A Prince of House Targaryen Chapter 74 (Morning and Rhaenys) (Patreon)

Note: This is the longest chapter I have ever written in any of my Stories. 15251 Words; usually, a normal chapter has 4K - 5K Words. I hope you enjoy this Chapter.

House Lannister

"Where's Cersei?" Jaime asked, his voice echoing through the cavernous expanse of his father's chamber. He strode purposefully across the room, scanning every nook and cranny in hopes of catching sight of his beloved sister. The desk dominated the chamber where his father and Tyrion were engrossed in conversation.

Tywin was positioned in a sturdy chair directly in front of an exquisite mahogany desk. To his right, Jaime's younger brother Tyrion sat with a glass of deep red wine in hand. The way Tyrion shifted in his seat indicated that he had already consumed a considerable amount, his intoxication evident in his movements. On the opposite side of the desk, Loren sat attentively. Observing Tyrion's state, Jaime anticipated an amusing exchange between the two. True to his prediction, Tyrion attempted to extend a glass of wine to Loren, a playful grin on his face. However, Loren politely declined, shaking his head while brimming with amusement.

"Aunt Cersei is not here, father. She has a meeting with Lady Catelyn Stark," His son explained, momentarily diverting his gaze towards Jaime who stood behind him, startled by the unexpected news. The son then shifted his attention towards Tywin, positioning himself to face him directly, causing Jaime to furrow his brow in a mix of curiosity and bewilderment, evident from the perplexed expression etched on his face.

Why would Cersei meet with her? Jaime asked himself as he walked further into the chamber, his footsteps echoing against the stone walls. For the past fourteen years, Cersei had complained again and again about how Riverrun was poor and living in horrible conditions; Jaime figured his sister was exaggerating it a little, but an undeniable longing stirred within him, an ache that yearned for the touch of her delicate hand and the warmth of her lips against his own.

The memory of being compelled into a marriage with Lynesse was an enduring source of discontent for Jaime, a persistent frown etching itself upon his visage. On that fateful day when they had consummated their union, his mind, fueled by desire, had strayed to envision Cersei in her place. The striking resemblance between Lynesse's golden locks and Cersei's own tresses had served as a bittersweet catalyst, making him believe that he was making love to Cersei.

In the throes of passion, Jaime was certain that he had inadvertently uttered Cersei's name, not once but several times, yet Lynesse opted to remain silent, never broaching the subject. Eventually, their union bore fruit, bringing forth a son named Lonel, but Lynesse died shortly after.

After her death, a month later, Cersei and Edmure Tully arrived in Castely Rock to pay their respects to Lynesse. Jaime still remembered the day with a smile, he and Cersei had secretly made love in his chamber. Nine months after the same night, Cersei had given birth to Joffrey Tully.

A year later, Tywin had made a tourney for Joffrey, inviting Cersei and her family to the Castely Rock. Allowing Jaime and Cersei to be together again, Jaime knew they could never be truly together, but he was happy knowing he had children with the woman he always loved. Five years after Joffrey's birth, Jaime had the opportunity to be with Cersei again; Jaime remembered that night with a smile on his face. Jaime remembered hearing someone's footsteps, but when he looked, he didn't see anyone; he had ignored it as his mind played games with him, before entering Cersei.

Jaime's eyes went to Loren; the boy had grown and carried the name Lannister and looked like one. Cersei had even said that Loren looked exactly like Jaime when he had been young. Many in Castely Rock called him handsome, and Jaime found a bit of pride that despite being fourteen-name days, his son wasn't someone to go after whores, and paid more attention to his studies.

He would often be in meetings with Tywin, acting as a cupbearer, and would learn from Tywin how to be a good lord. Jaime mainly trained Lonel and taught him how to fight, but Jaime would often leave it to his father to train his son in politics.

Tyrion had tried to convince him multiple times to go with him to the brothels, but Loren had refused, saying he wanted to save himself for his wife, saying he would sleep only with the woman he would marry one day, something Tyrion had laughed, and to this day, he often teased Loren of 'saving himself for the right girl.'

"Your sister's presence is not needed for this meeting to start," Tywin's voice resonated through the air with a commanding tone. As his eyes met Jaime's, a bitter sensation sprouted within him, the taste of resentment tainting his mouth, fueled by an unwavering loyalty to defend Cersei. However, before Jaime could interject, Tyrion's voice interposed, its cadence slightly slurred and his mouth moving in peculiar patterns, a telltale sign that he had indulged in the intoxicating embrace of alcohol.

With a sly smirk playing on his lips, Tyrion Lannister leaned back in his ornate chair, his piercing eyes dancing mischievously. "Ah, Jaime," he began, his wine-filled goblet held aloft in a toast, "Cersei is probably busy complaining to Lady Catelyn how much the life in Riverrun sucks compared to Castely Rock. So Jaime, sit with us; we need to discuss our new beloved prince and drink wine," His words carried a hint of irony. As his voice trailed off, Tyrion's gaze shifted to Lonel. The boy chuckled, a deep, hearty sound that echoed through the chamber as if it were a resounding approval of Tyrion's words.

As Jaime's heavy sigh escaped his lips, betraying his weariness, he mustered the strength to scoot out a chair, causing it to glide across the polished floor with a faint, yet audible, sound. With a huff of frustration, Jaime finally settled into the seat, his tired eyes meeting his father's eyes.

What is there to discuss? Jaime found himself asking, he remembered the kid, Prince Aemon, as green as grass, Jaime had seen his kind before, he himself had been like him a long time ago. They were young and foolish, thinking they already knew everything and that a sword was all they needed to prove themselves. A long time ago, Jaime repeated in his head, his heart tempted to escape from his chest.

Sometimes, he needed to remind himself how long he had been since he tainted his white cloak. Whenever slumber claimed his weary mind, Jaime's subconscious would conjure vivid images of the Mad King's eyes, as pure and icy as freshly fallen snow, hauntingly gazing back at him. In these introspective moments, an enigmatic curiosity would seize Jaime, prompting him to ponder the motives behind the King's unsettling countenance.

"Prince Aemon Targaryen changes many things; he has a Dragon and a powerful one. He showed himself he could control the creature; he won both the Melee and the Jousting," Tywin spoke, his voice restrained from showing his true anger, Jaime knew just how much his father still despised the Old King. The hatred never disappeared; the shame on his heart would stay there until Tywin drew his last breath.

A Lannister always pays his debts, Jaime thought, as Tyrion entertained himself by moving the glass of wine around his hand like it was a small ball.

"Don't forget the songs, brother. Singers have already started singing praises for our beloved prince. Some call him 'The Dragon Prince', the one who was hidden and revealed himself with a dragon. If that doesn't make for a good song, I don't know what will," Tyrion spoke, his tongue losing up a bit.

"I heard a good one, some say. The prince landed on Harrenhal with the Dragon; some songs mention him being the Dragon," Lonel added with a smile of amusement. Jaime chuckled, leaving it to singers to speak nonsense.

With a mischievous glint in his eye, Tyrion interjected, his voice laced with wry humor, as he elegantly placed the crystal glass of rich crimson wine upon the polished mahogany table, "Prince Aemon might have a Dragon but he has no army, even Aegon The Conqueror needed an army,"

"Mayhaps, but people still tell tales of the Dance of The Dragons, the bloodiest war in Westeros, the Blackfyre rebellion is naught but a small candle to a bonfire in comparison. I don't know much about Prince Aemon, but he's either loyal or too cunning," Lonel explained, his green eyes looking mainly at Tywin as he spoke, which Jaime always did not like.

"Why?" Tywin questioned, his voice sounding slightly curious, something rare to hear from the Old Lion, whose smiling days had long gone.

"Prince Aemon came here already possessing everything the Royal Family doesn't have. Dragons are what made Westeros kneel the first time; they would have done so a second time, whatever the man's name was, Targaryen or Snow. Men will always choose their life over whatever they had sworn their honor to, whether a tree, a seven star or a man with Silver Hair with a crown." Lonel explained that he stopped speaking, letting what he said sink in, while Tyrion, with furrowed brows and a distant gaze, absorbed every syllable, each burrowing deeper into his mind's crevices.

In a moment of contemplation, Tyrion's hand gracefully reached for the crystal decanter, as if seeking solace in the crimson elixir that danced within, its ruby hues a reflection of the complexities he grappled with.

The kid is indeed loyal, Jaime thought; he remembered seeing him fight when he got praised for his talent. Usually, people would feel proud to be praised by strong knights.

Jaime knew how much people loved to bloat about their talent. Jaime himself had often bloated about his own talent, but Jaime didn't remember the kid doing that; the opposite, he would often try to downplay himself, saying it was luck or some other excuse he could come up with.

"You think the kid is Loyal, to what point?" Tyrion asked with a curious glint in his eye, his voice laced with skepticism and intrigue. Leaning closer to the sparkling wine in his glass, he brought his nose tantalizingly close, allowing the rich aroma to envelop his senses. Inhaling deeply, a contented smile played upon his lips as he savored the delightful bouquet, relishing in the fragrant symphony that danced before him.

Jaime's heart sank, and a deep sigh escaped his lips as he witnessed Tyrion indulging in yet another glass of wine. The amber liquid cascaded down Tyrion's throat like a shimmering river, leaving Jaime to ponder, with a mix of concern and curiosity, whether his brother's veins coursed with wine instead of blood.

"No one knows, but all men have a breaking point of their loyalty, whether that is a child or a woman they love," Lonel added as he briefly glanced at his father, who kept quiet.

