Aemma Arryn POV
The banners of House Targaryen snapped fiercely high above the ramparts of the Red Keep, their crimson and black colors swirling in the breeze like living twin flames. From her vantage point in the Queen's Garden, Lady Aemma Arryn took in the expansive view of the bustling harbor below, where ships bobbed gently at their moorings and sailors hurried about their tasks. Along the lower terraces, preparations for the grand feast unfolded in a blur of activity, with servants laying out silken runners and setting gleaming plates.
By this time tomorrow, Lady Rhea Royce would arrive at court, cradling twin princes in her arms.
And the realm would gather eagerly to witness the new heirs.
"More gold, I think," Aemma murmured, her voice soft but certain, as she gestured toward a servant meticulously arranging the feast tables below. "The runners should be trimmed with deeper velvet. The Queen favors richness and depth over mere flash."
"Yes, my lady," the steward replied promptly, dipping his quill to scribble the order onto a fresh scroll.
A few paces away, Prince Baelon Targaryen stood in earnest conversation with the captain of the City Watch, their voices low but authoritative as they exchanged orders with practiced ease. Meanwhile, her husband, King Viserys, lingered under the cool shade of a stone archway, his eyes scanning a lengthy list of noble houses expected to attend the feast.
Aemma's gaze softened as she watched him. His broad shoulders were set tight, bearing the subtle weight of his constant strain, as though he could never quite loosen the burden he carried.
He had been unusually quiet throughout the morning.
And Aemma… understood exactly why.
Four months had passed since the raven arrived, its solemn wings bearing the joyous news of the births of Robar Royce and Aerion Targaryen. The court erupted in celebration. King Jaehaerys had decreed that the bells of every keep and hall be rung in honor of the occasion. Nobles from every corner of the realm gathered, offering fine wines and heartfelt congratulations.
Meanwhile, Queen Alysanne remained in the Vale, personally overseeing Rhea's recovery and carefully organizing the journey ahead. A Royce honor guard was assembled for the procession—soldiers clad in gleaming bronze armor that caught the light like a second parade of kings, Aemma imagined.
Though they could have flown on their dragons to expedite travel, Rhea had insisted on a slower, more deliberate journey. "I will not risk my children's fragile bones for spectacle," she had written to Aemma with quiet resolve. "Let the dragons fly high above us. I will ride on the road—as a mother first, not a rider."
Aemma had smiled upon reading those words. They sounded exactly like Rhea—pragmatic and protective to the core. She deeply respected her for that steadfastness, even as every moment since the announcement had pricked her heart like a thorn hidden beneath the softest silk.
She walked quietly to Viserys's side, slipping her arm gently through his.
"Still poring over names?" she asked softly.
Viserys offered her a weary smile. "Half the Crownlands expect to be seen tomorrow. Father insisted it be a royal feast, not merely a courtly gathering. That means invitations, seating arrangements, sigils lining the hall, and the ever-tricky pecking orders…"
His voice trailed off, burdened by the weight of the task.
"You don't have to shoulder this alone," she said reassuringly.
"I'm not alone," he replied, glancing at her with quiet gratitude. "You're here."
They stood together in comfortable silence for a while, eyes fixed on the final banners being draped across the columns flanking the throne room doors. The vibrant colors fluttered softly in the evening breeze, signaling the pomp to come.
"I've heard the little one—Aerion—is almost unnaturally still," Aemma said at last, her voice tinged with curiosity. "He doesn't cry. He just… watches."
Viserys nodded thoughtfully. "Baelon says he stares as if he's sizing up everyone in the room, as though passing judgment."
"I suppose he gets that from you," Aemma teased lightly, a faint smile touching her lips.
But Viserys didn't laugh. Instead, he looked down at his hands, fingers tightening briefly before he averted his gaze.
"They'll all adore him," Viserys said with quiet certainty. "The court, the smallfolk—they'll all be captivated. He belongs to Daemon, of course, but everyone will see the name. The hair, the eyes... they'll whisper of prophecy and fate wherever he goes."
"And Robar?" Aemma asked gently, her voice barely above a whisper.
Viserys shook his head, a soft sigh escaping him. "Robar will be a Royce in every sense. A fine lord, no doubt, respected and steady. But it's Aerion who will sit at the high table, commanding the room like one of those princes sung about in old stories."
Aemma said nothing. There was no need; his words hung heavy between them.
For years, Viserys had hoped and prayed.
Six pregnancies. Only one child—Rhaenyra—had survived. She was radiant, intelligent, beloved by all who knew her. But the losses were countless: too many small, silent graves scattered like shadows in their past, each a wound never spoken aloud.
And still… no son.
