55. Maegor XXXI / Shiera XV

Hello everyone! Sorry for the short delay, this chapter gave me some trouble when writing it. Please let me know your thoughts in the comments. Timeskip next chapter so look forward to that. With all that said, I hope you all enjoy the chapter and have a wonderful day!

Maegor XXXI

11th Moon, 39AC

I gripped Terrax’s reins tightly as I pulled us around for another swoop over the Gates of the Moon. The wind howled past us, cold and sharp, but Daeron’s laughter echoed louder. His small hands clutched the saddle in front of me, his silver-gold hair streaming behind him like a banner in the wind.

Below, the pale stone walls of House Arryn’s ancient seat glittered with frost and snow, guards pointing skyward as Terrax circled overhead. Daeron twisted to look up at me, eyes bright. “Higher, Father!” he cried.

I smiled, tugging ever so slightly on the reins of my dragon, and giving the verbal command too. The dragon surged upward, wings cutting through the air as the clouds drew nearer and nearer. Terrax did not need the verbal command, given we had long since grown close enough to make do with mental orders and requests, but this was more than a leisure ride, this was also a lesson. 

All of my children had spent what must have amounted to days in the saddle with me, high above cities and coastlines, learning the rhythm of wingbeats and the feel of shifting wind beneath a dragon’s body. To some, it might have seemed too early, perhaps too dangerous, but I would not have my children face their first flight unready. They would ride prepared, or not at all. 

Riding a dragon was not a science to be learned from books, nor a trick that could be taught through repetition alone. It was an art, one honed through instinct, effort, and learning. No two dragons were the same. Each had their own temperament, some cunning, some aloof, and others terrifyingly eager. Their size, speed, shape, and spirit all demanded a different, practiced hand. Riding a dragon was not a game, an unpracticed hand or overconfidence could easily lead to foolish mistakes in the best case and catastrophic errors in the worst case. I had to ensure that my children were ready. 

My mother had been eager to begin their education in the ancient dragon lore of our house. It was vital, of course, every drop of that information could and would help them one day when it was time to ride their dragons. But, time in front of a book must be squared with proper practice as well. I wanted my sons and daughters to understand that dragons were not toys, nor pets, nor merely weapons. They were living fire, ancient and proud. To bond with a dragon was more than a partnership, it was a bond, unbreakable and strong. 

Gone were the days when my family could call upon Dragon Horns and other magics to enforce our will onto dragons. The ancient histories spoke of such spells but they had been lost during one of my ancestors turbulent reigns. Not that I would particularly want my children to use such tools anyway, there was a speciality to the bond between a rider and their dragon. A bond that could make them combined far more devastating and efficient. 

That was why I flew with them again and again. Why I showed them rather than simply told them. Why I guided their hands on the reins, let them feel the movement of a dragon beneath their feet, let them see the proper commands work. I wanted them to see how a dragon should be ridden, not just be told. 

“Having fun?” I asked over the wind, letting go of the reins to ruffle my son’s messy silver-gold hair. Our time away from much civilization had led to it growing out a bit. He was not quite near Baelon’s level, but he was due for a haircut. 

“Yes! I cannot wait until I can ride Vhagar!” he shouted, excitedly pulling on the reins back and forth. Terrax didn’t so much as twitch, of course, he only answered to me.

I chuckled, messing with his hair some more. “Finally done chasing eggs?”

Daeron fell quiet for a moment, the clouds catching in his hair and the mountain winds nipping at his reddened cheeks. Then, more softly, he spoke once more. “Father… what is it like having a dragon?”

That question never got easier, no matter how many times he pestered me or his siblings about it. 

I took a breath, letting the silence stretch between us as Terrax soared on, wings outstretched and steady. “It’s… hard to explain. It is like finding out there is more to you than you thought previously. A piece of you that you did not know was missing until it was found again,” I said, my words uneasy. 

It was hard to put into words what exactly a dragon bond was like. I hardly remembered not being bonded to Terrax, given I claimed my temperamental dragon when I was just over half Daeron’s age. But I knew it was markedly worse than after I had claimed my dragon. Perhaps it was just something that had to be experienced, an emptiness that isn't perceivable until it is filled. 

Daeron looked down, toward the world far below, small and white and blue in the distance. “I want that,” he murmured.

I did not answer right away, trying to decide my next response. Of course, he wanted it. He had wanted it for years. I had seen it in the way he watched Baelon, Visenya, and even Daenys play with their hatchlings, how he pouted and stewed when I went to retrieve Meleys’ egg from the hatcheries, how eagerly he asked for an egg from Quicksilver when my brother arrived in Pentos more than two years ago. His desire for a dragon was obvious to anyone paying attention. 

“I know you do,” I said quietly. “But a dragon bond is a special thing, you only get one.”

Daeron’s jaw tensed at that. He said nothing, but his eyes remained fixed on the world below. The snowy peaks of the Mountains of the Moon passed beneath us, their white caps shining the light of the midday sun right back at us.

“I understand that you want a dragon, Daeron. Believe me, I do, but you must also believe me when I say that patience is a virtue,” I said, trying to ease him some more. Our time in Essos had done wonders for him, but he clearly needed more. 

“It doesn’t feel like it,” he muttered. “It feels unfair.”

 I didn’t chastise him. Because he was correct, it was quite unfair. But that unfairness went both ways. When his time came, and when he finally claimed Vhagar for himself, he will ride the second largest dragon alive, rivaled only by the Black Dread himself. 

“It is unfair, Daeron,” I began, his head whipping around to look at me with his large, dark purple eyes, the same as mine and my mother’s. 

“But then…” he started, but I was not finished. 

“But life is not fair, now is it?” I asked as he turned his eyes back downward. 

