Ch: 8

King’s Landing

Eighth Moon (98 AC)

Gael II

Dust swirled in the harsh midday light, kicked up by scurrying servants and the restless scrape of dragon claws on stone.

Gael lingered beside Silverwing, one gloved hand resting against the dragon’s shimmering hide—pearl-white streaked with silver veins, warm with the banked fire thrumming beneath the scales.

Her riding leathers clung close—soft black hide threaded with silver, light but durable, hugging her form like a second skin.

She shifted, the pinch at her hips and the stretch across her chest a constant, quiet reminder. In the polished curve of a dragonkeeper’s helm, she caught her reflection: a battle-ready woman stared back, silver braid coiled down her spine like a rope. The sight stirred a flicker of pride, fierce and fleeting. Yet the snug fit showed every curve, and her soft features undercut the image of a warrior.

Maelys stood a step away, barking orders at the cluster of servants wrangling their modest load—clothes, perfumes, and a few gifts. His leathers matched hers, dark and sleek, but they fit his lean frame with natural ease, the cut emphasizing his broad shoulders.

Dreamfyre loomed behind him, scales glinting sea-blue, her sharp eyes twitching with borrowed impatience. He turned, caught Gael’s eye, and the sharp line of his mouth eased into a smile. “Ready, love?” he called, his voice cutting through the noise.

“Ready,” she said, stroking Silverwing’s neck as the dragon huffed, a puff of steam curling from her snout. “Though I’d wager you’ll double back twice before we even see Driftmark.”

He laughed, bright and unrestrained, and vaulted into Dreamfyre’s saddle with a smooth, practiced motion as the keepers tightened the last straps.

Gael followed, her climb slower, more effort than grace. Her heart never faltered, but she’d long accepted that her body brought strength, not elegance, to the task—no matter how often she rode.

Her father had gifted her Silverwing after the queen’s death—a rare honor, one she’d claimed with trembling hands, her twin a steady presence beside her during the taming.

The keepers stepped back, their work done, shouting sharp Valyrian at the servants still loitering in the pit. Gael closed her eyes, took a long breath, and pulled the reins firm.

“Gīmigon, Sōvēs.” (Let’s be off, Silverwing.)

The dragon leapt skyward, wings splitting the air like thunder. The Dragonpit shrank below them, a jagged scar turning to a speck as King’s Landing spread beneath—a sprawl of stone and shadow, laced with thin streams of smoke.

The wind screamed past her, a raw force that should have flayed her skin and stolen her breath. But it didn’t—it brushed her face like a whisper. Maelys had once called it magic.

“No one should stay whole at this height, this speed,” he’d told her. “It’s sorcery, Gael—not the twisted stuff those shadow-weavers peddle in Asshai.”

She hadn’t listened closely then, more focused on the silken warmth of the Summer Isles’ drink he’d brought her. But now, high above the Blackwater, she chased that idea—that strange thread he swore ran through them—hoping to feel it, even for a moment. It was elusive, woven so tightly into her being it might as well be air…

…or maybe it was madness, and Maelys was simply drifting in it again.

Behind them, King’s Landing faded to a smear, its towers lost in haze. Maelys banked north—off course, away from Driftmark, toward the wild hills beyond Rosby. Gael sighed softly and followed, Silverwing’s wings folding into the turn.

He’d always been this way—hungry for the sky, stretching every flight into a winding detour whenever time allowed. She guessed they’d drifted off course for two hours now, weaving between unscarred peaks and untouched forests, before he’d grow bored of the game and finally turn toward the coast.

She didn’t share his hunger for the heavens. She loved Silverwing, yes, and took her flying twice a week to keep their bond strong—but to her, it was a duty, not a joy. Still, as Maelys and Dreamfyre carved wide arcs through the clouds, she couldn’t begrudge him the thrill.

He spurred Dreamfyre into a corkscrew, wings slicing through the air, then unleashed a jet of flame—wild and orange, a raw blast that skimmed the treetops.

Next came a sharper burst, narrow and precise, slashing a scorched line across the ground below.