Her hand found his, steadying him.
"I know what this means to you," she whispered, her voice tender.
Viserys met her gaze, his own eyes filled with a mixture of love and sorrow. "I don't resent him," he said quickly, as if to reassure both her and himself. "He's my nephew. I'll love him as fiercely as I would any son."
There was a pause, heavy with feelings unspoken.
"But I'd be lying if I said it didn't ache. Even just a little."
Aemma leaned against him, offering comfort beyond words. "Then we'll carry that ache together, always."
By sunset, the palace buzzed with a steady hum of activity. Cooks shouted orders and clattered pots in the busy kitchens below, while guards clad in gleaming ceremonial armor paced the upper halls with measured steps. The royal chambers in the Tower of the Hand were being carefully aired out and scented with delicate orange blossom water, a fragrant welcome prepared for Lady Rhea and her sons.
In the nursery, Aemma took it upon herself to oversee every detail. Two wet nurses had been carefully chosen from Dragonstone's trusted staff—women known for their discretion, strength, and proud dragonblood ancestry. The crib intended for Aerion Targaryen was already positioned beneath the intricately painted ceiling of the royal nursery, placed right alongside the cradle that once belonged to Rhaenyra.
Aemma's fingers traced the smooth silk sheets with a quiet tenderness. The cradle itself gleamed, freshly polished to a soft sheen that caught the fading light. Nestled within its velvet lining lay the dragon egg, handpicked by Baelon himself—a mottled shell of deep red and black swirled together, warm to the touch despite the cool evening air.
She stared at the egg, the powerful symbolism undeniable—a cradle and an egg. For a prince who had yet to take his earliest steps, he had already claimed his destined place in the world.
Closing her eyes briefly, Aemma took a steadying breath before turning to the nurse nearby. "Make sure everything is perfect," she instructed softly. "And keep the windows open. We mustn't let the scent of polish overwhelm the room."
"Yes, my lady," the nurse replied with a respectful nod.
That night, as Viserys prepared for bed, he sat quietly beside the glowing brazier, the flickering flames casting dancing shadows across his face. He held a scroll in his hands but seemed only half-engaged with its contents, his gaze distant, lost in deep thought. From the doorway, she watched him silently, taking in the weight of the moment.
"You'll be wonderful tomorrow," she said softly, stepping closer into the warm glow.
Viserys looked up, a flicker of surprise crossing his features as if he had momentarily forgotten she was there. "I won't be the one they're looking at," he admitted quietly.
"No," she acknowledged gently, "but you're the one they'll remember. You're the one who endures, Viserys. Not just the fire or the spectacle—but you."
At last, he smiled—a genuine, heartfelt smile that reached his eyes and softened his weary expression.
And in that moment, Aemma thought with quiet resolve—let them come. Let the dragons soar and the lords and courtiers flood the throne room with their pomp and ceremony. She would be there to hold her husband's hand firmly. She would stand steadfast beside the cradle that carried another woman's son. And she would not flinch.
The bells of King's Landing rang bright and clear, their sonorous tones echoing across the sunlit rooftops as the royal procession from the Vale made its stately way through the Gate of the Gods.
Aemma stood poised atop the broad steps of the inner courtyard, accompanied by Prince Baelon and Viserys, her hands delicately clasped at her waist. From her vantage point, she could already discern the standards cresting the distant hill—House Royce's emblematic runes of bronze and iron gleaming proudly, the familiar silver three-headed dragon of House Targaryen shimmering in the light, and the fluttering blue banner of Queen Alysanne, intricately embroidered with stars and wings that caught the breeze like they were alive.
The crowd was thick along the polished marble causeway, kept firmly in line by the disciplined ranks of gold-cloaked guards. Whispers and cheers swelled like a tidal wave through the gathering as the first riders emerged—bronze-armored Royce soldiers, their horses proud and perfectly synchronized in step, their armor gleaming under the bright sky.
And then, the carriage came into view.
Drawn by a team of magnificent white geldings, their manes flowing like silk, the carriage itself was draped in rich black and red silks that contrasted sharply against the pale horses. Seated within were Lady Rhea Royce and Queen Alysanne, surrounded by the tender presence of two infants nestled safely in their arms, the scene a quiet beacon of both strength and delicate grace.
Aemma's eyes instinctively searched the procession for one figure above all others.
Daemon.
He rode just behind the carriage, mounted not on his mighty dragon as so often expected, but instead on a sleek black courser. His silver-gold hair whipped freely in the wind, catching the sunlight in a halo that only served to intensify the unreadable expression on his face. Gone was the usual smirk or sneer—there was only a profound stillness in his gaze, as if the weight of the moment had stilled him completely.
