King's Landing
Eighth Moon (98 AC)
Gael II
Dust spun in the midday glare, stirred by the scuffle of servants and the restless rake of dragon claws against stone.
Gael lingered at Silverwing's side, her gloved hand pressed to the beast's shimmering scales—pearl-white, shot with veins of silver, warm with the banked fire thrumming beneath.
Her riding leathers gripped her tight—soft black hide laced with silver thread, light yet sturdy, a sheath that molded too snug to her form.
She shifted, the pinch at her hips and the pull across her chest a quiet nag, and glimpsed herself in a dragonkeeper's burnished helm: a she-warrior stared back, silver braid coiled down her spine like a rope. It stirred a flicker of pride, that fierce image, though the fit laid bare her full curves, and her soft face mocked any claim to ferocity.
Maelys stood a stride away, snapping commands at the knot of servants wrestling their meager haul—clothes, perfumes, and some gifts. His leathers mirrored hers, dark and sleek, but they draped his spare, sinewy build with ease, the cut sharpening the breadth of his shoulders.
Dreamfyre hulked at his back, her scales a gleam of sea-blue, eyes keen and twitching with borrowed impatience. He turned, meeting Gael's look, and his mouth softened from its prior edge into a gentler curve. "Ready, sweet?" he called, voice slicing through the din.
"Aye," she answered, stroking Silverwing's neck as the dragon snorted, steam wisping from her snout. "Though I'd stake coin you'll twist the path double before Driftmark's in sight."
His laugh rang out, bright and wild, and he vaulted onto Dreamfyre's saddle with a fluid grace as the keepers tugged the final straps taut.
Gael hauled herself up after, her climb clumsier, limbs less yielding to the task. Her heart held no waver, but she'd long accepted her body lent no elegance to such feats, no matter how often she rode.
Her father had bestowed Silverwing upon her after the queen's death—a rare boon she'd seized with shaking hands, her twin steady as stone at her side through the claiming.
The keepers finished their fussing, then fell back, barking harsh Valyrian at the score of servants milling about the pit. Gael shut her eyes, drew a slow breath, and gave the reins a firm tug.
"Gīmigon, Sōvēs!" (Let's be off, Silverwing)
The dragon surged skyward, her wings cracking the air like a storm's first peal, and the Dragonpit dwindled below—a jagged scar shrinking to a speck as King's Landing unfurled beneath them, a sprawl of stone and shadow stitched with rivers of smoke.
The wind howled, a wild rush that should've flayed her skin and snatched her breath, yet it didn't—only pressed gentle as a sigh against her face. Maelys had named it magic once.
"No man ought to hold together at this pace, this high," he'd said. "Godsdamned sorcery, Gael—not the twisted tricks those half-mad shadow-weavers peddle in Asshai."
She'd only half-heeded him then, more caught by the silken heat of that creamy draught he'd shipped from the Summer Isles' wanton shores, but now, riding the wind above the Blackwater, she chased it—that strand of the strange he vowed ran through them—hoped to feel it, at least. It was a slippery thing to grasp, a gift so woven into her bones it might as well be air…
…and mayhap it was so, her husband merely adrift in his madness once more.
King's Landing blurred to a faint smear at their backs, its towers drowned in haze, and Maelys banked north—off Driftmark's true course, toward the untamed spine of Rosby's lands. Gael let out a quiet sigh, easing Silverwing after him.
He'd always been thus—parched for the sky, glutting on the winding way whenever time bent to his will. Two hours they'd meander, she judged, threading peaks and woodlands no axe had scarred, before he'd weary of his sport and veer for the sea.
She lacked his craving for the heavens—cherished Silverwing, aye, took her aloft twice weekly to nurture their tie—but flight was a task she shouldered for need, not delight. Yet as Maelys and Dreamfyre carved arcs through the clouds, she couldn't begrudge him this rapture.
He spurred his mount into a corkscrew, wings shearing the wind, and unleashed a bellow of flame—orange and wild, a raw gust that licked the treetops below.
Next came a tighter jet, keen as a blade, slashing a charred streak across the soil.
A broad huff followed, faint and wide, a glimmering veil that dissolved swift, and then—after a lag that tested her patience—Dreamfyre loosed a fireball, sluggish to shape, rolling like a fallen star to smash a hollow in the earth.