"The woman he was with, I saw her. She is more beautiful than the prettiest whore I have seen-" "Tyrion!" Jaime abruptly halted him by forcefully slamming his hand onto the table. Clearly, Jaime was not in the mood to entertain his brother's incessant boasting about his numerous encounters with women of the night.

"Prince Aemon has the Dragon, he has the power, but we don't know what his game is, for all we know, he might be like Bloodraven, loyal to his brothers, to the point that he did something that sent him to the Wall. Or maybe he's like Maegor." Lonel explained, while his slender fingers gracefully passed through the delicate strands of the shimmering golden necklace, adorning his neck.

"Indeed, I think it's better we do nothing for now, Father. If anyone will make a move. House Martell will not stay put; Prince Oberyn won't allow someone like Prince Aemon to hold so much power. To him, Prince Aemon is like a barrel of Wildfire just waiting to be ignited." Tyrion's eyes sparkled mischievously as he uttered these words, his wine-stained lips parting into a knowing smile while he deftly wiped away any remnants of the crimson nectar with a casual sweep of his sleeve.

"You're right, Tyrion," Tywin concurred, his voice carrying a tone of acceptance. As Jaime blinked in rapid succession, his green eyes darting between his younger brother and their father, he couldn't help but sense the profound shock mirrored in Tyrion's expression. Except for Lonel, who didn't seem surprised; instead, he bore a smile of triumph.

Breaking the silence, Tywin's steely gaze shifted to Tyrion, a subtle motion urging him to continue. A fleeting exchange of bewildered glances transpired between the two brothers. Undeterred by the mounting suspense, Tyrion gingerly placed his glass on the mahogany table, his torso leaning forward, defying the confines of the plush chair, his chest expanding with a mixture of determination and triumph.

With a mischievous glimmer in his eyes, Tyrion leaned forward in his chair, his voice dripping with a sneer. "Prince Oberyn is rash," he remarked, his words laced with a sense of intrigue. "But we know he's a snake waiting for the command to strike." As his lips curled into a triumphant smile, Tyrion's gaze shifted towards Tywin, who nodded approvingly, silently validating Tyrion's astute observation.

"House Martell are the one in thin ice, Prince Oberyn might try to hide it, but they're still quite unhappy with what happened 14 years ago. In Prince Oberyn's eyes, Elia was shamed that day in front of the whole Realm, and then two years later. House Martell needed to send soldiers to fight for House Targaryen because King Rhaegar liked them young, and now, the son of Lyanna Stark has come back from the frozen hole that is Winterfell, and he has come back to take everything they have and more," Tyrion spoke, almost dramatically, earning a chuckle from Lonel.

"Is almost like a classic tale Uncle, and Oberyn Martell will be the hero to save the realm from the big bad Prince," With a flourish of theatricality, Lonel delivered his words, his voice dripping with the kind of melodrama one would expect on a grand stage. Jaime couldn't help but chuckle at the sheer entertainment of it all, his amusement bubbling up from deep within. However, as his eyes darted towards Tywin, he noticed a subtle shift in the patriarch's demeanor, a less-than-amused expression that lurked beneath the surface. Tywin's throat cleared with a purposeful rasp. Both Lonel and Tyrion immediately ceased their banter, retreating to their respective seats.

"What should we do father?" Jaime asked respectfully.

"King Rhaegar is not like his mad father; if I were him, I would have married Prince Aemon to Princess Rhaenys; it will unite House Martell with Prince Aemon because of Elia. Right now, I want you Lonel to have a match with Prince Aemon." Tywin said, but it sounded more like a command.

Lonel nodded right away, a look of self-satisfaction on his face, but just as Jaime thought the meeting had ended, Tyrion cleared his throat.

"We have something else we need to discuss. It might have slipped your mind, but remember the trial against Prince Aemon. Joffrey and Cersei both swore that they were telling the truth, and Prince Aemon killed the Mountain; Joffrey and Cersei tried to kill the Prince, that won't go well with the King." Tyrion reminded them. Jaime had to stop himself from smiling in delight; the man was nothing but a mad dog, and no one would shed tears for him, not even his own brother.

As Jaime's gaze met his father's, he couldn't help but notice a fleeting glimpse of anger, like a storm brewing in the depths of his eyes. Yet, it dissipated into thin air, vanishing as swiftly as a wisp of smoke, leaving an eerie sense of calm behind.

Jaime remembered the words their father told Cersei after The Mountain's death. In all their years of clandestine secrets and forbidden love, Jaime had never witnessed Cersei so utterly terrified, not even in the tumultuous aftermath when their mother had inadvertently stumbled upon their forbidden liaison many moons ago. The vivid recollection sent a shiver down Jaime's spine.

"Prince Aemon was simply better at swinging his sword around than The Mountain, but the Faith and the King won't see it that way, knowing House Tully tried to sentence his son to death. King Rhaegar might try to do something," As Tyrion's voice resonated through the chamber, his words cascaded like crystal-clear drops of warning, reverberating off the stone walls and piercing the silence. Tywin could not help but grumble in response, his discontent palpable as he pressed his lips together, their thinness accentuated, almost vanishing into a straight, unyielding line.

"I don't think the King will bring up the trial. The Trial has already ended, and with a clear winner, in the eyes of everyone, Prince Aemon had told no lies and was innocent, but this is a stain to our family's name. Joffrey's reputation in Riverrun hasn't earned him any favors. The King might want someone from House Tully to pay. He might even decide to drop House Tully as Lord Paramount because of what Hoster Tully did during the Rebellion," Lonel added, his eyes not leaving Tywin as he spoke. Jaime shuddered slightly; he knew this wasn't something Cersei would like.

I myself don't like this, Jaime thought, chewing on his lip, restraining himself from talking.

Jaime knew where this was going, Jaime knew Cersei would never approve of this, she would cry and try everything in her power to protect their son.

"What are you suggesting?" Tyrion asked, his eyes twinkling.

"If the King brings up the trial. Joffrey should admit it being all his fault. He will confess that he cut his own arm to lie and then lied to Aunt Cersei about what happened between him and Prince Aemon. The King can't fault Aunt Cersei for simply looking out for her son. The King will either send Joffrey to the Wall or take his head, and House Tully might still keep Riverrun, especially since Tommen has a good reputation," Lonel suggested, looking at Tywin and then his father with a look of expectation.

Jaime didn't like the way Lonel spoke of Joffrey, as if someone they could just throw away, like a broken tool that had lost its use. They are cousins; they should treat each other like brothers, Jaime thought, ready to berate his son for talking like that for Joffrey when Tyrion interjected.

"What about Cersei?"

Tyrion's voice echoed through the dimly lit chamber, his eyes fixed on Jaime. As if in response, the heavy oak door swung open, its hinges protesting with a low creak, revealing the figure of a woman. Jaime, without turning his head, felt her presence. There she stood, Cersei, her eyes ablaze with fury, her voice trembling with barely restrained anger, as she stormed into the room, the door slamming shut behind her.

"Why did you not wait for me? I needed to be in this meeting?" Cersei demanded, glaring furiously at Tyrion as if he was at fault, Cersei made her way towards Lonel's occupied seat, her presence exuding authority and entitlement, compelling him to relinquish his position however, before Lonel could even muster a response or rise from his comfortable perch.

"Lonel, you will stay where you are."

Cersei's eyes widened in disbelief as she peered into her father's stern gaze, unable to fathom the words that had just escaped his lips. The weight of his disapproval bore down upon her, compelling her to avert her gaze and seek solace elsewhere. With a resolute determination, she located a sturdy chair, its legs scraping against the stone floor, producing an irksome screech that caused Jaime to instinctively cover his ears. Undeterred by the cacophony, Cersei maneuvered the chair with finesse, positioning it snugly beside Jaime's own seat, claiming her rightful place upon it.

"You weren't needed for this meeting, and you're not needed now," With a stern tone, Tywin dismissed Cersei's presence in the meeting. The fiery hues of embarrassment flushed her cheeks. Yet, she deliberately averted her gaze from her formidable father, choosing instead to speak with a subdued demeanor that caught Jaime off guard, anticipating a wave of anger that never came.

"I'm needed; I'm the lady of Riverrun. I'm of House Lannister; don't forget that," Cersei declared with unwavering conviction, her regal voice resounding through the chamber. Every syllable she uttered was infused with the unyielding pride of her noble lineage. As her words echoed, her voice swelled in volume, each successive utterance growing in fervor until her penetrating gaze met the austere countenance of Tywin. Yet, despite her customary veneer of unshakable fortitude, her eyes betrayed a flicker of vulnerability.

"You are not needed. You cannot even raise your own children properly. Because of you and your son's foolishness, House Tully might lose its seat in Riverrun, all because your son is unworthy of being my cupbearer, let alone a lord," As Tywin's contemptuous words left his lips, a mixture of disappointment and frustration seeped through his voice, causing Jaime's heart to sink. A lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed hard, battling the surge of anger that threatened to consume him. The mere thought of his father speaking ill of Cersei, his beloved sister and confidante, was unbearable to Jaime. In that moment, he couldn't help but notice the twisted delight dancing in Tyrion's eyes, relishing every second of Tywin's merciless insults aimed at Cersei as if deriving a perverse pleasure from their father's disdain.

"Lose the Seat?" Cersei's bewildered voice echoed through the chamber, her emerald eyes locked onto her father's stern gaze. A mixture of confusion and frustration painted her porcelain features, causing a flush of crimson to bloom across her flawless complexion."Joffrey is a Tully, he deserves that seat, is his rightful place," Cersei passionately retorted, her words resonating with an unyielding conviction that reverberated through the room.

With a chilling interruption that sliced through the tense silence, Tywin's voice dripped with icy disdain as he declared, "Not anymore." His piercing gaze bore into his daughter's soul, causing a shiver to ripple through her entire being. Overwhelmed by the weight of his disapproval, she gulped audibly, her eyes instinctively seeking solace in the ground beneath her feet as the tremors of her trembling body mirrored the delicate quiver of a leaf caught in a tempestuous gust.

"Your son attacked Prince Aemon, and he almost died because of The Mountain, but that won't be enough if not the King. Queen Rhaella will not let this insult slide." Tywin said. Jaime felt like a kid again, being berated by his father for a moment.

"They won't let this slid, and your son will have to pay the price." Tywin's voice echoed through the room, each word dripping with icy determination. His piercing gaze locked onto Cersei, a silent storm brewing in his eyes. The weight of his declaration pressed against her like an invisible force, threatening to suffocate her very being.

As the words reverberated in the air, Cersei felt her heart skip a beat, her breath catching in her throat. Her face contorted with a mixture of horror and despair, her once proud countenance now etched with vulnerability. Unseen tears welled up in her eyes. Her jaw trembled uncontrollably as if caught in the frigid grip of an arctic gust.

"Pay the price?"

"Tomorrow, your son will admit in front of the King and the Royal Family that he cut his own arm, and then lied to you about what happened. Hopefully, The King will show mercy and decide to send him to the Wall, if not, then your son will be a head shorter, or become ash in the wind." Tywin said without much thought into his words, his voice making it clear to Cersei that she could do nothing to change that.

With fiery determination burning in her eyes, Cersei's voice reverberated through the chamber as she vehemently declared, "I WON'T ALLOW MY SON TO DIE OR ROT AT THE WALL!!" As her words echoed, her face flushed crimson, mirroring the hue of the finest vintage wine, while a cascade of tears streamed down her cheeks. Rising from her seat, the chair crashed to the ground behind her unnoticed. Tywin's piercing glare bore into her, brimming with fury and disdain, as he forcefully brought his hand down upon the table, the impact resounding like a thunderclap. The room fell into an eerie silence, like a dense fog descending upon a desolate moor.

"It's happening, Cersei, your son is not fit for Riverrun, and I won't allow your recklessness to taint the Name Lannister even more than it already has," Tywin spoke firmly and in a commanding way before he turned to look at Lonel.

"Lonel, how about you have a talk with Joffrey about what he should say tomorrow," As the resonant words effortlessly escaped Tywin's lips, Lonel's face transformed into an unsettling smile, sending shivers down the spines of Jaime. With a swift, graceful motion, he delicately brushed aside a single strand of his lustrous golden hair, revealing a pair of mesmerizing, emerald-green eyes that sparkled with ethereal brilliance.

"Of course, grandfather."

Morning - House Targaryen

Aemon Targaryen

As the morrow's first light gradually rose from the distant horizon, casting its gentle glow upon the chamber, Rhaella, her voice laced with a tinge of trepidation, couldn't help but voice her incredulity, "Cannibal?!" Her words echoed through the empty space, emphasizing the eerie stillness that enveloped the room. Aemon stood beside her.

Rhaella had sent a 'servant' to wake up Aemon earlier than usual; she had been informed about the second dragon and heard it roaring throughout the night many times. At first, Rhaella wondered if the second dragon also belonged to Aemon.

But when Aemon entered her chamber and informed her that the second dragon was Cannibal and that Daenerys was the one that had tamed him, Rhaella wasn't sure if she should be overjoyed. She could tell from Aemon's voice that he wasn't enthusiastic about it.

"Aemon, you told me you and Aegarax fought this dragon once. Can we trust him, he was known to eat his own kind?" As Rhaella posed her Question, her voice remained unwavering, exuding an air of composure and poise. However, beneath her composed exterior, an undercurrent of apprehension seeped into her tone, betraying her genuine concern that she struggled to suppress.

"No, we can't trust him, Aemon. I think we should just freeze him, like they did with Shrykos." Aegarax spoke in Aemon's mind.

"Aegarax, Daenerys can control Cannibal. She's a Princess Targaryen, the Blood of the Dragon." Aemon reminded him, his voice not sounding as convincing as he wanted.

"Her Blood won't protect her from his flames, and Cannibal can talk like I do; he won't care to follow whatever rule you in the Kingdom have. He will do whatever he wants. What will you do if he suddenly decides to burn down a castle? You told me about the Dragon Pit, where House Targaryen used to lock Dragons. Don't try that with Cannibal; he might burn the entire King's Landing if you try that," Aegarax warned him.

"Aegarax, Daenerys can handle him."

"Why are you so persistent about this? You know I'm right, yet, you are refusing to listen. What's stopping you?"

"Because I don't want to endanger you!" Aemon shouted at him, his words caused Aegarax to go quiet for a while, waiting for Aemon to continue.

"I don't want to lose anymore, Aegarax, I don't want to lose anyone. If we were to fight Cannibal, we might win, but you know you might die." Aemon added, his voice cracking, he didn't want to imagine losing more.

"Aemon, you freed me from that place. If it wasn't for you, I would still be frozen in ice. Last I can do is protect you and your family." Aegarax spoke, his voice sounding softer.

"Aegarax, you are important to me to, just like Ghost and Kessa. You three are my companions. My dearest friends." Aemon countered, his voice genuine.

Aegarax was quiet after hearing that; hearing Aemon talk like that reminded him of his old rider thousands of years ago. "You are too much like him, Aemon."

"Like who?"

"I don't remember his name, my memories are not clear, but I do remember him carrying a large longsword sword. Big enough to cut down trees." Aegarax said before adding. "Very well, Aemon. I will follow your lead, but remember to keep a close eye on Daenerys. If she can't handle him, then it would better to take the risk and attack Cannibal." Aegarax warned, his voice trailing off.

Aemon escaped his thoughts; his attention turned back towards Rhaella, who looked at him strangely. "Aegarax says Cannibal is dangerous, but I trust Daenerys." Yet, despite his earnest explanation, Rhaella's worry remained unabated, her gaze drifting towards the transparency of the glass door that framed her room, offering a glimpse into the sprawling landscape that enveloped the ancient fortress of Harrenhal.

"I will speak with Dany about this," Rhaella murmured, hoping her daughter could handle herself. Rhaella still remembered her when she had been naught but a newborn in her arms, the smile on her face; she had been the happiest child she had ever seen, a direct contrast to how gloomy Rhaegar used to be when he was a toddler.

As the heavy wooden door creaked open, revealing a grand entrance adorned with intricate tapestries, Rhaella leaned in towards Aemon, her voice laced with a hint of hesitation, "Aemon, have you talked with Prince Oberyn yet?" Her emerald eyes sparkled with curiosity, mirroring the flickering candlelight that danced upon the marble floors. Suddenly, the air filled with a melodious symphony of delicate porcelain clinking against silverware as three servants gracefully glided into the room, their hands carefully balancing square silver plates adorned with tantalizing teapots and delectable desserts drizzled in golden honey.

With grace and precision, the Servants delicately arranged the gleaming silver square plates on the elegant table while tendrils of steam wafted from the exquisite porcelain teapot. The air was filled with anticipation as the aroma of freshly brewed tea mingled with the tantalizing scent of honey-drenched sweets, their vibrant colors and intricate designs captivating the eye. Amidst this scene of culinary splendor, Rhaella poured herself and Aemon a fragrant cup of tea, their hands wrapped around the delicate porcelain, ready to savor the harmonious blend of flavors. "No," Aemon answered, already knowing the reason behind it, he knew he would never be able to convince them that he wasn't dangerous.

I have a Dragon; I will always be the Enemy, Aemon thought, knowing he was dangerous; to them, he was someone who could potentially kill Aegon and take the throne for himself.

"You should try to, Prince Oberyn might be rash on what he does, but he's not a simpleton," Rhaella advised. Her delicate fingers delicately grasped the porcelain teacup, bringing it to her lips for a dainty sip of the fragrant brew. Meanwhile, her other hand reached out to pluck a warm, freshly baked muffin from the plate before her, its golden crust glistening with a drizzle of sweet honey that enticed the senses. As she took a delectable bite, the flavors mingled on her palate.

"To him, I'm the man who came from the dead. I have a Dragon and the Targaryen name. I'm everything he fears: the name and the power. My existence alone is a threat to him; even if I didn't have Aegarax, having him makes me the most dangerous person. No matter what I do, I will never be someone trustworthy to him," Aemon said dismissively to his grandmother's suggestion. He knew she wanted them to get along, but Aemon was smart enough to know that House Martell would never consider him a friend of House Martell; he didn't know Prince Oberyn, neither did he know Prince Doran, but from what he had heard, Doran was a man of few words, and the one who truly ordered Oberyn on what to do.

Doran was like a puppet master, moving his strings, and Oberyn was the doll, doing what he's told, by the excuse that is for the 'Good' of the family, at least that's what Aemon believed.

As Aemon's words reached Rhaella's ears, a deep frown etched across her face, casting a shadow over her countenance. Her eyes, lost in the vast expanse of the distance, seemed to delve into the depths of contemplation. At that moment, a spark of recollection ignited within her, like a long-lost memory resurfacing from the recesses of her mind. A glimmer of hope shimmered in her gaze, for she had stumbled upon something that held the potential to bridge the chasm between the two houses, reuniting them once more. With a swift turn, Rhaella directed her attention towards Aemon, her voice laced with curiosity and anticipation, as she posed a question: "What about Rhaenys?"