A wide, softer breath followed—a shimmering veil that flickered, then vanished. And finally—after a pause long enough to test her patience—Dreamfyre belched out a fireball, slower and rounder, tumbling like a falling star until it hit the earth with a dull thud, sending dirt and ash skyward.

Silverwing drifted behind at a relaxed pace, and Gael raised an eyebrow. “Showing off, are we?” she muttered, though the wind carried her words away.

Maelys was caught up in it, lost in the rhythm of flight. He pulled Dreamfyre higher, then let loose the white flame—rare and terrifying. It stabbed the earth like a spear of lightning, shrieking as it struck, melting stone and digging a trench deep enough to swallow a man whole.

Gael’s heart jumped. He’d whispered about that fire once, late at night, his voice low and troubled: “It’s stronger. Purer. Cuts deeper, but it drains her more.”

Dark words. Darker still with what lay ahead. She prayed their father clung to that old, gnarled throne a while longer—long enough to spare Maelys the stain of kinslayer for a few more years.

Three hours had passed since they left the pit—two in gentle flight, one lost to his antics—when Gael finally guided Silverwing down to a quiet riverbank. The clearing was ringed with twisted oaks, the ground untouched by axe or flame.

Silverwing settled with a low growl, wings folding in. Gael dismounted, boots sinking into the mossy earth. She stretched, the seams of her leathers creaking, and found a spot beneath a tree—a flat stone beside the tumbling river.

Her husband still soared above, looping high through the clouds, but she let him have his moment. The river’s song was soft and clear. She slipped off her gloves and dipped her fingers in the cold current.

She relished this—stillness, and air that felt unspoiled. It was lighter here, free of the clinging rot that filled King’s Landing. Maybe the sewers would claw this fresh breath back before long. Probably. But she’d be gone by then, off to their new lands with the handful of companions she’d handpicked.

Her talk with Lady Fossoway had nearly sealed it—the woman eager to send her second daughter along, hoping the girl would draw noble suitors like flies to honey.

Not all of it had been courtship and companionship, though. Fossoway wanted trade—her house’s cider, grains, and leather exchanged for fine fabrics, rare dyes, and exclusive rights to a fierce strain of fyre wine cultivated in the Reach.

When Gael brought it to Maelys, he’d made a few changes—a twist of apple in the wine, a distillery built in their new hold, and a large timber deal to help reinforce their borders.

He’d also mentioned pitching something similar to the North—trading harvests for ironwood and other hardy lumber. He’d gone on about a tree with sweet sap he thought would work wonders in desserts, but she knew that was bait, a distraction from whatever he really wanted from those frostbitten warriors.

Even so, she played along, eased his burdens where she could. It felt fair. The Fossoways left pleased, and she’d smoothed her path into deeper, more useful ties.

She had a knack for this kind of work. From what she’d seen, the cider-house daughters were sharp, loyal—the very sort Maelys valued, even if the highborn still clung to lineage and name over sense.

Lowborn families raised to noble status gained little unless they hitched their fortunes to ancient houses. The wiser path was giving second or third sons of old blood the chance to build something new—free from the old knots entirely.

Gael meant to speak to her husband about it—urge him to ally with her ladies, women her age, daughters of lords who had no sons to secure their houses. She would bind them to his men, shape them into a loyal force, and perhaps, in doing so, revive her mother’s legacy.

Such thoughts wandered through her mind as the river lapped at her fingers—politics and its maneuverings, deals struck in the dark, the strange nature of their bloodline, and a future that promised little but danger.

A shadow passed over her, and she glanced up—Dreamfyre settling at last, wings folding as Maelys leapt from her back with a bark of laughter. He crossed to her, tugging off his helmet, silver hair darkened with sweat, the braid unraveling in a tangled mess.

“Gods, Gael, you should’ve flown with me,” he said, unaware of the state of his hair.

“I saw enough from here,” she replied, shifting aside as Dreamfyre lumbered to the river’s edge, drinking deep. “You’ve gotten better with the dives—and Dreamfyre’s faster now. Stronger, too.”

He dropped beside her with the ease of a hound, uncorked his waterskin, and took a long drink. “Still wrestling with my plans?” he asked, tone mild, eyes on the east where the Velaryons sprawled in their painted halls.