“No,” he responded simply, but I was again not done with him. 

“But that goes both ways, Daeron. Yes, you must wait longer than your siblings and cousins. But your prize is greater than all of theirs combined. Just look at your cousin, he had patience and he waited and now he rides Balerion the Black Dread,” I said with a smile, shaking Daeron a little to cheer him up. 

“What does that have to do with Vhagar?” Daeron asked, his sullen mood momentarily replaced with interest. 

“Vhagar is the one dragon alive that compares, Daeron,” I began. “Only Vhagar can claim to have half the achievements and might as my father’s dragon.” 

Daeron perked up at that a little, his eyes flicking toward me, then back out to the horizon. The edge of sulking still lingered around his mouth, but I could tell the gears in his head were turning. He knew how mighty Vhagar was, knew it better than most, given his time riding in the saddle with his grandmother, but I don’t think it had ever truly sunk in that he would one day ride her. That he wouldn’t just be a dragonrider. He would be Vhagar’s rider. 

But as his gaze dropped again, a new shadow passed across his features. One I recognized, my son was mature for his age, and he had recently grasped more of a concept I was not happy to be teaching. 

“Doesn’t she have to die first?” he asked, already knowing the answer to that question. 

“She does,” I said, simply.

He didn’t look at me, but his hands gripped the saddle a little tighter. “I don’t want her to die.”

“I know you don’t,” I began. “Neither do I.”

He said nothing for a long moment, and I didn’t press him. The wind moved around us, thin and cold, threading through his hair and whipping at his already pink, burned cheeks.

“It’s not fair,” he whispered again, but this time it wasn’t angry or petulant, just small. “That I have to wait for her to… to be gone. That I have to lose her to get what I want.”

“It is not fair, but it is a fact of life, Daeron,” I began as he turned to look at me, small tears appearing like pinpricks in the corner of his eyes. 

“It is not wrong to want your own dragon,” I continued. “Nor is it wrong to feel eager. But neither is it wrong to love your grandmother so dearly that the thought of inheriting Vhagar feels just as much like a punishment as a prize.”

Daeron blinked rapidly, looking away again, ashamed of the tears though he had no reason to be. I did not draw attention to them. It was a cruel thing for a boy of not even 10 name days to have to reason with, but we lived in a cruel world. But I could at least offer him some comfort and protection in this world, even if he would one day have to brave it himself. 

“I know it hurts, Daeron,” I said softly, hugging my son close to me. “It’s a cruel thing that what you want and what you love can be at odds. But you must learn to carry both truths in your chest without letting one swallow the other.”

He sniffed once, then wiped his face quickly with the sleeve of his cloak. “It feels wrong, being excited to have Vhagar when it means she will be gone.” 

“I know,” I said, and smiled. “And that too is alright. You can love your grandmother with all your heart and still long for the dragon she rides. That’s not betrayal, Daeron, it is not wrong. It is just how we Targaryens live, our lives are interwoven with dragons.

I leaned forward, wrapping one arm gently around his middle and pulling him a bit closer against me, the wind buffeting my back. “Your grandmother is old, but she is not dead. She is still here, still strong, still fierce, and still yours. Don’t mourn her before her time.”

“I won’t,” he whispered, nodding fiercely, his fire somewhat restored. 

“Good,” I said. “Because the day will come when you have your own dragon, a mount worthy of you. But that day is not this one. And it should not be. Today, you have your grandmother, her voice, her stories, her wisdom, her laugh, even her sharp tongue.”

He gave a little breath of a laugh at that, barely audible over the wind. I saw him thinking, the tears dried now, but his brows furrowed in the thoughtful, stubborn way he always had when chewing over something hard.

“So… don’t stop hoping for the future. But… don’t lose the present either,” he reasoned, and my smile only grew wider. 

I smiled, proud and aching in equal measure. “Exactly that.”

Daeron nodded once, small and serious.

Then, after a long pause, he spoke once more. “Do you think she’ll take me flying when we get back to Dragonstone?” he asked, and I nearly burst out laughing. 

“I doubt you will even have to ask. If you wait long enough, I suspect she will ask you,” I said, getting some surprised laughter from my eldest son. 

Daeron grew quiet again, but this silence was different. Not heavy with grief, but thoughtful. Even so, I saw the way his eyes drifted, how his jaw clenched faintly as we crested a hill and the castle came into view again.

“You’re not the only one without a dragon, you know,” I said softly, watching his gaze sharpen. “Your betrothed doesn’t have one either,”  I added, more gently, hoping to ease him away from the grim thoughts of Vhagar and death.

Daeron shifted in the saddle, his response immediate, the dismissal already waiting. “Alysanne is younger. It is not the same.”

“Six years younger,” I agreed. “But you’ll find that waiting doesn’t hurt less just because you’re small.”

“Pshh,” he dismissed, crossing his arms. “She actually got an egg, it just didn’t hatch,” he said haughtily, not unlike his grandmother. 

“Is that not worse than waiting? Worse than not knowing what dragon will one day be yours?” I queried, hoping to get him to appreciate his situation some more. 

“It just shows she is weak. The dragon would have hatched for me,” he said confidently, his bravado returning to the forefront. I arched a brow in response, but didn’t challenge him just yet. I decided to let him speak some more, my curiosity had been drawn.

“She doesn’t even look like a Targaryen. Her hair is blonde and her eyes are blue,” he said, his tone dismissive and superior. I was interested in prodding his mind some more, but this had to be nipped in the bud early. 

“But she is. She is just as Targaryen as you or your siblings, perhaps even more so. Given your aunt has more Targaryen blood than your mother does,” I said, dropping some information onto my son that he was clearly not privy to. 

“She does?” he asked, befuddled. 