"What about her?" Aemon questioned, his voice dipped in curiosity. His piercing gaze locked onto her as he leaned forward, but a knowing smile played at the corners of his lips. The teacup rested in his elegant hand, its delicate porcelain surface warmed by the steam rising from the fragrant brew within. With a graceful motion, he brought the cup to his lips and took a small, satisfying sip. The rich, velvety liquid caressed his tongue, its warmth spreading through him like a comforting embrace. Aemon couldn't help but feel a sense of serenity wash over him, much like the gentle waves of calm that tea always seemed to bring. At that moment, as the tea glided down his throat, he understood why his grandmother's heart harbored such an unwavering love for this beloved beverage.

"Aemon, I already know you have shared a bed with Rhaenys, and even with Princess Arianne." Rhaella said, her voice changing from grandmotherly to firm and strong.

Aemon was silent as he waited for her to tell him what she wanted. "Usually, I wouldn't be pleased that you slept with them, but Princess Arianne has shared a bed with many men in Dorne. While, Rhaenys, she never wanted anyone. She has something with Arianne, but nothing serious. Rhaenys never wanted to marry anyone, she always refused every lord." Rhaella said sadly, her purple eyes looking directly at Aemon as she spoke.

"You want me to marry her?"

"Yes." Rhaella, with an air of quiet confidence, answered without wasting a moment, her voice steady and unwavering. As the delicate porcelain teacup gently met the table's surface, she placed it down with care, her fingers lingering for a brief moment before she released her hold. With a subtle gesture, she clasped her hands together above her belly, the warmth of her palms entwining with the anticipation pulsing through her veins.

"You two have already shared a bed. Marrying Rhaenys will unite you directly to House Martell through her and because of Elia, and most importantly, marrying her and having children will ensure peace between House Targaryen and House Martell." Rhaella added, a smile forming on her face as she looked at Aemon.

At least I hope it does, Rhaella thought, knowing that Doran was the one that she was the most wary of. While Oberyn was dangerous, Doran was the one who made the plans, and Oberyn was the dog that followed his orders.

"I don't think the Faith will be happy with me having two wives." Aemon sighed. He knew his father had married his mother while being married to Elia, but that was revealed only after the Rebellion had ended, and by the time The Faith thought of doing something against it, the word had spread that Lyanna Stark, including the child, had passed away.

As Rhaella delivered her words with a blend of caution and certainty, she cast a knowing glance at Aemon. "Aemon," she began, her voice dripping with a hint of sorrow, "The Faith will never recognise your marriage to Val, especially if they know the way the marriage beyond the Wall is done." With each syllable that escaped her lips. Aemon's eyes, once filled with hope, now burned with an inferno of suppressed rage, his pupils transforming into fiery embers. In a moment of unbridled fury, he released a guttural growl, the primal sound echoing through the chamber.

Aemon's voice reverberated with a low, menacing growl as he declared, "I will never have Bastards." The intensity in his tone compelled Rhaella to lean in. With a slight hush, his voice dropped to a mere whisper. "I will never allow my children to be seen as bastards by anyone if the Faith doesn't recognize my marriage to Val and calls our child a bastard. I will burn the Great Sept of Baelor to the ground." Aemon's promise echoed through the air, resembling the fierce growl of a mighty dragon, his piercing grey eyes ablaze with an inferno of fury. Rhaella, unable to escape the chilling weight of his words, felt a shudder course through her body. In that fleeting moment, she saw a glimpse of a beast within him, transforming her throat into a desert of parched fear. Aemon's conviction was palpable; his words carried immense weight, leaving no doubt that he meant every word and then some.

Rhaella had never seen this side of Aemon, perhaps the anger of what he had endured during his childhood was still there, accumulating, waiting to be ignited. "You do that; you will have the entire Westeros against you. The Faith of The Seven is practiced in six kingdoms; the King himself is crowned by the High Septon. There are many houses that would go to war simply because you attacked the Seven. You won't be seen any differently from Maegor, The Cruel." Rhaella warned gravely; she was tempted to slap him for saying something like that.

In the heat of the moment, Aemon's voice boomed with a ferocious intensity, echoing through the walls of the ancient castle. "I Won't Have My Child be A Bastard! I Would Rather Die!" But as the echoes died down, a wave of remorse washed over him like a gentle breeze, softening his features into a portrait of contrition. His eyes met Rhaella's, filled with regret and sorrow, as his once-angry countenance transformed into a visage of apology, seeking forgiveness for the outburst that had momentarily consumed him.

With a tender smile gracing her lips, Rhaella gracefully rose from her seat, her footsteps carrying her towards where he sat. As she drew closer, her arms opened wide, enveloping him in a warm and loving embrace, her lips pressing a gentle kiss upon the crown of his head. Looking down at him, her eyebrows arched inquisitively; she posed a question that carried a hint of determination and protectiveness. "Do you really think I would allow anyone to call my great-grandchildren bastards?" The glimmer of gratitude danced in Aemon's eyes as he leaned in, pressing a tender kiss against her cheek.

"You follow the Old Gods, right?"

With a serene expression on his face, Aemon simply nodded, feeling the comforting touch of Rhaella's delicate fingers gently caressing his hair.

As they stood together, Rhaella's mischievous grin illuminated her features as she playfully remarked, "Well, Harrenhal has a Weirwood Tree." A twinkle danced in her eyes as she continued, her voice filled with playful allurement, "I'm sure Val wouldn't mind marrying you again and having you in her bed again." Aemon's cheeks flushed a delicate shade of rose as he shyly glanced away, a tender smile of affection etched across his countenance. For a moment, Rhaella felt like she was talking to Aegon; her other grandson could easily blush whenever this kind of discussion was brought up.

"What about Rhaenys?" Aemon's voice quivered with a hint of worry, his brows furrowing slightly as he posed the Question. In that very moment, as her name danced upon his ears, Aemon felt his heart stir like a gentle breeze caressing the surface of a tranquil lake. Images of a future entwined with hers flooded his mind, envisioning a life filled with shared joys where they would have their children one day. The desire to make her his own burned within him, a flame that couldn't be extinguished, to pledge his unwavering devotion to her and to experience the profound joy of embracing their own little ones, their legacy. Determination coursed through his veins, a resolute fire that blazed fiercely in his eyes.

"The Faith won't be happy with you having a Dragon Aemon, even if you didn't want to have a second wife, the Faith won't be Happy with the Dragons returning back. The Faith showed during the Dance that they were able to convince thousands of people to fight Dragons." Rhaella explained.

"The Shepherd convinced thousands of people in King's Landing who had never grabbed a weapon in their life to go and kill the Dragons. The Shepherd song the sung, and the sheep followed him to the end, and he was a simple begging brother, not even the High Septon, but he spread the rumours that Rhaenyra Targaryen was responsible for killing Helaena Targaryen, she was beloved by the City, and everyone directed their hatred towards Rhaenyra and the Dragons," Rhaella explained as she walked away from Aemon, the latter let out a sound similar to a growl.

Curiosity tugged at Aemon's thoughts as he watched Rhaella's graceful stride towards the glass door, leading to the balcony of her chamber. As the sunlight spilled through the transparent barrier, casting ethereal hues upon her silhouette, he couldn't help but wonder, "Did Rhaenyra do it?" His inquisitive gaze lingered upon her back. The only thing he knew of the Dance of the Dragons was what he had read in the books.

"No one knows the truth, Aemon, and those that did have died long ago. The books say different things; some say she threw herself, and some say she was murdered. I think she threw herself after what she was forced to choose. She went mad with grief," Rhaella answered while shaking her head, feeling sadness for the poor girl.

"What do you think I should do, Grandmother?" Aemon inquired, his voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and uncertainty. With a graceful turn, Rhaella shifted her gaze towards her beloved grandson, her eyes brimming with wisdom earned through a lifetime of experiences. She closed the distance between them with measured steps, her footsteps echoing softly against the polished stone floor. Finally, reaching out with gentle hands, she delicately encircled Aemon's trembling fingers.

"Don't worry, my little dragon. I will take care of it," whispered Rhaella, her voice filled with warmth and tenderness as she leaned close to Aemon. With a gentle touch, she pressed her lips against the back of his hand, the softness of her kiss a reassuring promise. As her fingers delicately traced circles on his palm, a gesture of unwavering love and protection, Aemon's face lit up with gratitude and admiration. The weight of his worries began to fade as a genuine smile graced his lips. Overwhelmed by a surge of affection, Aemon wrapped his arms tightly around Rhaella.

Elia Martell

Elia knew a moment like this would come; she knew she would need to explain it to Oberyn. A part of her wondered why she needed to explain anything to him; she was the Queen, not him.

Elia was tempted to tell Oberyn to just go back to Dorne if he couldn't accept that Aemon was part of the family, but Elia wanted to talk with him first, hopefully, make him understand, and perhaps fix their relationship a little, despite not speaking to him much, Elia still remembered how close they used to be, Oberyn used to never leave her out of his side. Elia remembered when Lord Tywin suggested that Tyrion marry Elia instead of Elia marrying Jaime.

The same night, Oberyn raged on and even told her that he would kill Tywin for disrespecting her like that, but Elia had been there to calm him down like she always used to do.

But now, it has been fourteen years, and Elia missed her brother, she wanted their relationship to go back to how it used to be, for them to be close friends again.

Elia had invited Oberyn to talk with her; she wanted to clear everything; however, as the minutes ticked by since Oberyn's arrival in the chamber, a profound silence settled, shrouding the room in an atmosphere pregnant with unspoken words. The only sounds that permeated the stillness were the gentle cadence of their breathing, the melancholic sighs of the wind, and the symphony of the fire's dance as it crackled and flickered in the comforting embrace of the fireplace.

Unable to bear the stillness any longer, she finally surrendered to the overwhelming frustration, releasing a weary sigh that echoed through the air like a lonely gust of wind.