Baelon stepped forward as the great iron gates of the Red Keep swung open wide, welcoming the procession inside.
Alysanne was the first to descend from her horse, moving with the poised grace of a queen accustomed to command. Even clad in practical riding leathers, she looked every inch regal, her silver hair woven into a delicate crown braid that gleamed softly in the sunlight. Without waiting for formal greetings or ceremonies, she fixed her steady gaze on Baelon and nodded once, succinctly.
"All's well," she said, her voice calm but resolute.
Baelon returned her nod with a faint, knowing smile. "It seems so," he replied, reassurance threading his words.
Next, Rhea stepped down from her mount, her gown a rich tapestry of bronze-threaded velvet that shimmered subtly with each movement. She cradled Robar gently in her arms, the child's strong features already striking, like a miniature Royce carved from sturdy marble—steady, composed even in infancy. A few steps behind her, a wet nurse followed, carefully holding little Aerion, whose violet eyes blinked curiously beneath a soft silver cap that seemed almost otherworldly.
Aemma drew in a quiet, sharp breath, caught off guard by what she was seeing. She had never truly beheld the children before, not like this.
Robar's presence was commanding, but it was Aerion who arrested her attention entirely. She had only ever seen dragonlords in painted portraits—figures of Valyrian descent with skin that shimmered pale as moonlight and eyes burning with the weight of prophecy. This babe before her looked as though he had stepped straight from one of those haunting, ancient canvases—a living echo of that mystical bloodline.
Daemon dismounted swiftly then, moving with purposeful calm toward the wet nurse. Without a word or the slightest showmanship, he took Aerion into his arms with a practiced ease that belied the tenderness in his touch.
Though he remained silent before the gathered crowd, Aemma caught the way his gaze softened as he looked down at the child. In that glance was a quiet fear, as if Daemon worried the world might shatter this fragile life with even the gentlest blink.
In that brief, unguarded moment, Aemma understood with aching clarity: Daemon loved this child beyond measure.
The throne room was filled to capacity, every corner brimming with the assembled nobility of the Crownlands. Bannermen, lords, ladies, and nobles alike had gathered, their eager eyes fixed on the unfolding spectacle of the new princes' arrival. The air was thick with a mixture of tension and the faint scent of perfume, as layers of silk rustled softly while courtiers strained their necks to catch a better glimpse.
Aemma stood silently beside Viserys, both positioned along the dais wall, their expressions composed yet watchful. At the center, King Jaehaerys sat motionless upon the Iron Throne, his face a mask of stone, betraying no emotion.
At last, the heavy doors swung open.
Queen Alysanne entered first, carrying herself with a regal poise—head held high, her gaze steady and proud, commanding the room's immediate attention.
Following her was Lady Rhea, adorned in her finest gown woven of bronze and gold. In her arms, she cradled Robar Royce with a quiet dignity. Every step she took was imbued with the grace and authority of a queen in her own right—unbowed and unafraid of the eyes that watched her.
Behind Lady Rhea came Prince Daemon, walking deliberately and slowly, his arms wrapped protectively around the infant Aerion Targaryen. His hair caught the flicker of the torchlight, gleaming like living fire, while his cloak, a deep crimson trimmed in black, trailed behind him. Notably, he bore no sword on this occasion.
A profound hush fell over the chamber.
Even the faintest whispers died away, swallowed by the weight of the moment.
Queen Alysanne's voice rang out, clear and formal, echoing through the grand hall. "Your Grace, we present to you two sons born of royal blood—true heirs to the line of the dragon. First, Robar Royce, heir to Runestone, and beside him, Aerion Targaryen, Prince of the Realm."
Rhea took a steady step forward, her eyes fixed on the king as she carried Robar into view.
Jaehaerys regarded Robar with a measured, neutral gaze. "He favors his mother's line," he observed quietly.
"Aye," Alysanne responded, a hint of pride in her tone. "But there is fire in him still."
Then Daemon approached, holding the second child gently in his arms.
A hush fell over the court, a ripple of whispers passing through the assembled lords and ladies as the babe's face was revealed in full.
Even Jaehaerys blinked in surprise.
Aerion's eyes—deep violet, piercing, and utterly still—locked with the king's for a breathless moment.
Aemma saw it. She felt it deep within her.
In that instant, the very atmosphere of the room shifted, charged with a solemn, unspoken recognition.
As if every courtier, every noble, every schemer in the grand hall could feel the unseen ripple of fate moving through the heavy, incense-laden air. Jaehaerys leaned forward, his gaze sharpening.
"He looks like… something born from the very heart of Valyria," he murmured, awe threading through his voice.
"He is named Aerion," