lucerys explained to Aemma from across the room. “Sharper, stronger, and resistant to wear. For our family, as we cannot give everyone a Valyrian steel blade since the knowledge of its creation was lost long ago.”
The sound of Aemma’s soft giggles pulled his attention momentarily, and Lucerys turned to smile at the baby. “Don’t worry, little one. You’ll grow up safe. I’ll make sure of it.”
As the potion settled and cooled, Lucerys carefully poured it into a small steel flask, its surface engraved with Valyrian runes.
Outside, the distant clang of swords echoed through the courtyard, a reminder that the fight for survival never truly ended. But here, in this quiet moment, surrounded by the hum of magic and the innocence of new life, Lucerys allowed himself a rare sense of hope.
Lucerys nodded to himself , his hand absently brushing over Aemma’s soft hair. “We’ll need every strength we can muster. Every piece, every person, every ounce of knowledge will be used to secure our future. This war will not claim us.”
Lucerys met her gaze, resolute. “Not while I still breathe.”