With a glimmer of hope in her eyes, Elia mustered the courage to break the deafening stillness, her voice trembling ever so slightly. "I'm sure you want to know why I didn't tell you before," she asked, her words hanging delicately in the air.

But Oberyn remained steadfast in his silence. His intense eyes, like two piercing embers, fixated upon her with an intensity that sent shivers down her spine. His right hand, adorned with a simple gold coin, danced effortlessly across his slender and long fingers. The coin spun and twirled.

"Oberyn, me, and Rhaegar still needed to process everything about Aemon. we wanted to know him, and we wanted to find a way to get justice without starting a War," Elia explained, hoping Oberyn would say anything; instead, he met her gaze with a stoic silence that spoke volumes, his frustration manifesting in a resounding sigh that reverberated through the room, accompanied by the forceful thud of a golden coin meeting the tabletop.

"For how long you have known? I'm your brother, you should have told me. This is not a small thing, is not something we can hide under the rug and forget about it. The Ba- he has a Dragon, Elia. Do you understand how much this undermines Aegon's rule? Do you really think people won't talk about this? People will talk? Everyone will think that he is better than Aegon for having that Dragon, and everyone will think less of Aegon because he doesn't have a Dragon, do you really think people won't bring down Aegon's reputation?" with a sneer etched on his face, Oberyn's voice dripped with skepticism as he locked his piercing gaze on Elia, his anger radiating from him like an inferno, causing his eye to shimmer and dance in the flickering glow of the solitary candle perched upon the table.

As Elia's anger simmered within her, she could feel its fiery tendrils slowly creeping up, threatening to engulf her entire being. With a determined resolve, she inhaled deeply, attempting to quell the rising storm within her soul. "Aemon is not dangerous to Aegon; he had his Dragon for over two months; if he wanted to, he could have already taken Westeros by force," As the weight of her words hung in the air, Elia's hands trembled slightly. Compelled by an unseen force to reach out and grasp a nearby cup of water. Without conscious thought, she brought it to her lips, the cool liquid cascading down her throat, a feeble attempt to maintain a semblance of composure amidst the tumultuous sea of emotions swirling within her.

"How do you know he's not trying to find the perfect opportunity to poison Aegon and take the Kingdom without anyone noticing anything? You have known Aemon for a week at best. See the truth, sister, you want to believe that Aemon is not dangerous because of your Dear Lyanna, you want to believe that her son can't come out and be bad to your family, but you don't seem to understand that you don't know him. You don't know what he's capable of," Oberyn warned, his voice restrained somewhat. He looked sad that he had to speak like that to Elia, but he felt like he needed to be harsh in order to make her see the Truth.

"Maybe, I don't know, Aemon, but I don't see the worst in people like you do, Oberyn. I have Faith in those that I love; Aemon is my son as much as Aegon," With a sincerity that resonated in every syllable she uttered, Elia's voice grew stronger and more passionate with each passing word as her eyes locked onto Oberyn, a fiery glare burned fiercely in her gaze, mirroring the intensity of her emotions. Elia and Oberyn rose from their respective seats in a symphony of simultaneous movement.

"Are you willing to bet on your children, Elia?"

"I'm not betting on anything; Oberyn, me, and Rhaegar discussed last night; we have decided to marry Rhaenys to Aemon to unite our houses and vanquish any problems before they even arrive." With her face adorned with a triumphant smile, Elia's words resonated in the air. Her satisfaction grew palpable, particularly as Oberyn's visage contorted into a mask of bewilderment. Yet, his initial confusion swiftly transformed into a fiery anger that engulfed his cheeks, painting them a vibrant shade of crimson.

"I won't allow my niece to marry a bast-" "I would be careful, Oberyn. I don't need to do anything, but Rhaenys already adores Aemon, and if she hears you say that word, she will never speak to you again." Elia interrupted Oberyn; she really wished Oberyn would stop all this. Elia wanted it to be back to the old days with Oberyn, but she wouldn't allow Oberyn to shame Lyanna's memory and her son.

Oberyn looked at her before walking around the table and right next to her, his eyes looking back at hers.

"Elia, I only want the best for you and our family. If something were to happen to you or your children. I could never forgive myself." Oberyn spoke genuinely, his eyes showing love for his sister and concern.

"Aemon is not our enemy, Oberyn. I only ask you to give him a chance," With a gentle audacity, Elia whispered her plea to Oberyn, her voice filled with hope and yearning. As her words floated in the air, Oberyn's gaze intensified, his eyes locked with hers, delving into the depths of her thoughts. He reached out, clasping her delicate hand in his own, bestowing a tender kiss upon her knuckles.

With a sad smile gracing his lips, Oberyn expressed, "You always had a big heart, sister." He gently wrapped his arms around Elia, embracing her. As their bodies entwined, Elia's head found solace upon Oberyn's sturdy shoulder, feeling the weight of his affection and protection enveloping her like an impenetrable shield.

Rhaegar Targaryen

The second day, the second meeting, Rhaegar would be a liar if he said he wasn't getting tired of these meetings, it felt like he had been in Harrenhal forever, but he was glad to know they would be leaving tomorrow at first light, Rhaegar wondered if Aemon would like King's Landing.

From what Rhaegar knew, the Winter Town was the largest town in The North, but even that was nothing compared to King's Landing. Rhaegar was glad the smell at least had long disappeared; Rhaegar couldn't help but smile in pride whenever he laid eyes upon Aemon, the way he walked forward with pride, his chest high, letting everyone know of his strength.

Lyanna, our dear boy has grown strong, Rhaegar thought as the Royal Family walked towards the Hall of Harrenhal through the long corridor. Rhaegar noticed the small exchanges between Rhaenys and Aemon; they were small, but Rhaegar noticed them all the same. He wondered if there was something between Aemon and Rhaenys; perhaps they already felt something for one another.

Rhaegar smiled at the thought. He didn't want to force his son to marry Rhaenys, but if they already had feelings for one another outside of sibling relationships, then marrying them would be easier.

The ancient walls of Harrenhal reverberated with excitement and anticipation as whispers and hushed conversations filled the air. Once again, the sprawling fortress became the epicenter of attention, captivating not only those within its formidable walls but also those in the distant villages and towns that surrounded it. The enchanting topic that dominated every discussion, whether it was a humble inn or a grand banquet hall, was none other than the Dragons.

Word had spread like wildfire, for it took mere moments for the news to reach even the most remote corners of the realm - a second dragon had emerged, soaring through the heavens. The momentous occasion had come to pass when Cannibal graced the skies above Harrenhal. His thunderous roars shook the very foundations of the castle, a proclamation to all who gazed upon his magnificence that he had arrived.

Rhaegar's brows furrowed, etching deep lines of concern across his face while his gaze darted delicately towards Daenerys. He had anticipated a radiant countenance from his sister, brimming with an infectious joy that had always defined her. However, since the morrow's dawn, an inexplicable transformation had overtaken Daenerys, leaving her silent and withdrawn, her once luminescent smiles now mere fleeting glimpses, as if she were guarding a hidden sorrow. The warmth that had danced in her eyes, akin to the gentle embrace of summer, had been replaced by an icy glint, casting an aura of frigidity that sent shivers down Rhaegar's spine.

Rhaenys and Aegon had asked her questions about Cannibal, Aegon even jokingly asking if there was a dragon out there for him hiding in a cave somewhere.

As Rhaegar's footsteps echoed through the grand corridor, his mind wandered. He couldn't help but wonder if his sister was seeing a knight. Perhaps that explained her recent peculiar behavior. Lost in thought, he was abruptly snapped back to reality as they arrived at the imposing double Iron Gate guarding the entrance to the main hall. The two guards swung the door open, triggering a resounding metallic clamor reverberating through the entire corridor.

With a confident stride and an air of regal authority, Rhaegar led his family forward, their presence commanding attention as the Herrald's booming voice echoed through the grand Hall, announcing the arrival of the Royal Family. The bustling hall fell into an electrified hush as if time itself held its breath in reverence.

Lord by lord, the noble figures rose from their ornate seats, their faces solemn and respectful, paying homage to the bloodline that had ruled the realm for generations. Only when the Royal Family was seated did the lords slowly sink back into their plush chairs, their eyes flickering with a mix of deference and simmering discontent.

Rhaegar caught the glint of anger in the eyes of the Northern Lords, their icy gaze fixated on him. Yet, the weight of their disapproval bore no burden upon his broad shoulders. Stark's head would remain intact, a mercy perhaps more generous than the Lord of Winterfell deserved.

As the Royal Family found their seat, Rhaegar once again stood in front of a podium, his figure grabbing everyone's attention, all the lords looking at him only.

Amidst the grandeur of the Hall, King Rhaegar's commanding presence filled the air as he addressed the assembled crowd. He proclaimed with an air of certainty, "I'm sure everyone here has already learned about the second Dragon." With a regal flourish, he continued, "The second Dragon is the dragon of my sister Princess Daenerys Targaryen." As his words reverberated through the Hall, a symphony of applause erupted, echoing the collective admiration and reverence. However, amidst the resounding ovation, it was impossible to ignore the thunderous acclaim emanating from House Velayron, their loyal voices rising above the rest. On the other hand, the Northern Houses, their brows furrowed with simmering resentment, seemed to seethe.

"Your grace," Rhaegar wasn't surprised to see Olenna Tyrell standing up and speaking up. Beside her, her grandson Garlan Tyrell, a stalwart and loyal knight, reached out a hand in an attempt to assist her. However, Olenna's piercing gaze silenced him in an instant, her eyes ablaze with a mix of indignation and determination. With a swift turn of her elegant frame, she directed her unwavering stare towards Rhaegar, undeterred by the weight of his royal presence.