Gael quirked a brow as Silverwing trailed, her pace a languid drift. "Strutting now, are we?" she murmured, the wind stealing her words.
Maelys was all revelry, his mind swallowed by the dance, and he waved Dreamfyre higher. Then came the white flame—rare, ferocious, a needle of fire that stabbed the ground with a shriek, melting rock to molten ruin and clawing a furrow deep enough to swallow a man whole.
Gael's heart skipped of fright. He'd whispered of that blaze once, late in their bedchamber, voice hushed and shadowed: "Stronger than the rest, lancing—hotter, purer. Drains her more, though..."
Those were grim words—darker yet with the shadow of days to come. Gael prayed their father would cling to that gnarled throne for years still, save her wondrous husband the title of kinslayer a few years longer.
Three hours had slipped by since they'd quit the pit—two in a gentle drift, one more lost to his capers—when Gael eased Silverwing down to a riverbank, a glade ringed by gnarled oaks, its earth unmarred by blade or furrow.
The she-dragon sank with a low growl, wings folding tight, and Gael slipped from the saddle, her boots pressing into damp moss. She stretched, leathers groaning at the seams, and settled beneath a tree… upon a flat stone that sat near the tumbling waters.
Her husband carried above, his dragon threading loops through the clouds, but she let him revel. The river sang soft and cold, and she peeled off her gloves, trailing her fingers through its chill current.
She savoured this—the stillness, and the air itself. It hung lighter here, freer than the gusts that swept King's Landing. Mayhap the sewers would wrest back this clean breath, unspoiled by rot. Though she doubted it would be so.
Still, she'd be gone by then, spirited off to their new lands with the handful of companions she'd have gathered. Her parley with Lady Fossoway had all but promised it—the woman keen to tether her second girl to Gael's side, a lure for finer suitors to swarm.
Their talk hadn't been all of weddings and fellowship, nay—Lady Fossoway sought a sharper bargain, her house's prized ciders, grains, and leathers to be traded for fine textiles, rich dyes, and sole rights to a strain of their fiercest fyre wine in the Reach.
When Gael bent her husband's ear on it, he tweaked the terms scant—a twist of apple to the fyre wine and a distillery raised in their hold, bartered for a hefty yield of timber to shore up the principality.
Maelys had let slip he meant to pitch the North on a like deal—steady bushels of their crops for ironwood and other stout timbers. He'd set his heart on some tree with sweet sap, swearing it'd turn a fine trick in a spread of desserts, yet she knew such talk was a feint, a sweet lure to tug her gaze from what he truly craved of those frost-bitten barbarians.
Still, she lent her hand, lightening his load—a fair deed, she reckoned. The Fossoways strode off merrier, and she'd smoothed her own path into deeper webs of scheming.
She bent easy to such plots. From what she'd marked, the cider-house daughters carried keen minds and staunch loyalty too—traits Maelys prized above all, though she knew the highborn craved prestige and bloodlines over wits.
Smallfolk elevated to nobility gained little from foreign hands unless they tied their fates to ancient houses. Wiser yet was offering second or third sons of storied blood the chance to forge their own domains, cutting the tangles free entirely.
Gael would counsel her husband on this, urge him to ally with her ladies—those of her age, daughters of lords left with no sons to anchor them. She'd bind them to his men, forge them into a host, and mayhap resurrect her mother's legacy on the way.
Such thoughts drifted through her as the water lapped at her hand—court and its games, bargains struck in shadow, the oddity of their blood, and a future looming with little save peril.
A shadow slid across her, and she looked up—Dreamfyre settling at last, wings folding as Maelys leapt from her spine with a bark of laughter. He crossed to her, tugging off his helm, silver hair plastered dark with sweat, a tangled wreck of its once-neat braid.
"Gods, Gael, you ought to have ridden the wind with me," he said, blind to the snarl his hair had become.
"I saw it well enough from here," she replied, shifting aside as Dreamfyre lumbered to the river, gulping greedily. "You've grown deft with those twists, and Dreamfyre's swifter—stouter too."
He dropped beside her, easy as a hound, uncorking his waterskin and taking a long, thirsty pull. "You still wrestle with them, my aims?" he asked, voice carrying scarce a barb, eyes fixed east where the Velaryons sprawled in their gaudy halls.
She gave a nod.
