#ofm

Valarr and Kiera had left several months after she had given birth to a healthy daughter who screamed her way into the world with such vigor both new parents were wholly shocked and shaken to the core. Her sex meant nothing to them, for a healthy child to be born was all either of them were asking of the gods. Little Princess Matella was the apple of both her parents’ eyes and as robust a child as any other. Named after the uncle she would never know, it was likely that she would be her parents’ only child, as both Melaquin and the midwives cautioned Valarr and Kiera on attempting another pregnancy given the strain Kiera had bringing a living child into the world.

King Baelor II, upon hearing of the birth of his granddaughter, was said to have wept tears of joy and heartbreak in private, for the girl had been named after his youngest. Matarys would be honored, was what his father had written, and the king had sent a plethora of gifts once it was safe to do so.

They had left then, bypassing King’s Landing all together, and using royal warrants and the Valarr’s personal seal as Crown Prince to ensure safe passed through the Dornish Marches and the Prince’s Pass to go through the boarders and head to Stonehelm and charter a ship to take them to Dragonstone. Thankfully, given the Valarr asserting his authority as Crown Prince and their grandmother’s letters to her brother the Prince of Dorne, it had gone smoothly and without incident.

Wyle had stayed put, spending time between the Summerhall and the border of their lands, being the eyes and ears for Daeron as best he could. It was the longest he had stayed put in any place since leaving the North, something that both he and Alysanne had noted, and likewise it was kept a quiet secret within the walls of Summerhall of just how close the three of them were. Learning more about himself, themselves, had been an enlightening experience and he knew that to speak of it outside of the trusted circle they had built would shatter something precious. He had stayed though, Wyle had stayed, and he was there, and Daeron and Alysanne were more grateful than they could ever put into words. It had been a long conversation between the three of them, one that no one outside of the safety of their walls had ever breathed a word of. Mostly to protect the legacy of the children Daeron would have with Alysanne, but also to protect their own reputations. It was enough for all three of them at this point.

He had stayed, for both Daeron and Alysanne, which meant the world.

And now they were all headed to King’s Landing, together, with his sisters, one direwolf dog, one dragon the size of a pony in tow, and the youngest of all the princes currently sticking his cubby little hands outside of the window of the carriage waving a bottle he had somehow managed to get off of his father’s person despite the fact Daeron was outside, on a horse very much against his will and only as a last resort.

Lysandaer had recently discovered that his father’s hair was fun to pull, after it had grown back to its original length before he had been burned and brought back to life, and fearing for losing his hair once more, he had opted to be on the horse, suffering as one must. It also let him keep an eye on Myriah who was soaring above them all, as well as Shadow who trotted aside. A pair of mythical creatures with sharp and pointy teeth acting an honor guard; straight from a song if he were to think on it.

They were both utterly useless though when faced with a toddler of two namedays.

“Bottles are for adults, not for children. Hand it over, please.”

“No.”

“Lysandaer, hand me the bottle.”

“No.”

“Lysandaer, please, the bottle.”

“No.”

“You will get a lemon cake if you hand the bottle to dada.”

“No no no no no no.”

All said with a sunny smile on that chubby cheeked face of his, his son. Sweet as sin, and stubborn as a mule when he wished to be.

Gods he never remembered any of his younger siblings, including Aerion, being this stubborn. It had to be a Stark trait. Absolutely had to be one. Alysanne had said she was a holy terror of a child until she hit three and ten, and even then when the mood stuck she could be as pigheaded and stubborn as the best of them.

If he could pluck the bottle from his son’s hold he would. But it required leaning over the horse, reaching through the window of the wheelhouse, and maneuvering at the right angle just to even attempt a feat. Falling off the saddle did not appeal to anyone, especially himself, which limited what exactly he could do. His wife held their son in her lap and both arms occupied with a wiggly child who seemed intent on getting into everything. Daella insisted on her own pony and was riding next to Wyle, who was out of the question by sheer virtue of being on the other side of the carriage, and one of the household guards that accompanied them. Rhae refused to even attempt as the last time she had tried to help with anything toddler-related, Lysandaer had thrown his dinner at her and ruined a favorite dress.