“Indeed. Her great-grandmother was a Targaryen, and the Velaryons have intermarried with our family for generations before her,” I said, hoping to even out his feeling of superiority. I did not mind if he had a little bit of it, hell, pretty much everyone in our family did to some degree, but it had to be tempered. 

He looked contemplative at the news. His mind no doubt racing to find more excuses or ways to explain his preconceived notions. 

“What about your other cousins? Is Aegon weak?” I decided to ask next, hopefully letting him think his thoughts aloud so I could better dissect them. 

Daeron shook his head. “Aegon is strong. He is smart and he is a good fighter, like you,” he said, looking up at me for some approval for his comparison. Instead, I simply continued staring at him. I was satisfied with the answer, but I wanted more. 

“Viserys is strong, too. He needs to get better at fighting, and he is really annoying about Silverwing, but he is… good,” Daeron said, struggling to find words for his rival. 

Their friendship and rivalry had grown considerably over the last few moons. I was pleased with the result, but it meant that both sides could get into pretty heated debates and frequently picked playful fights and arguments. It was part of the reason I took Daeron with me. Both to give Baelon some space to breathe and to get some one on one time with my firstborn. 

“And the rest?” I queried, raising an eyebrow once again. 

Daeron paused for a long while, clearly collecting his thoughts. “I don’t care about Rhaena,” he muttered. “She is weird and looks at us all weirdly. She also cries too much,” he said disinterestedly. I resisted the urge to facepalm as I heard his pretty correct description of my niece. From what I had gathered, she was a hot mess ever since she figured out she was pregnant. I would have rebuked him and told him to be kinder to her, but I figured Rhaena would immediately undo any help I tried to give her in regards to this. 

“And Jaehaerys is annoying, he is too quiet and is always playing alone,” he dismissed in a huff. I could only sigh as I pieced together the mess that my frequent absences and the not-at-all amazing parentage of my brother and his bitch wife had made.

My goal had been to unite our families, keep them whole and united behind one common cause and ties. So far, it had been working relatively well, but the complexities of interpersonal relationships were beginning to cause problems in my plans. 

I would have to ensure that my sons and my nephews remained on good terms. I decided then and there that Baelon would be joining Daeron and Viserys in the yard as soon as Viserys was ready to resume his training. It was a little early for him but I wanted to ensure that Daeron and Baelon remained close. The bond between Daeron, Baelon, Viserys, and Jaehaerys had the potential to be the glue that held our family together for another generation or two, given the correct marriages be made and the right friendships be maintained.

“Do not set yourself in your ways, Daeron. Family is important in this world. They are the only ones that you can trust,” I said, reminding him of the words I had spoken many times before. 

“I know. It's just annoying when my cousins are so weird,” Daeron mused, resuming his awestruck cheer as Terrax quit soaring and began going for loops and dives, deciding to stave off his own boredom. 

It did not last long, however, as the reason that we were in the Vale was to deal with a rebellion after all, not just teach lessons on Dragoback. 

…

Winter was an odd thing here in Westeros. Granted, it was odd in Pentos too, but the sheer lack of people to be found was bewildering. The halls of the Gates of the Moon bustled with servants moving about their duties, but beyond the thick stone walls, silence hung heavy. Most merchants had ceased their business or moved only sluggishly, farmers were idle beneath snowdrifts, and even soldiers found fewer reasons to muster, their need diminished by the bitter cold and unforgiving conditions. 

It was precisely this stillness that made dealing with the situation in the Vale such a headache. I had been here two moons now, yet the unrest lingered, festering like a wound that refused to heal. 

The nobles protested, refusing to take up arms against the warriors of the Faith, even as those same zealots harassed merchants and loyalists alike. Few had outright declared for the faith, and the few who had were quickly met by Terrax’s green flames, but the campaign of civil disobedience was more difficult to deal with.

I walked the vast halls of the stout castle with Daeron at my side, my personal guard marching in tight formation behind us. They had arrived a moon before, dispatched directly from Pentos. I trusted these men implicitly, I paid their wages, I knew their families, and they had served me loyally for years now. I trusted Lord Ronnel Arryn as well, but his soldiers? Less so. The scars from my previous life lingered still, memories of betrayal and disloyalty that left me wary.

Lord Ronnel awaited us in his solar, standing by a heavy oaken table littered with parchments and maps. His pale eyes met mine with a weariness I understood all too well. 

“We are lucky Winter has only just begun,” he spoke with just a hint of mirth, the sardonic kind. 

“Are their raids that damaging?” I asked, taking a seat across from him. Meanwhile, Daeron watched from the corner of the room with interest. I had been having him sit in on all of my meetings for the last few moons, and I was not about to stop now. 

“No, not yet. The garrisons along the mountain passes have remained loyal, thankfully. But the raids on farms and the outskirts of towns are growing troublesome,” he said knowingly. We had both been suffering this annoyance of a rebellion for the last two moons together after all. 

I had been dispatched here by my brother. I was more than happy to acquiesce to his request, on account of needing to restore some level of meaning to his word. But it left me filled with dread. 

To put it simply, the more of my new life I lived, the less relevant my old life became. When I had first woken up in my body, details were fresh, and little had changed. But since then? My actions had all but flipped the board entirely. I no longer knew how things would play out, when they would happen, or even who would be involved. 

I could, of course, fall back on my now years' worth of experience fighting campaigns and my knowledge of how to deal with guerrilla warfare, but even that was limited in this scenario. It was not like the Reach or Riverlands, where more than a dozen lords each had raised armies and risen in open revolt, no, the lords of the Vale were mostly smarter. 

Some had been stupid enough to rise in open revolt, and those stupid few had quickly perished. But the remaining cowards and traitors were smarter about their disobedience. Lord Ronnel had called upon his nobles to call their banners and put down the rebelling Faith Militant, but few answered his call. 