"I don't fault you for it—truth be told, it's a comfort," he admitted. "I'd feared you'd turned thrall to my will, blind to my faults when I've sins enough for five men's lives." She was, in truth, thrall to a great deal of his whims. Maelys continued, "but this rejection, it eases me some."
She looked at him, that vacancy he nursed in his gaze. "Can you truly not think of a different way—less horrid than this you've chosen?"
Gael saw how it gnawed at him, twisting him into a knot of clashing truths despite the steel in his purpose.
He kept secret holdings in Flea Bottom, mean sprawls where he propped up maesters—men with chains forged in healing and a hunger to push the art further. There they carved into folk, worked blacker deeds on men and women, all to wrestle with ailments that plagued countless.
A handful of lives spilled for the gain of the many, he'd said.
"You mean Baelon's fate, I'd wager?" He swung his gaze to her, corking the waterskin as a frown crept over his brow.
She nodded, lips pressing tight into a seam. "You're still bent on sparing him."
She'd sooner he did, then cut loose from this snarl of plots and treachery, fleeing with her to some far-off shore where Westeros's folly couldn't chase them down. There they'd dwell in quiet splendour, steeped in all the ease and passion of romance and strife spun by bard's tale and singer's verse.
But what land might that be? Mossovy, perchance…
"Love turns us all to fools, my sweet," he admitted. "I don't pray for our brother's end, though it'd kindle the perfect spark for the chaos to usher us to peace and plenty. I'll save him if the gods allow, same as I'm striving for with our father."
So spoke the man honing his mount into a flawless slayer of dragons.
Gael knew his heart wasn't solely foul—it was a tangle of purpose. He saw the crown's whims as a rot, succession a dice game that left the realm teetering. His own sons, he'd sworn, would never scrabble through such mire. Law, he reckoned, should bind it—iron-clad, unshaken by a king's fancy…
He'd spoken those words as if there was naught but strife if his ideas failed to take form.
…yet words on parchment held no weight unless blood forged them true.
He'd stoke a war, he'd hinted once—rival heirs propped up like puppets, whispers sown to muddy the line, nobles set to claw at each other's throats.
Let the kingdom bleed, he'd whispered, till lords and smallfolk alike begged for a rule none could break. Baelon's life, their father's too, he'd save if he could—but not at the cost of a legacy filled with foolery and corruption.
It was a scheme laced with peril, yet he—they—shored it up by tilting the game their way. All the bonds they'd wrought, the smallfolk they'd tended, the merchants and craftsmen they'd propped up, and the Faith they'd swayed—still fond of their sister who'd poured herself into alms and sacrifice for others' sake—they'd be their when the chaos began in earnest.
Gael could at least take solace in that.
They tarried there another hour, her husband seizing the quiet to chase a dream he'd kept veiled from her till that moment. When they soared aloft again, her cheeks glowed rosy, her heart buoyed by soft stirrings, and her womb brimmed full.
They swept into Driftmark as the sun slid past its height, Dreamfyre's roar cleaving through the clamour of Spicetown below.
From her perch, Gael saw the town spill out like a vivid weave—docks thick with merchant galleys, sails snapping bright, unloading saffron and silks that gleamed in the light. The spice markets flared with golds and reds, the tang of cinnamon and pepper riding the salt breeze, while vendors bawled over pomegranates and herb barrels beneath striped cloth.
Smiths' hammers rang sharp against the grind of millstones, shaping steel and spice alike. Vines trailed from balconies, citrus peels drying in the sun, and beyond, golden domes crowned the rich quarters.
It had swelled since she last laid eyes on it, this young town now plump as some ancient hold of storied lords. And those ships—scores of them, crammed with folk of every root and purpose.
The people stilled and craned their necks as Dreamfyre and Silverwing swept low, and though Gael couldn't catch their faces, she fancied a ripple of thrill stirred among them.
Further up, High Tide loomed apart, perched on a jagged spur of limestone cliffs, hewn by centuries of crashing waves into a fortress no foe could scale from the water.
A thin ridge stitched them together, a spine of high ground twisting down from the castle's roots to the port's edge.
They swung upward toward the new keep, then dipped low, easing their dragons onto a wide ledge gouged into the cliffside. Three keepers in salt-crusted robes stood ready, and ushered the beasts elsewhere once they dismounted.