At least he had the foresight to ensure any bottle on his person was tightly sealed.

His wife would not be pleased if plum brandy stained anyone’s clothing as they made the final stretch towards King’s Landing. They would be presented to his uncle the moment they arrived and no one would have time to change out of the riding clothes before being taken to the Great Hall. And it was not even for him, but for his uncle and father, making the need to retrieve the bottle from his son highly important.

“Alysanne, please, could you do something about our son the thief?" Finally conceding that he may need to get his wife involved after all, despite her arms being full of wiggling Lysandaer. Judging from the giggles his son was more than content to continue the chaos, waving around the bottle as if it were yet another one of his stuffed toys.

Of course there is one long, amused, slightly superior look of I told you so shot his way through the window of the woman in question, who then pulls back Lysandaer just enough to have both of his son’s arms back inside of the wheelhouse.

“Rhae, the plush dragon.”

“No, he’ll get me dirty again.”

“Rhae Targaryen.” A tone that books absolutely no arguments and he wishes he could see the glare levied to his sister who has become a moody thing at one and ten who refuses to listen to anyone thinking herself a woman already grown, concontacting gods knows what in her bedrooms with scrolls and letters from their aunt. Alysanne wins though because he has been on the receiving end of that glare and he can hear the tell tell start of a temper tantrum when the moment the bottom is swapped out for the plush dragon, Rhae’s shriek as he is sure Lysandaer is going for her hair now, and Alysanne’s chiding of all of the wheelhouse’s riders under the age of majority.

But then there is a hand, his wife’s hand sticking out, and in it is the ornate glass bottle, the expensive, rare, highly coveted plum brandy that was in Summerhall’s cellars and his father had explicitly asked for when they came. “Thank you,” he says as he takes the bottle, letting his hand linger to touch his wife’s skin just a moment too long, if only to give a wordless promise that this will soon be over and they will have some quiet time away from the children.

More than a fortnight. Sixteen long, exhausting days, with moody children, hot travels, and only being to travel for so long in the day given the size of their caravan and the occupants within it. Not to mention the weeks before with preparing for this trip, and he was longing for peace, quiet, and his head to be sufficiently wiped blank in the evening so he would not dream.

He can see the outline of King’s Landing in the distance, thank goodness, and the tell tale whiff of the stretch is starting to reach his nose.

A screech sounds in the air and a shadow swoops down over him, Myriah landing right on top of the wheelhouse. Thank the gods for the craftsmen who built the sturdy structure, as the dragon curls its body on the roof and peers out to survey the road ahead of them all. Golden eyes take in every little detail and there is a puff of smoke that slips out when a gruff huff of judgement echoes in all of their ears.

Someone is not impressed with King’s Landing.

Well the city might be impressed with her.

“Dada... Riri fly? Sōvēs?”

Daeron turns her head once more back to the window of the wheelhouse, seeing his son waving those cubby arms out of the window once again and Alysanne once more trying to wrangle him inside with no luck. “Myriah will fly later, Ly,” he says and it does not seem to make any sense in his son’s world, for the dragon merely leans her head over the side and sticks it in front of Lysandaer. The toddler, with all the grace a child of two years has and clutching a stuffed dragon the exact shade and shape of Myriah, leans over to plant a slobbery kiss on the snout and giggle. “Riri, sōvēs!”

Myriah, thankfully, does not fly given her bond is not with his son but tilts her head to stare at Daeron, as if to consider the request and defer to his judgement.

He can feel it, the connection they have, and her desire to take to the skies once more but his shake of the head  is what holds her back. Better to have her rest on the wheelhouse as they make the finale stretch and be properly defended should the worst happen than for her to be in the skies and shot down by some Blackfyre sympathizer. Or worse. However the push is still there, despite it all, and he has to voice the command.

“Lykirī, Myriah, umbagon dīnagon. Stay put. Later you shall go.”

It is enough. It has to be, for the dragon to still and curl her body back up on the roof of the wheelhouse, even if she lets out a second huff and puff of smoke from her mouth.