House Royce had, along with a few other smaller houses dependent on the patronage of House Arryn. But most other houses in the Vale had refused for one reason or another. A few were bold enough to admit they would not willingly raise their swords against warriors of the Faith. But most were again more clever about it. 

They complained of food shortages, logistical challenges, manpower problems, and some even of being snowed in. I believed most of these to be falsehoods, crafted as an excuse to avoid fighting the Faith. But without proper investigations, I could not be certain. 

In times like this, the tried and true burn it all down method was reliable and would most likely work, but it was the exact opposite of what we were trying to accomplish. If I went around burning every single castle in the Vale, loyalist or not, then it would quickly destroy any and all credibility we might have. 

We did not have the infrastructure to entirely replace the leadership caste of Westeros, nor the merchants, clergymen, and the many peasants who would die in such a bloody effort. The coffers were already struggling due to the deployment of armies in winter, and Aegon’s headhunting edicts, trying to implement my father and mother’s strategy in Dorne would be a pyrrhic victory. Not to mention putting oceans of blood on my hands. 

I wished I had an easier solution for this problem. But this was a region that could not be brought to heel in a few moons like what Aenys was doing in the Riverlands in Reach. The Vale would require several dragons, loyal collaborators, even more loyal soldiers, and more attention from House Targaryen. 

To put it frankly, I was wasting time here. While I waited in the Vale, hopelessly following bandits and searching for clues on who and who was not truly loyal. My brother lost half of the Stormlander army and many loyalist lords in the Reach while my nephew continued to make a mess of the Riverlands. It was untenable. 

I sighed, running a hand over my face. “This war… is not just a matter of sword and shield anymore. The enemy doesn’t always wear a banner or march in formation. Sometimes they wear the faces of those who swear loyalty, but plot treason behind closed doors,” I spoke plainly, of a truth we both understood. I disliked the notion of leaving the Vale under Ronnel’s watch. But I felt I had little choice. 

Lord Ronnel’s pale eyes darkened with the weight of that truth. “Aye. The lines have blurred. Some of my own lords, noble houses that I once considered steadfast, continue to give me excuses. They raise no banners and refuse to stand against the Faith Militant. I have no proof of them colluding with the Faith, but your theories look more believable by the day, my prince.”

I looked down at the scattered parchments. “Proof. We need proof, Lord Ronnel. We need to know exactly, or at least have plausible deniability of who is loyal and who is not. Who is making excuses, and who genuinely cannot muster forces? Without it, we will merely be playing into the propaganda of the faith.”

“It will take time to gather such proof. Moons, potentially, perhaps even longer, thanks to winter. The longer we wait, the worse this rebellion will grow. The more people they will win over and the more nobles will grow bold,” he cautioned. 

“Let them grow bold. Bold fools make mistakes. In the meantime, my attention is required elsewhere,” I said, standing up and holding in a sigh. 

I really did not want to leave my ally high and dry like this. My family, more specifically my mother, had kept at least decent relations with the Vale for most of her life after the conquest. Nothing like the extensive networks of allies and friends that my father maintained but my mother shared the occasional letter with Lord Ronnel, and my teacher was brought in from the Vale. For my mother, that spoke volumes. 

Which made my withdrawal all the more difficult. I had already intervened here once to stabilize the situation and protect my ally. I had warned Lord Ronnel of whispers of a rebellion amongst his ranks. Or more specifically, I had my mother write it. I was thankful that he had listened, and his brother was discovered before his plot could be implemented. But I was once again running into the issue of the damnable butterfly effect. 

I could no longer rely on my memories to protect my allies or family, for the most part at least. I would have to trust my gut and my allies themselves. The Gates of the Moon were strong and sturdy, so I had little worry from that. But if Lord Ronnel could be deposed in a palace coup once. Could he be assassinated too? 

The possibilities were making my head spin, which was why I had to leave the bitter cold and return to something I was good at. Waging war.

My services would be far more helpful further south, where the snows were shallower and the weather more tolerable. Where armies had formed and could be crushed with strategy and fire. 

Remaining here was untenable, so the situation in the Vale would have to be shelved for the time being. Something that House Targaryen would have to deal with as a whole, when the weather turned, and hopefully the outlook of the war did as well. 

I gave Lord Ronnel a curt nod. “I will leave the Vale in your hands, for now.” 

“You are leaving?” he asked simply, no doubt already knowing the truth from our previous words. 

I looked him dead in the eyes as I made my decision. “Yes, but when the season turns once more. When the snows clear and the rebels are outed and defenseless. I shall return.”

__________________________________________________________________________

Shiera XV

11th Moon, 39AC

The soft mumbling of Shiera’s youngest daughter brought a smile to her face. Little Daenys’s fingers curled tightly around her own, warm and impossibly small. Her presence grounded Shiera, offering a precious anchor in days that had grown darker than she liked to admit. Daenys was her last child, a final gift before she and her husband agreed to stop for her safety. Given how rapidly her other children were growing, she decided to enjoy this time as much as she could manage. 

Across the chamber, the quiet creak of a rocking chair filled the otherwise mostly silent room with a quiet background noise. Visenya sat there, motion steady, calm hands cradling Alysanne Targaryen with a surprising tenderness. The half-asleep little girl rested her head against Visenya’s chest, her cute blonde curls draped across her body haphazardly

It was an oddly domestic sight, one that would have felt at odds with how Shiera used to know Visenya to be. Yet time had changed her old mentor and goodmother. Her time in Pentos had softened her demeanor, toward her grandchildren specifically, she could be as ruthless as ever when it came to strangers, or other kin.

