Blood of the Dragon

Gael

104 AC

Dawn stretched thin fingers across the horizon, the pale light painting the skies over Blackwater Bay in muted shades of lavender and gray. Gael stood by the tall arched window in Maegor’s chambers within the White Sword Tower, her fingertips resting on the cool stone. Below, faint clangs echoed from the practice yard, where the Kingsguard knights trained at this early hour. She knew the rhythm now. By this time, Maegor would already be there, sword in hand, moving with a precision that betrayed how deeply duty had consumed him.

It had not always been this way.

To the world, he was Ser Aegor, the White Knight, his name whispered with suspicion or outright revulsion—a shadow cast by his father’s choice. To her, he had once been just Maegor, the boy who raced her through the Red Keep’s gardens and laughed as he wove lavender blooms into her hair. He had been reckless then, so sure of himself and full of dreams that had never belonged to him.

But those days were gone. Stripped away years ago by the weight of their histories, their names.

She exhaled softly and turned from the window as the heavy oak door creaked open. When she saw him standing there, a cold ache settled over her heart.

He was broader now, every inch the knight. The sun glinted off the white of his cloak, pristine but rigid, draped over shoulders that carried burdens she could not see. There was something forbidding in the hard planes of his face—the playful boy she once knew a ghost in this armored man. And yet, his eyes... those pale, haunting violet eyes. They were the only part of him that had not hardened.

“You shouldn’t be here, Princess.” His voice was low and steady, but his tone, laced with quiet caution, gave away a deep, smoldering ache. It was a warning, but it lacked any force. He did not step back. He did not send her away.

“And yet... I am.” Gael’s voice trembled as she spoke, barely above a whisper, but it carried a weight that could not be dismissed. There was a sharp determination in her as she drew closer, her pale hands twisting together. She hesitated, as though searching for the courage to push forward, then let the words fall from her lips. “You once promised I would always have a place by your side. Has the cloak taken even that from me, Maegor?”

His jaw clenched at her question, his expression tightening, but he did not look away. Her words seemed to burrow beneath his armor, unspoken truths swirling between the two of them. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a sharper version of himself screamed that he should turn her away—send her back to wherever she had come from before this madness consumed them both.

But he stayed.

“Things aren’t what they were,” he said at last, his words measured but heavy with resignation. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “The world is different now—it's changed.”

Gael tilted her head, her voice unyielding as she took another step forward. “No. You’re different.”

It stung more than she realized, and his eyes slid closed for a moment, the crack in his armor widening for just a breath. Her voice softened, but her words pressed into him like a knife. “Do you not remember what we spoke of? What we dreamed of? Or has that been forgotten too, buried beneath your vows?”

When his eyes opened again, she saw the faint glimmer of the boy she had once loved—the boy who had told her they could carve their own destiny in a world built to deny them happiness. His mask had slipped just slightly, and his voice was rough when he answered.

“I remember everything,” he said, and there was a bitterness in him that refused to be hidden. “More than is wise. More than I should.”

Her breath caught, and she would have spoken, but he turned away suddenly, bristling like a wounded animal. His voice, sharp and breaking, called an end to her unspoken question. “I do not need your reminders, Gael.”

For a moment, all either of them could hear was the soft hiss of the tide beyond the window, the faint sound of the sea mist against the Red Keep's walls. She saw how he stood like a mountain, hands gripping the windowsill until his knuckles were pale. She stepped closer despite herself. “I didn’t choose Aegon,” she said softly, her voice trembling with the weight of that truth.

His body tensed. She could see the muscles in his back coil tight beneath the white Kingsguard cloak, the storm of his emotions brewing just beneath the surface. When he turned to her, it was like something inside him had broken. His voice cracked like a blade striking stone. “But you didn’t refuse him either, did you?”

“You think I didn’t try?” she countered, her hands falling to her sides. “You think I went willingly into this? I spoke to the King. I begged him to let me marry you, but—”

Maegor raised a hand sharply, cutting her off, his face twisting as if her words burned him. “Don’t.” His voice was quieter now, but it shook as though anger and grief were entangled within it. “We both know what choices were left to us.”

She blinked, her voice soft now as it trembled with unspoken heartbreak. “You could have left. You could have gone back to Essos.”

“And take you with me?” His voice broke on the question, something anguished in his gaze as he stared at her like she wasn’t real at all, like she was a dream he’d never been able to hold. “Do you think I could have put that life upon you? Pentos, Braavos, Volantis—they’re not places for someone like you, Gael. I couldn’t... I wouldn’t.”