Another hour of this, the back and forth, of his son’s repeated requests for the dragon to fly, and then when it seemed not to work out, tactics switched to trying to get Shadow jump into the wheelhouse much to no one’s surprise there. Shadow, being older and deeply bonded with Alysanne as well, manages to get her snout into the wheelhouse, give the child a single dribbly lick, and then go on her merry way to trot right beside them all once more. 

Fucking seven hells, he is tired. He needs rest. And to not dream.

White castle walls, a castle of shining white walls so new it could nearly blind a man with how bright it is, and a black dragon bursting through. Blood runs down those white walls and he can hear the screech of dragons in winds, the clash of swords, and red, white, and gold feathers falling to the ground.

A dragon. No, two dragons, one smaller and younger, but no less fierce. The larger black one is baring its teeth and snapping at the younger one, and there is red on those white walls.

He woke up in a sweat and stumbled out of the bed, intent on getting a drink, only to find Alysanne up and waiting for him, a wineskin in her hand. “I need the quiet, please,” he whispers out, going to touch the side of her face, a man thirsty for some respite. “Give me the quiet, my lovely one. Make it stop for tonight. I have had it again, the same one, over and over once more. Please, all I want is rest.”

And her look darkens when he drops to his knees, looking up with pupils blown wide and desperation clinging as a second skin. Her voice holds a promise and he does his best to focus on that, and then the way it feels when a hand, heavy and large and calloused from sword practice comes to grip the back of his neck. He knows that hand. He knows whose hand it is. Just as much as he knows her hand, that cups his cheek, smaller, more delicate but with the telltale signs of being a practiced archer.

“We try the other way first, and then if it does not work, you may have the wine, my love. Now be a good boy and stand for us,” she orders, and he trembles with anticipation.

An honor guard is waiting for them outside the Dragon Gate, the black and red standards of House Targaryen flying high for all to see, and Daeron trots forward to take up a new position in front of the wheelhouse. Wyle joins him, and Daella is behind them both, flanked by guards and he lets out a groan when they finally cross over into the city proper.

“Are you ready for this?” the knight asks, a playful grin on his face, and Daeron raises his eyebrows before shrugging and shaking his head.

“Not even remotely but when has my opinion on readiness ever been taken into consideration before?” Which was true in many cases.

Marriage being arranged, though it worked out brilliantly and better than anyone ever expected. Knighthood, which did not if he were to be asked. Dragonmaster-ing or whatever it was called, as he was learning as he went along. Being a father, which was still something he was worried every damn day about, but could do nothing but hope he did not ruin his child in any way, shape, or form.

“Well I have on a good authority, and by which I mean Valarr wrote after pestering your father who arranged all of this, that my rooms are adjacent to yours and Alysanne’s. And Lysandaer has his own separate room, attached to your own, which should quell any worries about being out of reach. Large windows a small dragon could get through,” he explains, as if discussing weather and not what was also worrying both Daeron and Alysanne about the trip.

His father did that. For them.

For him.

Thank the gods for his father’s foresight.

It would be a welcome after the theatrics of the day.

He knew, logically as one did when born with royal blood, that they were being paraded through King’s Landing with the pomp and circumstance due to his status and also due to the dragon currently lounging on the wheelhouse roof as if she were a content, lazy cat. That Alysanne had the windows open and forced Rhae into polite smiles and waves, holding up little Lysandaer for all to see the giddy toddler, Daella on her pony riding side saddle and as prim as any princess would; all was part of the show they were expected to give.

Look at how strong the Targaryen family still was, even in the wake of disaster.

Look at how the gods favored the royal family, to spare them in Summerhall, and bring back a miracle.

His uncle’s doing, of course, but Daeron knew his uncle was thinking of the show they would all need to do. Valarr and Kiera would have been forced into the same, regardless if they felt the need to shelter little Matella to protect their only child, and their participation would be mandatory for his cousin was the Crown Prince, heir to King Baelor, Second of his Name, and future of the Iron Throne.

So he waved and nodded and focused on the route ahead, playing his part with Wyle next to him, with Alysanne keeping an iron grip on their son, and hoped that his uncle was getting what he wished for when he had demanded Daeron pack up from Summerhall and attend court for the first time in several years.

It had to be worth it, somehow. 