She nodded.

“I don’t blame you,” he said after a pause. “Honestly, I’m glad for it. I was afraid you’d grown too loyal—blind to my flaws, and I’ve enough of those to bury five men.” Truthfully, she was loyal to more of his whims than she’d admit. He continued, “But your doubt… it’s a relief.”

She studied him—the vacancy behind his eyes. “Can’t you imagine another way? One that’s not as grim as the one you’ve chosen?”

She saw how it ate at him, twisting him into a knot of conflicting truths, despite the steel in his resolve.

He kept secret quarters in Flea Bottom, shabby places where he’d installed maesters—men with healing chains and an appetite to push their art further. There, they cut into people, experimented with blacker techniques, all in pursuit of cures for common, incurable afflictions.

A few sacrificed for the sake of many, he’d said.

“You mean Baelon?” he asked, turning to her, his brow creasing as he recorked the waterskin.

She pressed her lips tight and nodded. “You still mean to spare him.”

She wished he would. Then, perhaps, they could untangle themselves from this snarl of schemes and flee together—to some distant shore where Westeros couldn’t find them. There, they could live in peace, tangled in the warmth and ache of a love story sung by minstrels.

But what land would take them? Mossovy, perhaps…

“Love makes fools of us all, my sweet,” he said. “I don’t wish death on our brother. Still, it would spark the chaos we need to build something better. I’ll save him, if I can. Same as I’m trying with our father.”

So said the man training his dragon to kill other dragons.

Gael knew his heart wasn’t purely dark. It was tangled—full of purpose. He saw the crown’s will as a sickness, succession as a gamble that left the realm on the edge. He’d sworn his sons wouldn’t suffer that fate. Law, he said, should bind the throne—ironclad, immune to a king’s whim.

He’d spoken it like the realm had no hope unless his vision took root.

But words alone meant nothing unless blood made them real.

He’d hinted at it before—he’d start a war, raise rival heirs like puppets, plant whispers to muddle the line of succession, and push nobles to turn on one another.

Let the realm bleed, he’d said, until lords and commoners alike begged for a rule too strong to break. If he could save Baelon and their father, he would—but not at the cost of a legacy built on weakness and decay.

It was a dangerous plan, but they were stacking the odds in their favor. The ties they’d forged, the common folk they’d helped, the merchants and tradesmen they’d supported, and the Faith—still fond of their sister, who gave so much in charity—would all be there when the chaos truly began.

It gave Gael a small measure of comfort.

They lingered another hour, her husband seizing the quiet to chase a dream he hadn’t yet shared with her. When they took to the sky again, her cheeks were flushed, her heart light, and her womb full.

They reached Driftmark just after midday, Dreamfyre’s roar cutting through the noise of Spicetown below.

From above, Gael saw the town stretch out like a bright tapestry—docks thick with merchant ships, sails snapping in the wind, offloading saffron and silks that shimmered in the sun. The spice market blazed with reds and golds, the air rich with cinnamon and pepper, while vendors shouted over baskets of pomegranates and barrels of herbs beneath striped tents.

The ring of smiths’ hammers mingled with the low churn of mills. Vines curled from balconies, citrus peels drying in the sun, and further off, golden domes crowned the wealthy districts.

It had grown since she last saw it—no longer a rising town, but a city fat with trade, bustling like the old seats of storied lords. And the ships—scores of them, packed with people from every corner.

As Dreamfyre and Silverwing glided low, the crowds looked up. Gael couldn’t see their faces clearly, but she liked to think they stirred with awe.

Farther inland, High Tide stood alone, perched atop jagged cliffs of pale stone, its walls carved by waves into something no army could scale.

A narrow ridge tied it to the port below, winding down like a spine from castle to coast.

They climbed toward the new keep, then dipped low, settling their dragons on a broad ledge cut into the cliffside. Three dragonkeepers in salt-stained robes waited there and moved in quickly to lead the beasts away once they’d dismounted.

Gael was glad to be on solid ground again.

…servants hurried forward, guiding them toward the main gates.

“Didn’t think they’d turn our landing into a pageant,” Maelys muttered beside her, slipping his sword to a guard with practiced ease. “Look—every last one of them’s shown up.”