"Yes, Lady Olenna?"

"I might have grown old, and old people tend to see and hear things, especially old lions. But I heard that a second Dragon has suddenly appeared and this one has bonded with Princess Daenerys," Olenna said without much thought, her words earning a glare from Tywin, who was sitting nearby.

Rhaegar seemed to be trying to find the right words to answer, but it was clear he looked annoyed that she wanted him to repeat what he already said, but he decided to humor her. "Your wits are still there, Lady Olenna. The new Dragon belongs to my sister. Do I need to repeat that again?" Rhaegar questioned with a sharp gaze towards Olenna.

"Of course not, your grace, but my Question is, are we safe from these Dragons? Even horses have stables where they are feed and kept from causing any unnecessary damage. Right now, these castles with wings and big mouths are as free as birds. How do we know for sure they won't fry us in our sleep?" Olenna questioned with a pointy look, her words earning nods of approval from almost everyone in the hall.

"I have already sent word to King's Landing, my lady. The Dragon Pit will be rebuilt, and the Dragons will be put inside, you can sleep calmly, the Dragons won't be a danger to anyone, until the Dragon Pit is built, the dragons will be kept in the King's Wood," Rhaegar announced, his words eased the worries of many lords, Olenna seemed somehow satisfied with the King's words, she nodded before turning back and sitting beside her granddaughter and Garlan, who gave his grandmother a look for talking like that to the King.

Rhaegar was about to open his mouth and talk about Lord Stark when another lord stood up, this time the lord of Driftmark. "Your grace, how is it possible the Dragons have returned?" Lord Monford Velaryon questions respectfully, accompanied by his half-brother, Aurane Waters.

"We are not certain, Lord Velaryon, but this is a boom for House Targaryen, and the Realm," Rhaegar answered, with Lord Velayron nodding in agreement with a prideful look on his face.

Rhaegar could see Aurane looking at someone in the Royal Family; Rhaegar followed his gaze and saw that it was Daenerys he was looking at.

If he had been a Trueborn and the Heir, perhaps, Rhaegar thought with a frown. Aurane was five years older than Daenerys, the tales spoke of him being a good sailor, some comparing him to the Sea Snake himself, Lord Corlys Velayron, Aurane was quite handsome with the Valyrian features, silver-golden hair, and grey-green eyes. Rhaegar thought marrying him to Daenerys would be a good match, but he was no real Lord, and he wasn't the heir of Driftmark.

The Heir was Monterys Velaryon, who was ten years younger than Daenerys and only two name days right now.

The rest of the meeting continued normally until the Northern Lords asked for permission to speak with Lord Stark. Usually, Rhaegar would not have granted them permission, but he decided not to anger them more than they already were, so he decided to grant them permission to meet with Lord Stark, and he announced that Lord Stark would leave for the Wall tomorrow at first light.

Rhaegar wanted to bring up the issue with House Tully when Joffrey Tully mustered the strength to rise from his comfortable seat, his face deliberately concealed, yet his complexion an eerie shade of porcelain that betrayed a deep-seated fear coursing through his veins. With hesitant steps, Joffrey cautiously approached the grand podium where the regal figure of the King loomed, casting an imposing shadow over the assembly. As Rhaegar, cast his gaze upon the trembling boy, his eyes widened in sheer astonishment, for what he beheld surpassed all expectations and sent a jolt of disbelief coursing through his very being.

Joffrey's once vibrant, piercing eyes had sunken slightly, resembling two deep pools drained of their former brilliance. His once rosy complexion had faded, leaving a pale visage that lacked its usual vitality. As if burdened by an unseen weight, his slender frame appeared to have shed pounds overnight, lending his face a slightly gaunt and emaciated appearance. To the astonishment of all present, the hue of his lips had transformed into an unexpected shade of purple. In this disconcerting tableau, Rhaegar fixed his gaze upon Lord Tywin, an unspoken question lurking in his eyes as he anxiously awaited an explanation for the bewildering transformation that had befallen Joffrey. Joffrey's voice broke the silence, cutting through the air like a knife.

"Your Grace. I wish to confess!" Joffrey whispered meekly. Rhaegar almost didn't hear what he said; the hall had fallen silent, and everyone could hear him.

"You wish to confess?" Rhaegar questioned, his own voice booming throughout the Hall.

"I lied to my mother, your grace. What the prince said was the truth. After I attacked the prince, I used a knife to cut my own arm and then lied to my mother that I was attacked. Please, your grace. I'm the only one guilty of what happened; my mother was simply looking out for me." Joffrey's meek confession reverberated, his voice carrying an eerie emptiness that sent shivers down the spines of those present. The silence that enveloped the room seemed to magnify the void of emotion within his words as if they were hollow echoes bouncing off the stone walls.

Rhaegar's searching gaze swept across the expanse, his eyes scanning for any sign of Lady Cersei's presence, but she remained elusive, her absence conspicuous amidst the gathering. The only representatives from House Tully to grace the occasion were Edmure Tully and the Blackfish.

Joffrey's words earned gasps throughout the Hall; many quickly shouted for Joffrey to be executed, for his head to be on a spike. Lord Velayron shouted for him to be burned by the Dragons, but Rhaegar wasn't sure; he knew there was a play here. Joffrey looked like he was sick, very sick like he would fall on the floor at any moment, and he suddenly confessed that he was at fault the whole time; another thing that stopped Rhaegar from taking his head was that he was only twelve name days.

Rhaegar still wanted to execute him for putting his son's life at risk; the Mountain could have killed his son, and all because of Joffrey.

A boy, a foolish one, but still very young, Rhaegar thought. He knew he had the right to execute the kid, but he didn't want everyone to look at him the same way they looked at his father. Rhaegar felt anger towards Joffrey, but he was certain there was a play here; he knew Tywin was saving everything he could, and throwing Joffrey to the Dragons was the only play he could think of to save his and his family's face.

"Joffrey Tully, you will be sent to the cell. I Will decide tomorrow what your punishment should be. Tommen Tully is the new heir to Riverrun," Rhaegar decided; his eyes saw the look of satisfaction on Tywin and the look of relief upon many lords from Riverrun. They didn't stand up and cheer, but they might as well have. All of them were smiling in triumph and didn't try to hide it.

As the heavy iron gates swung open with an echoing creak. Surrounded by the stern-faced guards, their armor gleaming in the dim torchlight, he resigned himself to his fate without offering even the slightest hint of defiance. As they forcibly guided him through the cold stone corridors, his feet scraped and scraped against the floor, leaving behind a trail of reluctance and despair.

Rhaegar ended the meeting soon after seeing that there was no point dragging it further, once he did he was approached by his mother and Elia, both having different thoughts on his decision.

As Rhaella scolded him with a fiery glare that could rival the intensity of a dragon's breath, her words echoed through the dimly lit corridor, urging Rhaegar to consider taking decisive action. "You should take his head, Rhaegar. He tried to kill your son," she declared, her voice laced with a mix of maternal protectiveness and righteous anger, her piercing gaze refusing to waver. Meanwhile, Elia trailed behind them, her presence a testament to the complexity and tension that simmered beneath the surface.

"He's a boy, mother. He's only twelve name days. I don't think Lady Cersei is as innocent as Joffrey claimed." Rhaegar countered right away; he wanted to make House Tully pay, but he didn't want the Entire House to suffer because of Hoster Tully and Joffrey Tully. Rhaegar didn't want anyone ever to look at him the same way they looked at his father. Never, Rhaegar repeated in his head.

With a fiery determination burning in her eyes and a resolute tone that echoed through the hall, Rhaella vehemently declared, "He still tried to kill your son, I don't care how old he is, he deserves the Dragon flames," As her words reverberated in the air, Rhaegar couldn't help but shudder, a disquietude creeping over him. He longed for the days when his mother's voice carried the melody of joy, but now, her words held a chilling weight that sent a shiver down his spine.

"Muna, if he's sent to the Wall. He will rot at the Wall; someone like him will die by the Wildlings or the Cold. He will suffer there," Rhaegar reminded her, his mother's countenance remained unchanged, lacking the hint of satisfaction he had hoped to see. With a mixture of anticipation and trepidation, she gingerly parted her lips as if on the precipice of articulating a profound thought. Yet, despite her valiant attempts to voice her inner turmoil, her words eluded her like fleeting whispers in the wind. Her silence was the only answer he received.

As the heavy chamber door swung closed with a resounding click, Rhaegar, accompanied by his mother, Rhaella, and his wife, Elia, stepped into the room. The soft glow of candlelight danced off the ornate tapestries that adorned the walls, casting intricate shadows across the polished marble floor. With a pensive expression etched on his face, Rhaegar made his way to the center of the room, his steps echoing in the silence.

He finally summoned the courage to broach a subject that had been weighing heavily on his mind since the previous evening. Turning his gaze towards Elia, he inquired, "Have you had a chance to speak with Aemon about Rhaenys?" Anticipating a nod of affirmation from his wife, Rhaegar was taken aback when it was Rhaella who answered instead.

With a smile adorning her face, Rhaella answered confidently, "I have, Rhaenys loves Aemon, so I don't expect her saying 'No'" As she spoke, her fingers gracefully held the quill, which danced across the parchment, leaving a trail of ink in its wake, creating a symphony of rhythmic noises that resonated in the room.

A smile of satisfaction danced across Rhaegar's face as the words caressed his eager ears, but like a fleeting breeze, it vanished, replaced by a furrowed brow of concern. "Will Rhaenys be comfortable to share Aemon with Val?" he pondered aloud, his gaze drifting towards his mother, who momentarily abandoned her delicate dance with the quill, her eyes meeting his in an expectant gaze, silently urging him to continue.