The Red Keep, 212 AC

Prince Maekar Targaryen, Hand of the King, Anvil of Redgrass Field, and Prince of Summerhall was absolutely never in a state of panic or worry when it came to the furnishing of rooms. Not a single servant had ever voiced that the youngest son of King Daeron the Good, may the gods grant him peace, was one to ever show anything sort of distress over the setting of certain pieces of furniture or how portraits were hung, what tapestries were laid upon the walls, or the rugs that kept feet from touching bare ground. It was unthinkable. After all, the late Lady Dyanna had been in charge of managing the day-to-day household and ensuring that the furnishings were in tip top shape, set to both her taste and her husband’s.

Except…

To his mother, the Dowager Queen Myriah Martell, she knew the truth was that he was currently in a mood over the furnishings, though not his own rooms. No, those were perfectly acceptable in the Tower of the Hand, having moved his personal belongings ages ago when first named by his brother. Instead he was currently watching him sort through the choosing of lines for the child-sized beds that would be put inside new rooms for his grandson, connected to the new apartments that would be for Daeron and Alysanne’s personal use when they managed to reach the Red Keep. He had also gone through and inspected the rugs, tapestries, linens, and all the other assorted items one might have a lady wife dictate the state of. The toys collected in an ornate trunk, with a matching set already sent to Valarr’s girl upon her eldest grandson’s arrival with his family? All Maekar’s doing.

Which surprised no one who actually knew her son. Baelor knew, of course, as did Rhaegel and Aeyrs, alongside the majority of family who actually spent time with Maekar outside of the training yard and battlefield. A large chunk of what made up his apartments and his children’s rooms had been chosen by him as well as Dyanna, and he was surprisingly picky when it came to such things. Something that he inherited from her, no doubt.

As much as he was used to the spartan quarters while on the field, and could hold his own when sleeping on a cot in the middle of a war camp, when it came to his own personal preferences she was sure he would prefer the featherbed and silk sheets that were up to his princely standards.

A knock though interrupts her musings and Maekar’s fussing, in time to see Baelor himself in the doorway. No squire or pageboy sent, just her eldest.

“They have entered the city and are being escorted by the honor guard sent,” he says, and waves a hand to dismiss the servants in the room. The two holding up the linens fold the sheets carefully, before bowing deeply to all three royal family members, before slipping away to give privacy. Just two brothers and their mother, no need for titles and rank between them.

Myriah can see the visible tension in Maekar’s shoulders start to slowly melt away. Traveling with children and especially with one so young as her great-grandson was always difficult and could experience unexpected mishaps and hardships. That they made it within the three week mark was ideal. She knew it wore on her son’s mind of the dangers lurking even now. Regardless, if Daeron had a dragon and Alysanne had what she assumed was a firewolf protecting them alongside a hearty number of household guards and knights personally selected to defend Summerhall and its inhabitants, it would be impossible to say they were utterly safe from any sort of harm.

“And the people are witnessing a miracle brought to them,” Baelor adds smoothly, a pleased gleam in his eyes and an easy smile on his lips. “From what our uncle’s men are bringing to me, there are many lining the path they take just to catch a glimpse of Daeron and his dragon, brother, and what they are saying is at the moment rather promising.”

They had argued this the night before, King and Hand, over having Daeron and his family come during the cover of night or to be paraded out in daylight. Myriah the dragon was the concern. Maekar had wished for the night to protect his son, the family, and the dragon. Less eyes to report back to Blackfyre sympathizers. Baelor had countered with the opposite, of letting people see the new life and new beginnings of the house in the form of a dragon blessed to House Targaryen and Daeron’s wellbeing when whispers still persisted even three years after that terrible tourney.

The King had won. His word trumped the Hand’s. Elder brother over younger brother.

And there was nothing that Myriah could say or do to change Baelor’s mind about such matters.

She could see the shift in Maekar once more, at his son being put on display in such a way and grumbling after that. “An unnecessary risk, and I will not back down from that, as you well know. One good archer and then he would be killed, or worse, the whole lot of them,” he argues, though not without straightening his doublet and adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. Not giving Baelor the attention that should be given.

“And Brynden has the Raven’s Teeth securing rooftops along their route to ensure that is not a possibility. We have been over this before, brother.”