Gael saw it, and despite herself, felt a flicker of delight. Before them stretched a full honor guard—two dozen strong—knights clad in seahorse-marked mail, servants in green-and-white livery, and at their head, the Velaryons.

The Lord of Driftmark stood broad and imposing, built like the prow of one of his ships. His skin had darkened under long voyages, silver hair trimmed short beneath a crown of twisted coral. His eyes were heavy-lidded and proud, though the years had etched fine lines at the corners.

Gael had never warmed to the man, and it wasn’t only her mother’s disdain she’d inherited. No—she blamed him for much of the rift that ran between their families. Had he not drawn Rhaenys to his bed, perhaps the breach would never have come.

Rhaenys stood at his side—niece by blood, wife by law—marked by her Targaryen lineage. Her eyes gleamed violet beneath long, dark hair, her figure fuller now, wrapped in sea-green silk edged with black.

Motherhood had softened her, it seemed—her stance less rigid, her face no longer so guarded.

It suited her. Too many women cracked under the burden of rule. Rhea Royce came to mind—cold, unbending, always chasing the respect of lords who mocked her behind her back.

Gael’s eyes dropped to the white-haired children. Laena clung to her mother, wide-eyed and watching them with open awe. She had grown. And though something in her look stirred a quiet unease—she reminded Gael too much of Saera—still, she loved the girl.

Laenor stood nearby, close in age to her own Jae. She hoped the boys would grow close—maybe one day fostered together. But Corlys would never agree. His ambition for the crown still burned too bright. Some said his falling out with Baelon began when Viserys passed over Laenor as his squire.

They reached the welcome party. The Sea Snake dipped his head in a measured bow, mirrored by the others—save Rhaenys and the children, who fumbled the gesture.

“Prince Maelys. Princess Gael,” Corlys said, his voice deep as surf crashing against stone. “You honor my hall. May your time here be pleasant and prosperous.”

Gael felt a smile twitch at her lips, but it was Maelys who answered, slipping easily into formalities. “I hope so, Lord of Driftmark,” he said, his grin smooth and unreadable. “From what I’ve seen, that won’t be difficult. You’ve built something impressive here.”

Rhaenys stepped forward, motioning a servant to present a tray of bread, salt, and wine.

“Accept guest right, and be welcome in our home,” she said. Maelys’s warmth seemed to draw her into its glow, though Corlys remained unmoved.

They partook—the bread coarse, the salt sharp, the wine dark and spiced. Gael embraced Rhaenys afterward, then pulled the children in close, holding them with genuine affection. It had been a year since she last set foot on this island, now the envy of many at court.

When the formalities ended, servants led them to their rooms. She and Maelys washed away the grit of flight before joining a modest gathering of Driftmark’s nobles. The hall lacked the crush of the Red Keep—fewer envoys, fewer great houses, likely wary of her father’s temper.

Still, Gael preferred it. Here, smiles felt less rehearsed, hands more generous. Most were lesser houses, fattened by the Sea Snake’s favor.

Even before the feast began, she found herself showered with gifts:

“A veil of Myrish lace, fine enough to pass through a ring. For Your Highness—a humble crown, though it pales beside your grace.”

“A perfume from Asshai, rich with spice and mystery. They say it carries the breath of night itself.”

“Fruits from the ends of the earth, dried and sugared. May they sweeten your hours as your presence sweetens ours.”

“A tome bound in dragonhide, written in gold—secrets of lost Valyria, now yours to uncover.”

“Cheeses from vaults deep beneath the earth. A modest offering for a princess whose steps leave halls brighter than before.”

Food, jewels, fabrics, and a range of other goods piled high—enough to fill three ships, just in wine, spices, and grains alone. Gael considered sending the surplus to Havenhall. The people there would gladly receive it, as long as none of it was pilfered along the way.

“You’ve managed to gather quite a generous crowd here, Rhaenys,” Gael remarked, eyeing the gifts. “I’ve never been showered with such fine presents—and with so few strings attached.”