Visenya had changed greatly since Shiera first met her. Where originally Visenya would spend her days atop her dragon alone or in front of a desk, now she spent them in the company of her grandchildren, on dragonback or being led around her ancestral castle. The image made Shiera smile, she had walked a turbulent road to become part of this family but ever since the Faceless Men were defeated, the tranquility that she had longed for had returned. 

Of course, tranquility rarely lasted long in this turbulent world. First came King Aegon’s death, quick and unexpected. From there, it seemed as if the world was determined to keep her family apart, whether through war or other diplomatic needs.

First, her family moved back to Dragonstone, after years of getting used to and growing to love Pentos. Her life was uprooted once more. But that paled in comparison to the death of her mother, niece, and nephew. 

That news had come as a particularly harsh blow. She had not spent much time with her mother since moving to King’s Landing and she had never even met her niece and nephew. But word of their death brought a sharp pain to her. 

The prospect of her mother never seeing her grandchildren again. Of Shiera never getting to meet her niece and nephew. Of those potential times with her family being stripped away. It was like a knife to the abdomen.  

Perhaps it should come to no surprise then that Shiera treasured the time she had with her family. The time that she would get to spend with the children who were not with their father halfway across the world, and the goodmother who had all but raised her. She and Visenya would spend many days like this, oftentimes working to run Dragonstone but also spending considerable time simply talking, with or without the children present.

“How can she possibly be so exhausted? She barely did anything today,” Visenya spoke in a whisper that would be barely audible if not for the near-total silence in the room. 

Shiera smiled, shifting slightly to keep Daenys comfortable in her arms. “She’s not even four name days old. Just being awake is exhausting for them. Do you not remember how tired your namesake used to get?” Shiera said with a small smirk. 

Visenya’s gaze didn’t lift from the slumbering girl in her arms, but there was a faint huff of breath, not quite a scoff but close. “She will need more energy if she is to live up to her destiny,” she spoke with narrowed eyes, staring daggers into the back of the blonde haired girl’s head. 

“Then we ought to let her rest. For she will have many sleepless nights ahead of her,” Shiera said, resigned. 

The plans that she, Visenya, and her husband had come up with for Alysanne gave Shiera conflicted feelings. Before Aenys visited them in Pentos, before her husband finalized the betrothals for her children, Shiera had been against her children marrying their cousins at all. 

She liked their life in Pentos. Secure in their home won through fire and blood. Getting involved with the other Targaryens across the sea simply felt like they would be giving up the peace that they had for little gain. Not to mention she wanted to ensure that her children’s futures were secure. Who better for them to marry but each other? 

Yet it was not to be. Politics demanded that the gap between the two Targaryen branches be mended. The potential conflict her husbands spoke of, no matter how impossible it seemed, terrified her as much as it did him. She was already petrified of the day that her daughter would be allowed to fly Vermithor, let alone fight on dragonback.

So the next aspect of their plan came into action. If she could not ensure that her children would marry their siblings, then she would just have to ensure that her nephew and niece, who would one day marry into her family, were as suitable as they could be. 

Maegor had already begun work on Prince Viserys. According to him, he was shaping up just on schedule. That just left Alysanne, the daughter of her most embittered enemy and the future queen of Pentos. 

She had little interest in the child at first. Her being a toddler and firmly in the clutches of her mother meant that Shiera did not exactly have many opportunities to get to her. But that had since changed with the tragic loss of Vaella.

Despite her previous animosity toward the wretched Seahorse, she could at least sympathize with her over that. It was a tragedy to lose a child, and Shiera could hardly imagine the pain she must be in. Regardless, she had been afforded an opportunity to step into Alysanne Targaryen’s life, and she had no interest in giving up her foothold. 

She had originally been planning on being just as ruthless with the little Andal-looking child as Visenya was planning to be. An even tougher regimen and more expectant standards than she had dealt with in her youth. Yet her time with the little girl had made her question that. 

Shiera was more than content enough to take her time with her own children. Ensuring that they were not handed challenges before they were ready to deal with them. That was why only Daeron had begun his magical training. As both she and her husband had decided that Baelon and Visenya were too immature to begin properly. 

Yet they had originally planned to throw Alysanne into the thick of it the moment she was ready. Shiera could already tell that Visenya was planning each aspect of her training. Each lesson she was determined to instill into her little head the moment she was able. Yet Shiera’s opinion on the girl had softened. 

Time spent with her following Alyssa’s grief-stricken departure from court had mellowed her attitude. Perhaps it was because Shiera was still not even thirty name days old. But the urgency she had felt to get started and her ruthless desire to shape the girl had lessened, it was still there, but in a less powerful state. 

Shiera adjusted Daenys in her arms, easing Shiera’s sore shoulders. She watched as Visenya continued her gentle rocking, the movement fiercely at odds with the intensity in her eyes. There was tenderness in the way she held Alysanne, but it was a sort of false tenderness, like a smile that did not reach one's eyes.

“How long do you plan to wait?” Visenya asked, not bothering to disguise the sharpness in her tone. “She will need to start somewhere, and the sooner we start, the easier it will be to shape her.”

Shiera did not immediately respond. Instead, she traced idle circles across Daenys’s back. “She’s not ready, not yet,” she said softly. “She barely speaks in full sentences. What good is it to teach her histories and tactics if her mind isn’t yet strong enough to hold it all?”

“She doesn’t need to hold it all,” Visenya countered. “She needs to start. To understand that learning is not optional. She does not get to laze around in leisure all day. She is to be a queen, one who will bear the future of our house, she must be ready.”

Shiera let out a quiet sigh, not of annoyance but of weariness. “And when she falters in her lessons? Struggles with her tasks? Fails at her tests? Crumbles before a foundation has even formed? What then?”