"Even for Aegon, The Conqueror is said that he married Visenya out of duty. He only loved Rhaenys," Rhaegar reminded them. he didn't want his daughter to have a loveless marriage; he wanted her to be happy.

"Don't worry, my son. I have talked with Rhaenys, and she agrees with marrying Aemon, even if he already has a wife," Rhaella said softly; a tender smile graced Rhaella's lips, akin to a flickering candle in the darkness and lifted the heavy burden from Rhaegar's weary frame. At that moment, his shoulders sagged, liberated from the oppressive weight they had carried, and his hand instinctively rose to knead the knots of tension that had taken residence in his aching muscles, finding solace in the rhythmic motion.

"Elia, have you talked with Oberyn yet?" Rhaegar questioned his gaze firm for a moment. He wouldn't allow Oberyn to lay a finger on his son; he would fight the man himself if he had to.

Elia sniffed; she looked deep in thought as if trying to find the right words to say. "I believe Oberyn won't be a problem; when I told him that Aemon would marry Rhaenys, he was against it at first but eventually accepted it. I'm certain Oberyn is safe; he told me that he had already sent a long letter to Doran about Aemon and the Dragon, so I think we might expect his answer soon enough." Elia answers while rubbing her hair, something Rhaegar knew she did only when she was nervous.

Rhaegar wasn't convinced Oberyn was completely safe, yet near his son, Oberyn was a snake, and snakes use poison, but he would believe Elia's words; if she said so, then Rhaegar would believe her words, always.

"Rhaegar, is it true that you will rebuild the Dragon Pit? It will take time and gold to rebuild?" Elia questioned, but more like stating a fact, she remembered what Rhaegar said during the meeting and knew rebuilding the thing would take years.

"Yes, the Dragons have returned; we need the Dragon Pit," Rhaegar reaffirmed with a nod, knowing it had taken a decade for the original Dragon Pit to be built. Rhaegar hoped he could have it ready much sooner, but he planned to build a smaller one first before building the Original Dragon Pit.

As Rhaella carefully crafted her words on the parchment before her, she couldn't help but pause, her eyes lifting from the letter to meet her son's unwavering gaze. With a concerned tone lacing her voice, she softly uttered, "Rhaegar, I don't think the Dragons will be comfortable in the Dragon Pit," However, Rhaegar swiftly dismissed her apprehensions, his head shaking with a resolute determination, refusing to sway from his decision.

"No, The Dragon Pit had kept the tamed Dragons since 56 AC; it was built to keep the Dragons inside, they might be a companion to a Targaryen, but they are still dangerous to everyone else. I won't allow my people to live in fear that a Dragon might one day descend on them and burn all of them. Both Cannibal and Aegarax will be confined inside the Dragon Pit." Rhaegar said in a tone that left no room for arguments; Elia nodded in approval, while Rhaella looked conflicted.

Eddard Stark

"Promise me, Ned."

Ned's slumber was abruptly interrupted as his body convulsed with a sudden jolt, rousing him from the depths of his dreams. Slowly, his eyes flickered open, only to be greeted by an impenetrable shroud of darkness that enveloped his surroundings. A fleeting thought invaded his mind, causing a swirl of confusion - his eyes were truly open. As he strained to discern any semblance of light, he was unable to perceive even the faintest glimmer or the silhouette of his own fingers mere inches from his face. In this abyss of sightlessness, the boundaries between day and night blurred into an indistinguishable haze, leaving Ned in a state of perpetual uncertainty.

As Ned sat alone in the dark cell, his fingers traced the rough surface of the stone walls, their dryness mirroring the fatigue that enveloped his entire body. Every inch of his being felt parched and weary as if the sands of time had drained him of vitality. His tongue, heavy and sluggish, seemed to weigh down his mouth, adding to the arid sensation that plagued him.

The dryness in his throat intensified, surpassing even the barrenness of the unforgiving deserts of Dorne. The pangs of thirst gnawed at Ned's consciousness, a relentless reminder of his desperate need for water. Yet, he knew all too well that relief would not grace his lips within these confining walls.

The cell offered no solace, only the gnawing emptiness of hunger that echoed within him. His stomach growled. But above all, Ned wanted to see his family again.

Ned dreamed of them when he slept and dreamed of them when he was awake. He wanted to talk with Robb; he wanted to hug his daughters; he wanted to play with Bran and Rickon.

Promise me, Ned. Ned, his heart heavy with grief, replayed her words in his mind. Had he promised her? The answer eluded him, teasing the edges of his memory like a fleeting dream. No matter how fervently he retraced the steps of their shared past, the details remained frustratingly hazy, slipping through his fingers like sand. Time and time again, he found himself at that pivotal moment, their eyes locked in a bittersweet exchange, yet the words he had spoken remained a tantalizing mystery.

Suddenly, a flicker of movement caught his attention, teasing the periphery of his vision. Curiosity piqued, he turned his gaze towards the source, his eyes darting to the right. However, to his surprise, there was nothing there, just an empty expanse of darkness. A wry smile curved Ned's lips as he realized that his own mind had once again played tricks on him. The absence of light had a peculiar way of conjuring phantoms that danced on the fringes of his consciousness, deceiving him with their illusory presence.

As Ned pressed his back against the chilling stone wall of the dark cell, the cold sending shivers down his spine, he couldn't help but notice how the cold metal handcuffs encircling his wrists seemed almost fused with his flesh, becoming an unwelcome extension of his very being. The weight of the restraints bore down on his hands, a constant reminder of his captive state, the discomfort gnawing at him like a persistent ache.

In a desperate attempt to escape the harsh reality of his confines, Ned closed his eyes, his mind ascending to a place far removed from the bleakness of his current predicament. With each calming breath he took, vivid images of Winterfell flooded his thoughts, transporting him to a time when life was simpler and happier.

There, he could almost see his beloved family, their faces etched in his mind's eye with utmost clarity. His father stood tall and noble. Ned's mother, Lyarra Stark, was one of the most caring people Ned had ever known.

His brothers, Brandon and Benjen. And then there was Lyanna, his dear sister, whose loss he still mourned with every fiber of his being. And there was the rest of his family: Catelyn, Robb, Jon, Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon, Ashara, and Alyanna.

In a sudden and unexpected moment, the name Alyanna echoed through Ned's mind, evoking a cascade of emotions that surged within him like a tumultuous wave crashing against the shore. As his memories resurfaced, he could feel an intense heat welling up in his eyes, threatening to spill over in the form of tears.

Yet, with a resolute determination, Ned mustered every ounce of strength within him and swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat, refusing to succumb to the overwhelming sorrow that threatened to consume him. It was a bittersweet realization that washed over him, for in that very instant, he comprehended the profound absence that had permeated his life - the absence of a daughter he had never truly had the privilege of knowing. To him, she remained a stranger.

Ned wished to talk with her again, to get to know her, but Ned knew his daughter would never see him again.

As Ashara's name gently escaped Ned's lips, a soft murmur carried his whispered reminiscence to a place where memories shimmered vividly. At that moment, his mind wandered through the labyrinth of time to a time when they had been young and foolish. Ned found himself waltzing with Ashara, their steps twirling gracefully in perfect synchrony. The memory of their dance, a tapestry woven with delicate movements and tender gazes, painted vibrant strokes upon the canvas of his mind. And then, like a fragile bloom unfurling, the recollection of a stolen kiss emerged, its sweetness lingering upon his lips even now. A promise lay broken, its fragments scattered in the wake of regret and longing.

Ned was abruptly torn away from the depths of his ruminations as the distinct echo of footsteps resonated through the bleak corridors of his confined existence. A surge of anticipation coursed through his veins, compelling him to swallow hard; he expected the soldiers to arrive. However, as the rhythmic cadence of the footsteps drew near, Ned's keen senses discerned something unexpected- the echoes multiplied, signaling the approach of not just one but multiple entities converging upon his imprisoning cell.

As Ned sat alone in his dimly lit cell, the sudden intrusion of sound broke the silence. It started with the faint but distinct echo of footsteps, gradually growing louder as they approached his door.

Finally, they came to a halt right in front of his rusted iron door. The deafening silence that followed was shattered by the jarring noise of the key turning in the lock, its metallic clicks reverberating throughout the confined space. With a creaking groan, the heavy door swung open, revealing a blinding burst of light that pierced through the darkness like a dagger.

Ned instinctively shut his eyes, but even through his tightly squeezed eyelids, he could feel the searing heat of the intense luminescence. Desperate to shield his eyes, Ned's hands shot up to cover his eyes.

"Ned, it's good to see you!"

GreatJon! Ned thought, taken aback. He recognized his voice right away; he expected someone else, he expected the King, but not his banners to come to his cell.

With a cautious and deliberate movement, Ned gradually peeled open his heavy eyelids, allowing his vision to acclimate to the abrupt invasion of radiant light that flooded his otherwise dim and oppressive cell, emanating from the flickering lantern affixed to the cold stone wall. As his misty, slate-colored eyes adjusted to their newfound surroundings, they beheld a gathering of esteemed figures before him - GreatJon, Lady Maege, Lord Karstark, and Lord Bolton. The weight of shame suddenly descended upon Ned's weary frame as he found himself sprawled upon the floor like a lowly vermin while his revered lords peered down upon him with a mixture of solemnity and compassion, their gazes almost hinting at a tinge of sympathy.