Gael was grateful to be on solid earth.
…servants hastened forward, gesturing them toward the main gates.
"Didn't reckon they'd turn our landing into a ceremony," Maelys muttered beside her, slipping his sword to a guard at his right with a deft hand. "Look, the whole brood's turned out."
Gael saw, impressed—thrilled. Before them stretched a welcome host—two dozen strong—knights in seahorse-emblazoned mail, servants in crisp tunics of green and white, and at their head, the Velaryons themselves.
The Lord of Driftmark loomed tall and wide as a galley's bow, his skin darkened by years at sea, silver hair clipped short under a band of gnarled coral. His eyes sat heavy, proud, though faint lines of weariness etched their corners.
Gael harbored no fondness for the man, and it wasn't just her mother's scorn she'd inherited. Nay, she laid much of the family's present rift at his feet—had he not lured Rhaenys to his bed, this fracture might never have split them so.
At his side stood Rhaenys, their niece by kin and lady by vow, marked by Targaryen blood—violet eyes glossed under a fall of dark silky hair, her frame having thickened some, draped in sea-green silk cut with black.
Motherhood had calmed her, it seemed—her expression less fierce and shoulders less stiff…
It suited her better, Gael reckoned. Too often women withered under rule's hard yoke. Rhea Royce stood a grim proof—chill, rigid, forever chasing the nod of lords who smirked and jeered behind her back.
…her eyes dipped to the white-haired children. Laena clung to her mother's side, violet gaze tracing their leathers with plain wonder. She'd sprouted some, this girl, though Gael felt a prick of unease at how she echoed Saera. Still, she cherished her.
Across stood Laenor, close in age to Viserra's Jae. She wished they'd grow thick as kin, these two—mayhap one fostered in the other's keep. But Corlys would never bend to it, his hunger for the crown still raw. Whispers held that his rift with Baelon sprang from spurning Laenor as squire to Viserys when the time had ripened.
They drew near, and the Sea Snake tipped his head in a shallow gesture, echoed by the welcome host—all but Rhaenys and the children, who scarce knew the dance.
"Prince Maelys, Princess Gael," his voice rumbled like breakers on stone, "you grace my hall with your coming. May your stay prove fair and fruitful."
A smile tugged at Gael's lips unbidden, though it was Maelys who waded into the courtesies. "I hope so, my Lord of Driftmark," her husband affirmed, his grin a mask she knew none could easily pierce for truth or guile, "though with what I've seen, I'd wager it's no hard feat to enjoy this place. You've carved out quite a hold here."
Rhaenys nudged a servant forward, the tray bearing bread, salt, and a chalice of wine glinting in the sea light.
"Share in guest right and find full welcome in our halls," the dark-haired princess said, her voice lifted by Maelys's bright manner, while Corlys remained untouched by it.
They partook, salt and bread sharp on her lips, the wine's spice coiling over the tongue. She pulled Rhaenys close, then the children, her arms folding them in with honest warmth. A year had passed since she'd last stood here, on this isle now the envy of many at court.
The greetings faded, and servants led them to their quarters, where she and Maelys washed the flight's grit away before trading murmurs with the sparse yet plump nobles of Velaryon's hall. More highborn should've thronged—envoys from every great house in Westeros—but few, it seemed, dared risk her father's wrath.
Yet she favoured this thinner throng over the Red Keep's crush—here the courtiers smiled freer, their hands open with kindness. Many were lesser houses, fattened by the Sea Snake's largesse.
So it was that Gael found herself laden with gifts before the feast in their honour even sparked.
"A veil of Myrish lace, fine enough to thread a maiden's ring. May it crown your grace, Your Highness, though Myrish craft falls shy of your own."
"A perfume from Asshai, steeped in shade and spice. They say it holds the night's own breath. May it cloak Your Highness in its riddle."
"Fruits plucked from the world's ends, dried and sugared, to sweeten your hours as you brighten those near you."
"A tome clad in dragonhide, its gold ink whispering of Valyria's lost days. Knowledge time forgot, now yours, Princess."
"Cheeses ripened in deep vaults, thick with their native savour. A humble offering for a princess whose step gilds any hall."
Victuals, gems, cloths, and sundry wares piled high—enough to swell three ships with just the wines, spices, and grains. Gael thought to shunt the surplus to Havenhall. The folk there'd welcome it, provided no pilfering thinned the haul.