“And you forget, brother, that all it takes is one good shot.”

“Had they come in the dark-”

“It would have been easier and we could have been instructed to keep them all in a wheelhouse, under guard, as I suggested.”

“The people need to see-”

“Fuck the people. That beast is hardly larger than a pony according to Daeron’s last letter, and Shadow may be huge, but is still able to be killed if someone got in one good shot, and you know it. It is unnecessary to parade them like this if they have not the fucking jaws to swallow a man whole yet.”

“Boys.”

Both men, because they are men fully grown and having long since gotten past the age where she would reprimand their naughty behavior as any mother should, turn to face her; Maekar with the righteous fury as plain as day, Baelor with his careful calm only betrayed by the fire lingering behind his eyes. Both of them wanted her approval for their arguments, as only one could be right in this, and the other wrong.

Truthfully they both had sound arguments.

“What is done is done. If what Baelor says is accurate then you both must head down now to greet Daeron, Alysanne, and the family lest you want them all to think they were to be only pawns in ensuring this family’s survival. Now you both will drop this argument or else I will cloud both your ears, and before you say I am too old, King and Hand you both may be, but I was Queen and your mother before that.”

Others may take them all, it was as if they were children again, arguing over some nonsense in the training yard rather than grown men running Westeros.

Properly chastised, both of them nod, though not admitting defeat, and Baelor holds out his arm for her to take. A breach in etiquette, as he is the highest ranking individual, and she should be walking behind him now, though he does not bother to abide by that rule the majority of the time. What he does do is lead the three of them out and beyond the doors, as a a pair of kingsguard follow behind them, having been waiting outside till the king had come out.

Ser Roland and Ser Donnel for today. Faithful shadows.

She knows that Ser Donnel in particular will be interested in seeing Daeron’s boy, having known Daeron himself since the boy was little more than a happy child of five namedays himself. The knight had been delighted to see little Matella when she was first born, having watched over Valarr as much as he did with Daeron when both boys were in the nursery together.

So they walk and walk and she feels the aches in her bones, and when they come into the Great Hall from doors behind the throne, Baelor lets go of her arm to go and take his place upon the Iron Throne. Maekar gives a short bow of his head as he passes, and walks to take the position to his brother’s right, hands clasped behind him in a soldier’s stance as Baelor sits down. The rest of the Small Council flies in, though courtiers are not in attendance.

Doors are opened. A herald is ready.

“Prince Daeron of House Targaryen, heir to the Prince of Summerhall, and his lady wife, Alysanne of House Stark. Prince Lysandaer of House Targaryen, son of Prince Daeron. Princess Daella of House Targaryen. Princess Rhae of House Targaryen. Ser Wyle of House Manderly.”

A whole entourage. 

And they even brought the Manderly knight with them too.

And then comes the bit that has her holding back a laugh.

“Shadow the Fierce?… and… Myriah, Queen of the Skies?”

Announcing both direwolf, because that beast of a wolf has to be a direwolf no matter what Lonnel Snow told everyone, and the dragon was of course a certain someone’s doing. Both beasts come and flank the sides of the party, with the direwolf looking absolutely bored of the proceedings and the dragon skittering across the floor. Not a very big dragon but a well formed one.

All is well. Until..

“Riri, sōvēs!”

The child, currently in Alysanne’s arms and fighting to get out, yells out the command, which causes the dragon to look up at Daeron, and start to break into what may be an attempt at flight. Panic is rising in her grandson’s face and the reaction is instant.

“Lysandaer, not inside, wait, no, Myriah, lykirī, dohaerās, Myriah, dohaerās, seven take me now, dohaerās.”

The dragon stops just short of take off, it seems, and turns to face Daeron with what Myriah thinks as disappointment.

However Maekar’s girls throw away any pretense of behaving as young princesses should and break into a run to go right to her before even thinking about paying respects to Baelor as King now, and she holds out her arms to catch both of her darling granddaughters in a tight hug much to their delight.

Out of the corner of her eye she can see Maekar holding back a loud sigh and tilting his head just enough to make out the mouthing of some sort of profanity he will not say out loud at this moment.

As far as introductions went, it might have gone much worse, if she were asked.