Visenya finally turned her eyes away from Alysanne, meeting Shiera’s gaze. “She is a Targaryen. Crumbling is not permitted.”

“She’s also a child,” Shiera replied calmly, though there was steel beneath her words. “And not even my child. We are raising her to marry Daeron, to strengthen our line. But if we do not treat her with some measure of patience, we will only raise another bitter soul or weak fool. Another angry, resentful girl like her mother or an indecisive, frightful girl like her father.”

Visenya was quiet for a moment, fingers absently stroking Alysanne’s honey-colored curls.“How much time do we have to waste?” 

“Plenty. Even when the queen remembers that she is in fact a mother to more than one child again. We will have plenty of power to throw around. Maegor already has a firm grasp on Viserys. With how busy Aenys and his court are to be, none will be able to stop our efforts,” Shiera reaffirmed. She had been slightly worried at first. But it was clear that there was so much work to be done in Westeros that even if Aenys had some objections to their plans for his daughter, he would be much too busy to properly hamper them in any real way. That was also assuming that Maegor did not win him over to his side, as he was so capable of doing. 

“She’ll be ready by her fifth name day,” Visenya finally said, as if delivering an edict. “I’ll start her with history and politics. Nothing too difficult.”

That was roughly in line with her own children, so Shiera could agree to that. With a nod, she eased up in her chair, relaxing slightly and lowering Daenys into a more comfortable position on her chest. She had not meant to get so attached to Alysanne, but she supposed it was only natural. Especially given her extended time with Alysanne’s other family. 

She obviously spent as little time as she could manage with Alyssa. What with her still being an insufferable bitch in the best of times. But that had been eased by her grief-stricken isolation. It was the rest of Alyssa’s family that Shiera had grown closer to. In particular, Rhaena. 

That was not to say that she had a poor relationship with the boys. She was amicable and friendly with all three of Aenys’s sons. Aegon mostly ignored her, but he was always kind and courteous around her. Viserys’s friendship and rivalry with Daeron was positively adorable. Then Jaehaerys was the coldest with her, but she had spent considerable time with the little boy over the last few moons, especially in Alyssa’s absence. It was still mostly Rhaena and the maids who cared for him, but Rhaena certainly needed all the help she could get. 

Shiera looked down at her sweet, innocent daughter. Daenys was as of yet untroubled by the world. More worried about being hungry and bored than the troubles beggaring even her elder sister Visenya, let alone the complex monstrosity that had become Rhaena’s life. 

To put it simply, her niece was a walking catastrophe. A beautiful, glittering disaster walking on two legs. A girl who had once laughed louder than anyone in court, who had skipped rather than walked down hallways, who had flung her arms around the necks of strangers and pestered them endlessly for entertainment. That had been the girl Shiera remembered Rhaena to be. But that was not the image reflected back at her now. Now she was hardly a shell of that girl. 

She supposed it had all traced back to the death of King Aegon. As a great many problems seemed to. But it was far, far worse than Shiera had originally thought. 

She, much like the rest of the family, had thought it nothing more than a childish squabble. A misunderstanding that would not last a few moons at most. Yet here they were, years later, and it seemed to barely be better at all. 

She had wished that Rhaena would have spoken with her earlier. The complete collapse of her fun-loving and kind niece into the pale imitation she was now was disheartening to see. Especially considering she had done so little to help the situation. She had gotten Maegor to act, but that was all she could manage. 

Now, Rhaena was pregnant as well, on top of being in a marriage that could only be compared in complexity to the mazes of Lorath. Shiera could see that something had changed in Rhaena. She was still the girl she had known, but there was more layered on top of her now. Like another cake dropped haphazardly onto the base layer. 

She could tell that the girl was not ready for it. For the life that was ahead of her. Gods, she was barely a woman at all, and now she was going to be a mother on top of all her other myriad of problems. All of which seemed to remain unresolved. 

But Shiera didn’t want for her to fail, for her to crash and crumble like a ship dashed against the shoreline. She wanted Rhaena to rise to the occasion, to shake off the wreckage clinging to her like a wet cloth and find her footing again. Not for the sake of the family, not for politics or appearances, but because Shiera remembered that cheerful girl too vividly to let her fade away.

Perhaps there was more to that, too. Shiera saw much of what Rhaena was in her eldest daughter, Visenya. Cheerful, studious, motivated, and energetic. All aspects that led to her daughter becoming the joy of court once the bickering princes left for Essos. The idea of her daughter falling into the same chasm that Rhaena had dug for herself terrified Shiera. She hoped that perhaps helping Rhaena might ease her fears. If Rhaena could survive her catastrophic errors and mistakes, then her daughter, more capable in every way, would have nothing to fear. 

Thoughts of her eldest daughter roused Shiera from her comfortable seat on her chair. She had one of them with her now. But she wanted the other one too. There had been far too much death and confusion in her life as of yet. She wanted to simply hold her children close for a little while. 

Daeron was with his father in the Vale. Baelon was busy chasing the few remaining Kingsguard around, begging for lessons and tips. And now even Visenya was delving deeper and deeper into the dragon lore she had not so secretly snuck out of the library under her grandmother’s falsely portrayed unwatchful eye. Her children were growing up in front of her, and Shiera was letting it all fly by her. 

Shiera glanced down at Daenys once more, her daughter staring up at her with her adorable big purple eyes. Shiera watched her for just a little time before deciding to do something with her day.

“I am going to go find my other daughter. Will you accompany me?” Shiera asked, turning to her goodmother after finally standing after far too much sitting and thinking. 

“Is that even a question?” Visenya said with a grin, rising to her feet with none of the grace Shiera had shown. Her sudden movement jostled Alyssane, who let out a loud yawn and blinked sleepily as she propped herself up in Visenya’s arms, her honey-blonde hair spilling down her back in messy curls.