Ned summoned every ounce of strength within him, rising to his feet in a display of sheer willpower. His calloused hands clutched onto the surface of the cold, damp prison wall, his fingers digging into the rough texture as he exerted force to lift himself upright. The metallic jingle of chains echoed throughout the dimly lit cell as the handcuffs tightly encircled his wrists, shackled to the wall, rendering his movements restricted and confined. Though weariness washed over him like a relentless tide, he felt beyond exhausted; Ned refused to lay on the floor before his banners.

"What are you doing here?" Ned asked, his voice quickly turning into one of a Lord, his grey eyes mainly looking at GreatJon who cleared his throat before stepping forward.

"Ned, too much has been going on, and I'm still struggling to understand how your son is the King's son, and Lyanna's son, but Ned." GreatJon said, placing his hand on Ned's shoulder, an encouraging look on his face.

"Just say the word, Ned. We will never allow you to step one feet near the Wall, just say the word and we will help you," GreatJon said with a smile, meaning every single word, but Ned quickly shook his head in denial.

"GreatJon-" "Listen Ned, the North will protect you. We all swore our vows to you. We will give our lives as well," GreatJon spoke firmly, with Lord Karstark and Lord Bolton nodding along.

"Jon." Ned's commanding voice cut through the cell as Ned looked straight into GreatJon's eyes. "I have made my sins, and it's time for me to pay just like everyone else. I stole the King's son; I made him think that his son was dead for more than a decade, and there are too many years I stole from him. Any other king would have had my head on a Spike by now, and you know it." Ned continued, his words sharp and leaving no room for argument, his commanding voice made GreatJon straighten himself up.

GreatJon looked ready to argue, but Ned wouldn't allow him. "I don't want to hear it. Lyanna told me to promise her that I would return her son back to King Rhaegar, but I didn't; in her last breath, she wanted her son with Rhaegar, but I betrayed her, I betrayed my own blood, GreatJon. So tell me, do I really deserve to escape my sins?" Ned questioned, his eyes looking at the faces of his lords; they didn't know what to say after what they had heard.

"You did the right thing, House Martell wouldn't have allowed him to live past one name day, an accident, or choking on food, that would have been the excuse," Lord Karstark's voice cut through the silence.

"I guess we will never know, but that still doesn't give me the right to steal someone's son and then raise him as my bastard son," Ned countered Lord Karstark's words; he didn't want excuses; what he had done could not be excused in any way.

While Ned still believed that Jon would be in danger by House Martell, he knew that wasn't an excuse to steal someone's son, and Ned knew he had betrayed his own blood by doing so.

"Ned, how was your nephew treated in Winterfell," Lady Mormont asked after the silence that had engulfed the cell. Ned sighed and, for the first time, looked away from them for a brief moment before looking back at them.

"I failed my nephew. Aemon has every right to want my head, but he was the one to convince the King that I should keep my head. He left Winterfell because I was blind, I didn't see what I was making him go through. I refused to tell him the truth about his mother, and he left because of me. Winterfell was supposed to be his home, but to Jon, it felt like a prison." Ned confessed, yet despite his words, his lords still looked at him the same way they always did.

Ned fell silent, waiting for them to judge him until GreatJon placed his hand on his shoulder once again. "I would have still fought for you, Ned. My sword still belongs to you. I would look the Dragon dead in the eye and still fight. I will respect your decision, but I will tell you, your son will have my sword whenever he needs it," GreatJon promised, patting his shoulder, with Lord Karstark nodding with the same expression on his face.

Ned couldn't help but feel that he didn't deserve such loyalty; despite telling them what he had done, they still wanted to fight for him, to give their lives for him.

"House Mormont will stand with House Stark as they had done for thousand of years, we will follow your son's lead. Lord Stark," Lady Maege Mormont promised with a warrior's look on her face.

"As will House Bolton, your son will have my support, Lord Eddard Stark," Roose Bolton said emotionlessly. Ned couldn't help but feel grateful for their support, even if he didn't really trust a single word that left Roose's mouth.

"Thank you, my lords."

Rhaenys Targaryen

With her heart brimming with delight and her face adorned with a radiant smile, Rhaenys exclaimed joyfully, her voice filled with genuine admiration and awe, "I always loved this view!" The words escaped her lips as she and Aemon gracefully maneuvered their horses, their hooves rhythmically pounding against the velvety emerald carpet of a sprawling, vast green field that stretched as far as the eye could see.

Arthur Dayne, his countenance marked by a touch of grumpiness, reluctantly trailed behind the young prince and princess, feeling the weight of age pressing upon him as he struggled to match their lively pace.

As the sun's golden rays bathed the landscape in a warm, ethereal glow, the green field transformed into a breathtaking symphony of colors, illuminated by its heavenly touch. Nature seemed to conspire with the wind as a gentle gust swept through the scene, causing the vibrant grass to sway and dance in perfect harmony, mirroring the graceful movements of its equestrian visitors. Not far away, a tree stood tall and proud, its branches elegantly swaying in synchrony.

"This reminds me of a view north of the Wall, there was this large clearing, without any trees in sight, there was even a river that wasn't frozen that would travel through the land. Val always says that river had not once frozen, she said no matter how cold can it be, the river was never frozen," Aemon said, as he stopped his horse beside his sister, while Ser Arthur was further away, giving them enough privacy to talk.

Inhaling deeply, Aemon savored the crisp, invigorating embrace of the untainted air, his senses heightened by the melodic symphony of birdsong emanating from an oak nearby. Rhaenys gracefully dismounted her steed, her eyes alight with anticipation. Mirroring her actions, Aemon's boots met the earth with a resolute thud, each step causing the ground to yield beneath his weight. Side by side, their path led them towards the sight that lay ahead: the magnificent Trident, Westeros' most formidable and majestic river, stretching out before them like a powerful ribbon, its waters glistening under the golden rays of the sun.

"You know, when I was young, I used to dream I was father. I would fight in the trident," Rhaenys said breathlessly; Aemon shook his head. "Was it Robert?"

"No," Rhaenys answered with a shake of her head. "The one to kill me had dark-yellow eyes, and his face was shrouded in darkness," Rhaenys answered, shuddering slightly; she remembered the dream as if it had happened last night.

The knight had armor similar to that of a Dragon, dark-yellow eyes, wielding a large great sword. Rhaenys remembered she was always able to wound him, but in the end, he would swing his sword down, and Rhaenys would bring up her sword up like a shield, but the large sword would cut through Rhaenys's words; Rhaenys could almost feel the pain in her shoulder, and stomach.

A gentle touch disrupted her thoughts. Aemon's hand, warm and reassuring, slipped delicately beneath her chin, causing her to raise her captivating purple eyes to meet his gaze. In that instant, as their eyes locked, a kaleidoscope of emotions danced within his stormy grey eyes, emanating a love so profound that her breath hitched in her chest. "I will always protect you, Rhaenys. Remember that." And without hesitation, he sealed his pledge by closing the physical distance between them, tenderly brushing his lips against hers, igniting a passion.

In the throes of passion, Rhaenys's lips emitted a soft, melodic moan that resonated into the depths of their passionate kiss. Her delicate fingers became entangled in his wild, untamed curls, relishing the sensation as she explored every strand. In that intoxicating moment, a surge of desire coursed through her as his hands skillfully cupped the curves of her supple ass, their connection heightened by the fabric of her dress. Her moans grew louder, echoing the symphony of their desire, as she surrendered to the intense pleasure of his tongue exploring the depths of her mouth.

In the midst of their passionate embrace, their lips locked in a tender and electrifying kiss, a moment of pure bliss interrupted by a thunderous roar that reverberated through the vast expanse of the emerald-hued field. Startled, their eyes widened in unison, their gazes instinctively drawn skyward, where a magnificent sight awaited them. A Dragon soared towards them, captivating their attention. This wondrous creature, smaller in size compared to Aegarax, possessed an unexpected elegance that juxtaposed against its vibrant pinkish scales, which shimmered brilliantly under the warm caress of sunlight. Its dark horns protrude from the back of its head, and the dark crest atop its regal figure.

As the majestic dragon gracefully touched down upon the verdant field, causing the very ground to tremble beneath its colossal weight, Rhaenys found herself momentarily bewildered by the sight. However, her confusion quickly dissipated when Ser Arthur swiftly positioned himself in a protective stance before her and Aemon, brandishing his two gleaming swords. With an unwavering command in his voice, he beseeched, "Your grace, stand behind me," ensuring that Rhaenys was shielded from the dragon.

Rhaenys looked at the dragon's eyes. At that moment, it felt as if time had ceased to exist, for when the dragon returned her gaze, a profound familiarity washed over her. Unbeknownst to her conscious mind, a mysterious force propelled Rhaenys forward, her legs moving with an ethereal grace.

Ser Arthur attempted to caution her, urging her to remain behind for her safety. Yet, his words fell upon deaf ears. Closer the dragon leaned, its massive head tilting toward Rhaenys, its hot breath hitting her. And as their gazes locked once more, the dragon's eyes gleamed with the brilliance of molten gold.

With a graceful motion, Rhaenys outstretched her delicate hand towards the magnificent creature before her. As her fingertips brushed against the dragon's formidable scales, she couldn't help but marvel at their razor-sharp texture, reminiscent of the Valyria Steel.

To her astonishment, instead of responding with a thunderous roar, the dragon seemed to melt under her touch, surrendering to the pleasure of her caress. The bond between Rhaenys and the dragon grew stronger with each stroke.

Rhaenys beamed with unbridled joy, her laughter echoing through the air as she continued to run her fingers along the dragon's mesmerizing scales. Finally, unable to contain her excitement any longer, she leaned in close and whispered the dragon's name.

"Morning."

Chapter 75 (A Song of Dragons) will end the Harrenhal Arc. Chapter 76 (King's Landing)

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