“Proceed with caution, father. He has recently discovered tugging on hair makes amusing faces much to his delight,” he comments dryly. And on cue a cubby hand reaches out to grab at one of his father’s short silvery locks and manages to give a strong yank before the hair slips out of the grasp. Daeron is not surprised at all at this for he did warn his father. One might assume having six children that Maekar Targaryen would know better but he was still caught by his grandson’s fists. Silence echoes in a way it does before the inevitable chastisement comes. Daeron braces himself to reclaim his son before there are any tears shed.

Only his fears are unfounded because his father, Prince Maekar, The Anvil of Redgrass Field, Hand of the King, warrior of unparalleled skill matched only by King Baelor II, laughs.

Laughter. Giddy, hearty, heavy laughter.

And a smile.

It reaches his eyes.

“A fine, strong grip you have there, my little prince,” coos his father, adjusting Lysandaer in his arms so that he may speak face to face with the child. He half expects his father to say something about those hands wielding a sword or mace sooner rather than later. Unexpectedly none of that passes through his father’s lips and instead Daeron is to witness his son being tossed into the air and caught instead.

Well someone has thoroughly charmed Maekar Targaryen once again.

They are in the new rooms given to them, after the disaster that had been an official welcome to the Red Keep. Following Lysandaer’s attempt to make Myriah take flight, the girls breaking protocol and run right to their grandmother, Shadow flopping her whole entire body right next to Ser Roland and rolling over to demand her belly rubbed, and Baelor breaking into laughter at the chaos while sitting on the Iron Throne, it was best that the whole group just head out and relax for the rest of the day.

Alysanne had taken over making sure all of their belongings were unpacked in the new rooms, just a solar away, while Wyle had absconded to his own rooms next door to change and see about a bath. Daeron had let his father take him to where his son would be sleeping, surprised at the sheer extravagance already set up. Both Shadow and Myriah had made themselves home in the solar, taking up a decent amount of space between the two of them. Both sulking, it seemed, for lack of belly rubs and lack of flights, and he would need to remind the cooks to send up a goat or boar for each of them.

His father had scooped up Lysandaer once they were in the rooms, alone, and went about having a staring contest with his grandson, only to lose when the hair pulling had happened. Lysandaer, wondering who this man was, had instantly decided that this was more than acceptable, and he would attempt to have funny faces made for his entertainment. It was the best possible outcome he could think of at the moment.

The gods were certainly smiling on him at this moment.

“I am your grandpapa,” said his father, utterly serious in that, and once again the little fist went for the locks, only to be stopped by a single finger. Not to lose his plaything, Lysandaer decided the finger would be just as good and tugged on that instead.

“Kekepa?”

“Correct. Kekepa. Grandpapa.” All Daeron can do is watch, having his father’s almost full attention on his son, and feel relief that the child has occupied Maekar’s gaze for the majority of this meeting.

“You both did a fine job with him, Daeron, you and Alysanne both.”

A shake of his head and feeling of guilt lingers, even if he wants to feel the warmth of the pride in his father’s voice. It took a child and a wife to have that, and he cannot help but think perhaps whatever it is that his father found lacking in him, it was lessened by the father Daeron proved he could sire a child and a son to boot. Something he realizes as his father is slowly running fingers through silvery blond curls that lay on his son’s head. Proof of the blood in their veins in his son’s features.

“Alysanne did the hardest part. I just gave her the seed,” he said, watching as tiny hands start touching all over Maekar’s face. A nose, then cheeks, his ears, nothing is off limits to those little hands, and the strangest thing is seeing his father let his son do that. Scattered memories are slowly coming to the forefront of his mind, of Aegon, Rhae, and Daella being allowed the same leniency, though he cannot remember Aemon or Aerion doing the same. Perhaps he was too young then. “She carried him those moons and her labors… a whole day father, and how she screamed…”

A shiver.

The screams.

The blood, the tang of it in the air.

Alysanne gripping his hand tightly with desperation, as they forced her upright and standing.

Lysandaer was so small.

Alysanne was so pale.

So much blood.

Daeron shakes his head, and breaths in, holding it in his chest and feeling the tightness before letting out his exhale.