"You've gathered some open-handed lords here, Rhaenys. I've not been heaped with such fine gifts—and so few knots tied to them," she admitted as they stepped from the hall into the cool evening breeze.
"Gifts always trail strings, Gael," Rhaenys said, shaking her head though a smile curved her lips. She'd donned finer garb than any, and it showed. "Still, plenty can loosen a fist, I reckon. And it's not every day a great lord—let alone crown kin—sets foot on Driftmark for a proper call."
The veiled jab scarce drew a flicker from her. She allowed that the rift might've stunted the Velaryons' climb a touch, but this vassal house had swelled too mighty already—letting them rise higher would've been madness.
Her husband saw it otherwise. He deemed it a wound to the realm entire when growth was choked by those who'd smother rivals rather than meet them stride for stride.
Still, it was quite a surprise for Rhaenys to admit that scandals have been happening aplenty here.
"Secret dealings, then?" Gael asked, her voice soft.
Her answer was a dry look and an unspoken warning.
She eased past that awkwardness by feigning no acknowledgement of her prior question. "Perchance the years ahead might shift it." It wouldn't. The Velaryons weren't barred from the royal court, after all. "Still, I'm thankful for the gifts. Would that I'd known a feast was brewing, though."
She might've prepared greater gifts then.
"I'd wager you should've foreseen it, but I know you chafe at scheming," Rhaenys said, gazing past the balcony, her gown dancing to the breeze. "This is a modest rite to cheer your husband's rise. Kept small, mind you—Maelys has scant taste for fanfare."
Aye, he did, and Gael reckoned this was bound to come to pass in time.
They spoke on, the pair of them, of kin and holdings. The Winter Princess dangled a thread of alliance with the principality once it took root with folk, and Rhaenys let slip how their push for mainland lands was faring.
"Slow going," the dark-haired princess admitted, a faint crease of frustration crossing her face, "but it's coming."
Maelys had urged the Velaryons to stretch their grasp so, though many lords balked at swapping soil for trade's glitter—fools, a lot of them.
"Is that why you've come, to grant us a slice of your new lands?" Rhaenys questioned, though it was obvious to see that the curiosity was absent. "It'd turn a tidy profit, no doubt."
Gael spied the gain in it sharp enough, but she caught the glint in Rhaenys's eye—the old princess was fishing, probing for something beneath the surface. She knew, or near enough, why they'd truly landed here.
"I came for you and the little ones, truth be shared" Gael said, keeping her tone easy, "and I'd wager Maelys isn't here to dangle holdings."
They scarce wanted for coin, stores, or paths to tread. This was Maelys's favouritism—scheming, most like—at play. Their father could loose as many ships as they'd take, and no debt would bind it—Havenhall's rise owed naught to the crown's purse.
There was a slant to Maelys's game, though Gael harbored no itch to unravel it.
The feast was summoned, a spread lavish beyond its modest name. Long tables stretched the hall, laden with sea's spoils—spiced crab, lobster slick with butter, and whole fish roasted golden, wreathed in citrus and herbs. Silver goblets glinted in the candle glow, brimming with wine black as the abyss.
Gael often matched Maelys's distaste for water's flesh, but this night her hunger swelled ravenous. They supped amid strains of music and soft murmurs, Maelys nudging her from the wine with a quiet word—wanting her sharp for tomorrow's talks.
It availed little. She woke sour and queasy come morn, vowing to shun sea fare, only to meet Maelys's bright laughter and a vigour in him she couldn't place.
"Rest longer, love," he said, pressing a warm hand to her brow. "I'll manage the talks fine. Steer clear of sea bounty and wine, though—I'll have the cooks whip up something gentler to ease you."
"I hate to spoil your hopes so, my love," she muttered from beneath the furs, irritation prickling at his easy air after he'd hoped for her to stand with him in the talks.
"Come, love, it's naught," he assured, leaning close with a grin. "Your health trumps it all—focus there. And you might spy a box of chocolates in your quarters." He winked.
"Stop coddling me like some babe," Gael huffed, cheeks puffing, though the promise of those sweets stirred a quiet eager in her.
Maelys dropped a quick kiss on her cheek and strode from the guest chambers, his eager step tangling the usual smoothness of his stride.