“And yet we’re here,” she said bitterly, wiping at her eyes before the tears could fall. “You with your white cloak. Me with a marriage I didn’t want. So tell me, Maegor. What did it matter? What did it matter?”

He stared down at her, his pain raw and unfettered now. “It mattered to me,” he whispered brokenly. “Don’t you see that? It mattered.”

Her lip quivered as she reached for him, her small hand brushing against his. The faintest touch, and he let it stay. She stepped closer, gently sliding her palm against his calloused hand, and when the other came up to cradle his cheek, he didn’t turn away. He trembled, almost imperceptibly.

“It cannot be,” she whispered, her face close to his, her voice laced with the fragility of knowing this was the last time they’d stand like this. “I fought for us, Maegor. I did. But we lost.”

His eyes stung as they closed, her touch anchoring him in the moment even as her words unraveled him. “I could have been everything for you,” he said quietly, his voice breaking.

“And now you’ll be everything for the realm,” she replied, the words kind but firm. She let her hand fall first, and then her other, removing herself from him, though her heart begged her not to.

He opened his eyes just as she pulled away. “Perhaps... in another life,” she said, her soft smile weighted with sorrow. “Another time.”

His jaw clenched as she stepped back, the tide pulling her from him even as he longed to hold her in place. “Perhaps,” he said finally, though the word shattered something inside him the moment it left his lips.

She lingered only a moment longer, as though searching the air for some way to undo it all. But there was no undoing it. She turned, slipping quietly out of the room the way she had come, her silver hair catching the pale dawn light.

He didn’t move, standing frozen where she had left him, the salty mist from the distant sea the only thing keeping his thoughts tethered to the present. The tide would rise, the sun would climb higher into the morning, and the world would keep moving—but Maegor would never leave that room. Not really.

Not where she had bid him goodbye for the last time.

Gael

93 AC

The garden was alive with summer, the air heavy with the sweet scents of lilacs, roses, and warm grass. Laughter and teasing calls echoed through the labyrinth of blooms, distant but not distant enough. Gael crouched low beneath the heart tree, pressing her back against its pale white bark, her breath quick from both exertion and stifled giggles.

She could hear Daemon’s voice now, brash and full of boyish glee. “Come out, Maegor! Are you afraid? Or are you planning to hide under Gael’s skirts like a craven?”

From further away, Aegon chimed in, his tone taunting. “You can’t even wield a real sword yet! Maybe you’ll grow into one someday, cousin!”

Gael flicked a glance to her side, where Maegor crouched next to her on the soft grass, fists clenched and knuckles pale with restraint. His cheeks were red, his face set in a tight, stormy expression. She knew that look well—he was trying to swallow his anger, holding it back like the tide. He was larger than the boys chasing them, stronger too, but Gael knew his strength frightened even himself when it got out of hand.

“They’re nothing to worry about,” Gael whispered, smiling softly to coax him from his silence.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he focused hard on the far-off sound of the boys' retreating voices, the muscle in his jaw twitching.

“Come on, Maegor,” Gael coaxed again, more gently this time. “Let them go. Hear that? They’ve moved on."

Finally, Maegor exhaled sharply and let himself sink down onto the grass, his fists unclenching as he rested his arms over his knees. “I hate them,” he muttered, still staring at the ground.

Gael sat beside him, her skirts pooling around her crossed legs, and made a show of dusting off her hands. “Aegon and Daemon aren’t so bad,” she said brightly, though she didn’t mean it. “They just like to act bigger than they are. You’ll win against them one day, Maegor. I know you will.”

“I could win against them now,” Maegor insisted, his voice flat with frustration. “But if I fight them, Father will say I’m reckless again. And I hate that too.”

Gael frowned. “It’s not fair,” she said, tracing a finger through the grass. “Let me go tell Mother. She’ll make them stop teasing.”

Maegor shook his head, his pale violet eyes darkening. “It’s pointless. They’ll only come back worse next time.”

For a moment, Gael fell quiet, twisting her fingers into the fabric of her skirt. She tilted her head to look at him, his solemn face turned up to the summer sky. Her heart softened.

“Will you fight in the tournament?” she asked suddenly, her voice lighter, eager to change the subject. “You said you wanted to, to celebrate your family’s return!”

Maegor blinked, startled, and turned to her with a flicker of uncertainty. “The tourney? I… I can’t compete,” he said after a pause, a faint blush rising to his cheeks. “I haven’t won my spurs yet.”

Gael tilted her head in thought, plucking at the hem of her sleeve. “You could be a mystery knight,” she said brightly. “Like Baelon was that time, as the Silver Fool!” Her smile widened as she warmed to the idea. “The King himself might knight you!”