“The first labor is often the longest. Your mother spent nearly the same time delivering you. Lady Jena was the same, though Lady Alys had a quicker time with the twins.”

His response is muffled because Lysandaer has both hands now attempting to cover his mouth. Strange to see it just happening, and Daeron tries to let this pull him from the melancholy thoughts in his head. Perhaps it is just the travel. Tired enough that he is watching his father turn to start walking out of the door, Lysandaer still in his arms.

“You are taking him to show off.” Not a question. An observation. One that Daeron knew he had no say in the matter and would need to defer to his father on. Well, at least there was a tiny break.

“Absolutely. Valarr wished to speak with you, so head to the godswood. I shall be making up for missed time with my grandson.”

Bragging. His father was going off to brag. Would wonders never cease?

No, Daeron would not say anything and ruin this. Let Maekar be proud of him for something for once, even if it was his little son’s existence.

Besides, Lysandaer was having the time of his little life, being the singular focus of his grandfather.

“Kekepa!”

“Yes, very good, kekepa, and now you and I shall show off to your great-uncle Baelor that you already know High Valyrian as any proper Targaryen prince should. We shall both be back for dinner with your muña and your kepaafterwards.”

The Godswood, 212 AC

Valarr had requested they meet, in his letter sent before they arrived, and when he had dragged Daeron off into the Godswood, it had been to catch him up on what was the latest in court gossip and potential complications of being present in King’s Landing.

When Valarr had left, citing a need to return to his wife and daughter as they were dining with his father the king, it left Daeron sitting underneath the growing weirwood and pondering over the news.

Whispers had already started. Marrying the two newest Targaryens to one another, to unite the lines of the Hammer and Anvil together in the form of their grandchildren, it had reached his father’s ears and therefore his letters to Daeron all pointed out what might become of his first grandson. No surprise there, as Valarr had spoken with him once Matella was born and made it past her first several moons. Before he had left for Dragonstone they had spoken privately, Wyle keeping them both company, and the three of them had hashed out potential logistics of what may happen alongside the practical realities they would face.

No one knew save Kiera and Alysanne knew details that were hashed out, and all involved were aware the marriage of Princess Matella would be of the utmost importance given the history of the House of the Dragon; given the chances of having a younger brother were slim. Lysandaer, as a prince himself and also a Targaryen of a different branch, was the most logical candidate to consolidate power and allow for any children born of the union to retain the Targaryen name given they were cousins. That they were close in age and further away in blood than Daeron and Valarr were ended up as boons.

He looked up and stared at the red leaves, wondering if the Old Gods might give him answers if he asked. Alysanne was the believer, though he had conceded that the Old Gods had played a big part in what had brought him back when at Ashford.

He dreamt afterwards. Of the future.

That Daeron had dreamt of his son riding a dragon was the third boon.

If they could bring back dragonriders to the Targaryen royal family, even in small numbers, it would ensure that the tentative grip they held on the Iron Throne would slowly strengthen over time even with the first proper Queen Regnant, alongside a King Consort. The potential for their future children to be dragonriders once more was greater than it had been since the end of the Dance of Dragons.

Or so the arguments went, in those conversations.

Still, nothing was set in stone to everyone outside of the small circle.

“My wife would ask you for guidance. Perhaps you may take pity on me as well?” A long shot. Did the gods wish to send him visions of the future that did not end up terrorizing him to the point of madness? Leaves rustle in the wind in response and he has to think it may be something to tell him that the gods had not forsaken him at this moment.

In this he did miss Lonnel Snow, maybe not as much as Alysanne did, but the man would have some witty remark that might help to take his mind off of the matters that tended to plague him. All he wished for, all he craved in this moment, was just to have his head shut down and turned off. No dreams. No visions. No premonitions. Just the blissful nothingness and letting himself float into the darkness of a void. Such sweet rest it would be.

Eyes close as he leans back against the weirwood. Sounds of birds chirping, the wind moving through the branches, and in the far distance the songs of the castle and city slowly becoming white noise.

Eyes stay closed even when he hears the sound of footsteps muffled by the grass. The scent of cinnamon and smoke fill the air, though he can smell the scent of travel on her as well. Weight is on top of his lap in a moment and he still remains as he is, still and silent and wishing for some sort of blankness to take over for the thoughts in his head.