Shiera chuckled softly and adjusted Daenys in her arms. Together, the small group turned toward the corridor, their steps quiet but purposeful. First to the ancient library, perhaps to find a few hidden books to show off to Visenya, then to her daughter’s room to spend some much needed time as a family.

…

The walk from the nursery to Visenya’s room was not far. Her daughter had been ecstatic when she first learned she would have a room of her own. So much so that she did not even mind that it was hardly a few doors down from the nursery. 

Shiera and her goodmother approached the room carefully. The door was closed, and two of Maegor’s personal guard stood vigilantly in front. Their family had not really been afforded Kingsguard protection due to the low number of them, and four of them leaving the island to follow Prince Aegon and King Aenys into battle. Luckily, Maegor had long since pulled a detachment of the royal guard from Pentos to Dragonstone for their protection. 

Magically guaranteed to be loyal, Shiera was able to trust the men implicitly, mostly because she had seen into their minds and knew them to be nothing but loyal. It was intrusive and somewhat uncomfortable to know other people’s thoughts, but being able to sleep soundly made it all worth it. 

The door was opened only slightly, Shiera hoping to catch a glimpse of her daughter mulling about before she inevitably jumped from wherever she was sitting and unabashedly demanded to be entertained. Instead of silence, Shiera heard her daughter's distinctive, sweet voice loud and clear. 

“And what dragon did Gaemon the Glorious ride?” her daughter cheerfully asked. Shiera momentarily wondered just who she was speaking with when her question was answered. 

“It was Vermithrax,” her son Baelon answered, clearly bored. 

Sheira’s interest was piqued greatly. Instead of opening the door, she quieted herself and Daenys as she listened closer. 

“That’s right!” Visenya exclaimed, no doubt bouncing where she sat. “Gaemon the Glorious rode Vermithrax, and I ride Vermithor, so they must be similar, right?” She gasped at her own logic, eyes likely going wide. “Do you think my Vermithor will be just as big and glorious one day? Maybe even bigger!”

“Maybe. But Caraxes will be way bigger than all of them once he is grown,” her son said proudly, in the same tone of voice all of her children seemed capable of copying from their grandmother. 

Visenya let out an exaggerated gasp, hands flying to her cheeks with a clap as if Baelon had just uttered something reprehensible. “Caraxes? Bigger than Vermithor?” she repeated, utterly scandalized. “But Vermithor is already almost as big as Dreamfyre!”

Baelon snorted. “No, he’s not. Dreamfyre is way bigger. Vermithor is just fat.”

“He is not!” Visenya shouted, with all the righteous fury of a girl defending her favorite toy. “He’s mah… majestic! And powerful! And he can fly higher than the clouds,” she added, a touch defensively.

“Caraxes is way better,” Baelon replied with the smug calm of a brother who knew exactly how to provoke his sister. “He’s red, mean, and sleek. A real battle dragon. The Dragonkeepers are even calling him The Bloodwyrm,” Baelon said, his voice positively oozing with pride.

“And he's also the size of a cat!” Visenya replied haughtily, like it was her winning gambit. 

“He'll grow!” Baelon countered, this time it was he who was defensive. 

“To the size of a hound, maybe!” she declared triumphantly. “While Vermithor will be bigger than Balerion one day, and then you’ll have to bow to me and my dragon!”

“Never!” he shouted, half playfully and half angrily, before Shiera stepped in. 

“That's enough,” she said, and in an instant the room was quieter than a crypt. 

Visenya’s room was a cozy mess of plush cushions, stuffed toys, and paper sheets bearing clumsy drawings of dragons with oversized wings and too many teeth. Shiera noticed a small pile of books peeking out from beneath her bed, no doubt the ones she “stole” from the library.

At the center of the room sat little Visenya and Baelon. They stared at her with wide, bug-eyed in a dead silence. Then, the two of them took one glance at each other before pouncing to their feet. 

“Mother!” They both cried, running up to hug her tightly. Shiera felt her previous strength waver as she was embraced by three of her four children. But she did have a lesson to instill. 

“Teasing and arguing are fine, but remember what we talked about?” Shiera said gently, crouching down so her crimson eyes were level with theirs.

Baelon looked down, tugging at his sleeve. “We can argue… but we need to keep it civil,” he mumbled. Visenya nodded along, significantly less abashed than her brother. 

She let out a quiet sigh and stood, brushing a lock of silver-gold hair from her daughter’s cheek. “And what else have you two been up to? Besides loudly arguing about your dragons?”

“I was telling Baelon about all the cool dragons our family used to have,” Visenya said, puffing her chest with pride.

Shiera arched a brow, folding her arms as she looked between the two of them. “Is that so? And were you lecturing your brother, or just talking over him?”

“I was teaching him, mother,” Visenya insisted. “He doesn’t know half the names I do!”

“I do too,” Baelon snapped, though without heat. “You just keep saying that I don’t!”

Shiera narrowed her eyes, boring a hole into her daughter’s head. She could hardly blame her daughter for being excited about dragons, as it was her birthright. But she had to be kind to her brother. Talking over him was no good. 

“Why don’t we discuss more of this after we get a bite to eat?” Visenya said from behind her, finally jutting into the conversation. 

“Grandmother!” both children shouted once more. Excitedly running up and hugging their grandmother, just like they had with their mother moments before. 

Shiera gave an exasperated smile as Visenya propped Alysanne up on her hip while she reached a hand down to ruffle Baelon’s long, curly hair.

“Will you take me flying?” both children asked in unison, each turning and pointing a finger at each other before Visenya could even accept. 

“Hey! I asked first!” Visenya was the first to speak, indignant at the perceived slight. 