But the moment the words left her lips, she regretted them. Maegor’s face darkened, and she knew she’d stepped too far. Her father casted a long shadow, one that none of them could easily escape. Quickly, she moved to soften the blow.

“Who would you unseat?” she asked instead, pretending not to notice his discomfort.

A small, hesitant smile tugged at the corner of his lips, just faint enough for Gael to call it a victory. “The Lord Commander,” he answered at last. “To show him how strong I am.”

Gael clapped her hands together, filling the air with her merriment. “And will you name a Queen of Love and Beauty?” she asked, her eyes sparkling like the lavender blooms above.

Maegor flushed deeply this time, his gaze darting to the side as he rubbed at the back of his neck. “I don’t know,” he said gruffly. “Do I have to?”

“Of course you do!” Gael giggled, throwing herself backward onto the grass and spreading her arms as if to embrace the sky. “That’s what you do in a tourney—you crown the prettiest lady with a beautiful wreath, and everyone cheers!” She sighed wistfully. “If I had one of those crowns, I’d wear it forever. I’d never take it off, not once!”

Maegor stayed quiet, though his gaze lingered on her—her wide smile, the sunlight catching in her hair, the way the edges of her skirt fanned out like petals. Slowly, he turned to the lilacs blooming along the garden wall. He rose to his knees, moving with unexpected care, and began plucking the pale blossoms from their stems.

Gael propped herself up on her elbows, watching as he returned to her side with an armful of lilacs. He sat cross-legged, his thick fingers surprisingly deft as he began weaving the flowers into a delicate crown.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice a mix of curiosity and excitement.

He didn’t answer until he’d finished. Holding the lilac circle in both hands, Maegor turned to her, his cheeks still faintly pink as he placed the makeshift crown atop her head. His touch was gentler than she expected, his brow furrowed with quiet focus as he adjusted it just so.

“You are my queen of love and beauty,” he declared at last, his tone solemn, serious, as though committing the words to memory.

Gael blinked, taken aback by the intensity in his gaze, the vivid sincerity in his voice. She felt her cheeks warm. “And what does a queen do?” she asked softly, tilting her head as if testing the weight of the crown.

“She rules everything,” Maegor replied without hesitation. He knelt in front of her, his hand settling lightly on the hilt of his wooden sword. “And I’ll be your sworn sword. No one will ever hurt you. Not ever.”

Her heart swelled, fluttering in her chest with something she couldn’t yet name. Touching the lilacs on her brow, she smiled, soft and shy. “Then I will be your queen, Maegor,” she whispered. “Always.”

In the warmth of that summer afternoon, it felt to them both as though the world had stopped. For a brief, fleeting moment, the garden was theirs—the only promise that mattered sworn amidst lilacs and sunlight.

Neither knew how heavy those promises would one day weigh.

Maegor

92 AC

The Red Keep was larger than Maegor could have imagined. Its labyrinth of stone corridors and towering ceilings made him feel small, despite how much he had grown in recent years. The polished floors reflected torchlight, and every echo of his boots seemed to ricochet endlessly, filling the vast silence with noise he couldn’t escape.

It was nothing like the manse in Pentos, where the rooms were small and snug, the air smelling always of spice and sea brine. The manse had been suffocating in its own way, trapping him between whispered conversations and his father’s sharp commands, the unspoken truths weighing heavier than the humid Essosi air.

But here... here in the cavernous halls of the Red Keep, the weight came from watching eyes. Servants stole quick, darting glances when they thought he wouldn’t notice, their faces carefully blank. Guards tilted their heads together in muttered conversation as he passed, their voices low but not low enough. And worst of all, his family.

Daeron's gaze skated past him, cold and distant, as if it wasn’t worth the effort. Aerys barely looked at him at all. Even Vaella—gentle, kind Vaella—offered little more than fleeting, awkward smiles before retreating to the side of another sibling.

And so Maegor walked through these halls not with the anticipation of a boy coming home to his kin, but with the guarded apprehension of someone trying to convince the world he belonged.

When the Queen summoned him to her solar, he expected another lesson in stiff formalities—a thin-lipped smile, a brush of false courtesy, perhaps a strained word or two about the importance of family. But when the doors opened, there was… her.

“This is Gael,” Queen Alysanne said, her voice calm but firm, weighted in a way that always made Maegor feel like he should stand straighter, though it was never enough. She rested her hand lightly on the back of the girl’s chair. “Your aunt has been eager to meet you.”