A face does not greet him when he finally decides to open up his eyes, but the ample swell of his wife’s chest is what he gets an eyeful of, much to his amusement. The bodice she wore had been laced tightly for support and it had done a remarkable job in accenting an already generous view for his eyes to feast upon. She had been self conscious of the changes made to her body from carrying their son, but Daeron had done his best to remind her that he adored her no matter what she looked like now. If anything it piqued his interest to watch those changes, and he never tired of enjoying such remarkable metamorphoses, much to their shared delight.

A primal part of him enjoyed it, having her round with his child, the curve of her stomach, the roundness of her hips, proof that she was his and proof he most definitely could father a child. Naysayers would be damned. And if her breasts were swollen as well, full of milk and soft and warm and heavy in his hand, heaving as she rode him more eagerly, well, he would fully confess it to be one of his favorite sights.

Would it be unseemly if he smothered himself with her breasts, burying his face into those soft, round, full curves?

“Does this please you? To torture me with such a sight, my love, such tantalizing features I salivate over,” he whines, pressing his face against her body but looking up to see her dark gaze upon him. Hands fly to her hips, also widened by bringing their child into the world, and he pulls her against him tightly, just because he can. Rather than wait for a response he takes the initiative and does bury his face between the laces of the bodice, breathing in and whining for more.

A hand is laced through his hair, and it pulls gently so he can tilt up slightly to face her, a frown full of displeasure of being stopped from doing what he wished to do. “What did you speak of with Valarr?” she asks. Despite the question there are still hints of the pleasure to come. That a nail is running down his cheek and chin while a hand holds him still, those nails digging in just enough that he can feel a slight sting, and it makes him shiver with want.

“The children. Whispers of what the court says about their potential match. How the court sees possibilities not knowing of our plans,” he concedes. Nothing set in stone, not yet, but many could guess what was being planned. It would not hinder nor help at any rate. Her grip lessens just enough so his gaze is allowed to drop back to the very bits of her he wants to devour.

Sweet merciful mother, he wanted to take one of those breasts in his mouth. Or both. Both, as it would be a shame for the other to be left unattended and without worship of his lips. Without thinking his hands slip down and behind her, to cup the flesh of her bottom tightly, and he gives a tentative squeeze. A low groan of arousal is what he receives in return.

Idly he wonders if he could have her here, right now, in the godswood of the Red Keep, without interruption. Summerhall’s own godswood was familiar territory, with learned practice of just how to sneak away for the maximum time spent in debauchery.

More footsteps pull him out of those contemplations.

A singular set of footsteps. Deliberate footsteps. Ones that were trying to make a sound, and Daeorn can feel the heat of another body sitting down next to him, smell the scent of minty soap, and there is a large, calloused hand moving to the back of his neck. A familiar comfort.

“You know she wore that on purpose,” Wyle mutters into his ear, breath heated, and there is a low chuckle from both of Daeron’s northerners. He watches the rise and fall of Alysanne’s chest, entraptured by the movement. “Just for you, fully aware you can hardly resist such a sight. Your head goes right into the gutter with such filthy things you wish to do right now, I bet?”

Which is not wrong.

He has done it before.

Daeron can hardly hold back his whimper and the roll of his hips up against Alysanne’s own lap gives way to just how much he is affected at the moment.

“We have two hours till supper with your father and Ly. However the Red Keep has many eyes and I spotted ravens as I walked in,” comes a warning from Alysanne now, breathy and aching, and he can hear the unsaid meaning. They are being watched and now is not the time to see how far they can go outside in the godswood. Later, maybe, but not now.

“Rooms then. And a bath for you both afterwards. Or all three of us if you wish. Daeron?” Oh that is Wyle now, and he turns his head to the side, pupils blow wide, the purple half gone and intent made clear. A nod, shaky but certain, in the plan that is being formed.

“Do not worry, my love, we will take good care of you, before and after, so you will not dream tonight,” Alysanne promises, leaning in and putting a kiss on his forehead. It feels like a promise. She always kept her promises. Daeorn knows that.

He would not be tormented that night. It would be a black void of quiet and his mind shut off.