“No! I did!” Baelon countered, each child clutching at one of their grandmother’s legs. Visenya pulled against her so tightly that Alysanne’s feet almost touched her hair. 

“Enough, both of you can ride with me after we get a bite to eat,” her goodmother said, easily diffusing the argument before it could start again. 

Shiera could only shake her head and smile as her family squabbled. This was not an uncommon sight for her time here on Dragonstone. Even if she longed for the two people who were missing to join them on their dark island home. 

Shiera had unfortunately grown rather used to Maegor’s extended absences. All the times he would ride out on campaign or to deal with some problem or other halfway across the world. She could handle that, especially because she knew he would eventually return to her and she would be allowed to have her peace and quiet time that she so deeply desired. 

What she had not grown used to was the absence of her eldest son, Daeron. Before Daeron had joined his father as a page, and begun attending him on his campaigns against the Volantenes and now the Valemen, Shiera spent considerable time with her eldest. 

Daeron was an endlessly driven child for his age. Always eager to learn some new thing or try out a new technique. Perhaps it should have come as no surprise to Shiera that she would grow so attached with her eldest, especially after he started taking the magic lessons in stride. 

Where before she would spend at least a few hours every day surrounded by all of her children. Getting to watch them all play, squabble, argue, and play, now she had one of them taken from her. 

The worst part was, she was bound to be separated from the rest of them too. It was only natural that Daeron would leap at the opportunity to follow his father into action. To learn from his father the ways of war and combat. But Shiera could not even content herself with that. Because in no time at all, Baelon and Visenya would be following him out there as well. 

Baelon was obvious, given his endless desire to keep up with his brother and his continuing progress in the yard. But Shiera could not even count on her daughters for companionship once her husband and sons rode off to war. Because her daughters were Targaryens, just like their brothers. 

Maegor and Visenya had both agreed that her daughters would be taught in the ways of combat and war. Shiera was, of course, not against this, given her own experience with assassination attempts and the fact that they both now had dragons. But even still, the idea brought a level of sadness to her. 

She hoped that the Valemen would give up soon, so she could have her eldest son back. As much as she loved spending time with Baelon, Visenya, Daenys, and now even Alysanne. It was not the same without her firstborn. 

“Can the cooks make those fried dough things again? They were really good last time,” Baelon said as the four of them made their way to the entrance of Visenya’s room before they were stopped. 

“Give me back my daughter.” 

Alyssa stood there, eyes bloodshot and face still flushed from recent tears, her voice cold and biting.

Shiera pushed Baelon and Visenya behind her a little. Not wanting them to see the very clearly troubled woman’s outburst. Then, her goodmother spoke. 

“We were just going to grab a bite to eat before I returned her to the nursery. Would you like to join us?” she asked, unbothered by their opponent’s disheveled state.  

Alyssa fumed further. She ignored the invitation entirely, her gaze fixed on little Alysanne, who now shifted nervously in Visenya’s arms.

“I didn’t give you permission to take her,” Alyssa said, voice trembling with a barely repressed fury. “She’s my daughter. Not yours,” she added, casting a scathing look toward Visenya, who met it with a level, almost bored expression.

“We didn’t take her,” Shiera said evenly. “You were resting. She was crying. We comforted her.”

“So what? Are you her mother now? Will you take her from me too?” Alyssa hissed, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. “First, you worm back onto this island. Now you're raising my children?”

“Worm our way?” Shiera started, insulted. “My husband is the Lord of Dragonstone, in case you forgot,” Shiera responded, her tone cold and sharp.

Alyssa scoffed, her lip curling. “Yes. Your husband. How convenient for you. I wonder what he is doing now? First, he took my son halfway across the world. Is this another one of his plans? To take my daughter as well?”

Visenya stepped forward then, protectively shifting between Shiera and Alyssa, Alysanne still resting uncertainly in her arms. “What has gotten into you?” she said, voice low and steady. “We were helping. That’s all.”

“Don’t speak to me like you’re some noble guardian,” Alyssa snapped, her voice fraying at the edges. “I know exactly what you are, what you are doing. Everyone else may be blind to it but I am not. Now give me my daughter.”

Visenya’s jaw tightened, but Shiera placed a hand on her goodmother’s shoulder before she could respond further.

“Of course. I am glad to see that you are well, Your Grace,” Shiera said, just a hint of snark in her voice. Visenya, ever the warrior, said nothing as she reluctantly passed Alysanne over. The little girl looked between the two women, confused but sensing the tension, and reached back toward Visenya even as Alyssa took her into her arms.

Alyssa didn’t acknowledge the gesture. She clutched Alysanne tightly, more possessive than maternal, her gaze never leaving Shiera’s face.

“I don’t need your little barbs,” Alyssa said icily. “You think I don’t see how cozy you’ve become? How the moment I stumbled, you’re right there to pick up the pieces.”

“Believe it or not. We actually do care about this family,” Shiera said with a slight shrug, the motion causing Daenys to begin babbling in her arms. 

Alyssa scoffed, bitter and disbelieving. “You care about what benefits you, as you always have. Don't think for a second I’ve forgotten who you are and what you’ve done.”

Shiera’s smile didn’t waver, but the chill in her eyes deepened. “Keep believing whatever you want to believe. Do take care, Alyssa.”

Without waiting for a reply, Shiera turned, her silks whispering against the stone floor as she walked away with Daenys in her arms and Visenya at her side, her two children trailing behind them. She did not bother looking back at Alyssa. She would continue to be a problem, unfortunately, but not a problem they had not prepared for. She would simply have to prepare all of her arguments for her husband and Aenys to hear. 

Alyssa could try to deny Shiera and Visenya access to Alysanne all she liked. But the little blonde haired child was to be her daughter too someday. So she would have her say, regardless of what the detestable seahorse wanted.