Gael sat perched by the window, sunlight spilling around her small frame like a halo as her silver hair tumbled loose over her shoulders. In her lap, a kitten lay curled, its milk-white fur soft against her silk skirts. She stroked it absentmindedly with one delicate hand. At first, Maegor thought she looked like a doll—fragile, perfect, and untouchable, like the porcelain figures he’d seen in Pentos.

But then her eyes turned to him.

Softly violet and startlingly calm, her gaze met his with an openness he found jarring. She was not wary, like his cousins had been when they first saw him. Not curious either, or guarded, or pitying. Just… steady, unshaken, and entirely focused on him.

“You’re Maegor,” she said suddenly, with the quiet certainty of a child who saw no reason to question it.

His breath caught. For half a moment, he felt weightless.

The name fell into the still air of the solar like a stone into water. Maegor. His true name. She said it like it belonged to him, with no mockery, no whispered poison, no venom wrapped in courtly smiles. But even as the unexpected relief washed over him, his fists curled instinctively at his sides.

Because it couldn’t last.

It never lasted.

“Aegor,” Queen Alysanne corrected smoothly, her voice so precise it cut almost gently, as though sweeping the mistake under the rug. “Gael, remember what I said about names.”

Maegor dropped his eyes to the stone floor, his heart slipping out of his chest and crashing back to earth. He didn’t need to see the queen’s face to feel her correction ripple through the room—to the guards at the door, the faint rustle of the maids hovering nearby. Her words glided across them all, the name she insisted he wear like a drape thrown across something unseemly.

Aegor.

It scraped against his throat every time he was made to speak it, dulled and wrong in his mouth. A false name, a poor disguise he was expected to wear because his true one was too sharp, too much like his father’s.

Yet Gael did not seem fazed.

She tilted her head, considering the correction, but then dismissed it just as quickly. She looked back at him—really looked at him—and said simply, “Maegor suits you.”

The words sat between them, quiet yet unflinching, untouched by Alysanne’s reminder. Not in defiance, but in truth. As though to Gael, his name had no shadow clinging to it. No weighty expectation or quiet shame. No whispers of what he might become.

Her violet gaze remained locked on him, steady and wholly unafraid, and slowly, Maegor felt the tension in his chest slacken. His fists relaxed. He let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

For the first time, his name didn’t feel like something he should apologize for.

“You’re very tall,” Gael said after a quiet moment, breaking the spell with a blunt, matter-of-fact observation.

It startled him more than her insistence on calling him Maegor. He blinked, momentarily unsure how to respond. “…I am,” he said finally, his voice cautious.

She didn’t seem to notice the awkwardness in his tone. Instead, she shifted the bundle of fur in her lap, lifting the tiny creature as though presenting it to him. “Do you like cats?” she asked, her tone bright with curiosity. “This is Snow.”

The simplicity of her question took him entirely off guard. No empty politeness, no prodding about Pentos, his parents, or why he was here now when he so clearly didn’t belong. Just… cats.

“I…” He hesitated, the flush reaching the tips of his ears. “I don’t know.”

Gael considered this with the solemnity of a scholar, her small hand stroking the kitten’s soft fur one more time before she extended the creature toward him with absolute confidence. “Here. You can pet her,” she said. “She’s very soft.”

Maegor froze, unsure what to do. His scarred hands hung at his sides, rough and unpolished from too many hours spent gripping a wooden sword too tightly. He stared at the small creature as though it might leap at him.

But she waited patiently, watching him with the same unflinching openness. Slowly, awkwardly, he reached forward and brushed his fingers against the kitten’s fur. Snow blinked, then leaned into his palm, the soft warmth of it nuzzling his hand.

“She likes you,” Gael said softly, a faint note of approval in her tone.

Behind him, there came the faint shuffle of Queen Alysanne’s skirts as she moved to sit down. He barely noticed. His focus was entirely on the tiny creature in his hand—and the strange, fragile warmth spreading in his chest.

It wasn’t just the kitten. It was Gael, her voice calm and unafraid, her gaze steady, and the way she said his name like it wasn’t sharp or heavy or cursed at all. Like it was just his.

“I think I like cats,” he murmured, barely loud enough to be heard.

Her soft smile widened ever so slightly, and without waiting, she tugged on his sleeve to pull him toward the door. “Come on!” she said. “I’ll show you the gardens.”

For the first time, perhaps ever, he let himself follow.

Later, among the winding paths and bright summer blooms, her voice would fill the spaces between them—the names of flowers he’d already forgotten, the occasional chatter of Snow at her heels, the soft certainty in the little moments she trusted him with her attention.

But what would stay with him most, far into the days and years to come, was the way she said his name—Maegor—without hesitation, without shame. As though she saw no shadow in it at all.