“Gifts always come with strings, Gael,” Rhaenys replied, shaking her head, though a smile played at her lips. She was dressed in more elaborate attire than anyone else, and it showed. “But still, sometimes the right amount can loosen a clenched fist. It’s not every day a great lord—and royal kin—visits Driftmark for a proper call.”

The subtle jab barely registered with Gael. While she acknowledged that the rift may have somewhat hindered the Velaryons’ rise, this vassal house had already grown far too powerful. Letting them rise any higher would’ve been reckless.

Her husband, however, saw it differently. He viewed it as a blow to the realm as a whole, believing that growth should be encouraged rather than stifled by those who preferred to crush rivals instead of meeting them head-on.

Still, it was surprising for Rhaenys to admit that scandals were indeed commonplace on Driftmark.

“Secret dealings, then?” Gael asked softly.

Rhaenys’s dry look was enough of an answer, along with the unspoken warning in her eyes.

To move past the awkwardness, Gael pretended not to notice. “Maybe things will change in the future.” Though she knew they wouldn’t. The Velaryons were far from barred from the royal court. “Either way, I appreciate the gifts. I just wish I’d known a feast was coming.”

She could’ve prepared better offerings in that case.

“You probably should’ve expected it,” Rhaenys said with a wry smile, gazing out at the view from the balcony. Her gown fluttered in the breeze. “But I know you’re not one for scheming. This is a modest celebration for your husband’s rise. Kept small—Maelys isn’t one for grand displays.”

That much was true, and Gael had expected this would eventually happen.

The two of them continued talking, discussing family and territories. The Winter Princess dangled the idea of an alliance with the principality once it gained more support from the people, and Rhaenys casually mentioned the slow progress of their push for land on the mainland.

“Slow, but steady,” Rhaenys admitted, a small crease of frustration forming on her forehead. “But it’s coming along.”

It was Maelys who had urged the Velaryons to expand their reach, though many lords were hesitant to trade land for the more lucrative benefits of commerce—fools, most of them.

“Is that why you’ve come? To offer us a piece of your new lands?” Rhaenys asked, though her curiosity seemed more calculated than genuine. “I’m sure it’d be quite profitable.”

Gael understood the potential gain clearly enough, but she caught the glint in Rhaenys’s eye. The older princess was probing, searching for something beneath the surface. She knew— or was close enough to knowing— why they had truly come.

“I came for you and the little ones, to be honest,” Gael said, keeping her tone light. “And I’d wager Maelys isn’t here to offer land.”

They hardly lacked for coin, supplies, or opportunities. This was Maelys’s favoritism—likely some scheme—at play. Their father could send as many ships as needed without the slightest worry of debt—Havenhall’s rise owed nothing to the crown’s purse.

There was a strategy to Maelys’s actions, though Gael had no interest in digging into it.

The feast was called, a spread far more lavish than its modest name suggested. Long tables filled the hall, piled high with the sea’s bounty—spiced crab, buttered lobster, and whole fish roasted golden, wrapped in citrus and herbs. Silver goblets sparkled in the candlelight, filled with wine as dark as the night.

Gael usually shared Maelys’s distaste for seafood, but tonight her hunger was insistent. They ate amid the soft hum of music and quiet conversation, Maelys subtly urging her to keep clear of the wine, offering a quiet word—wanting her sharp for the talks to come.

It didn’t help. She woke the next morning feeling sour and queasy, swearing off sea fare for good, only to find Maelys laughing brightly and radiating an energy she couldn’t place.

“Rest longer, love,” he said, pressing a warm hand to her forehead. “I’ll handle the talks fine. Stay clear of seafood and wine, though—I’ll have the cooks prepare something lighter to ease you.”

“I hate to disappoint your plans, my love,” she muttered from beneath the furs, irritation growing at his carefree attitude after he had hoped she’d stand with him during the talks.

“Come on, love, it’s nothing,” he reassured her, leaning close with a grin. “Your health matters most—focus on that. And I might have left a box of chocolates in your room.” He winked.

“Stop treating me like some helpless child,” Gael huffed, cheeks puffing out, though the thought of the chocolates made her smile despite herself.

Maelys pressed a quick kiss to her cheek and left the guest chambers, his usual smooth stride betraying a touch of eagerness.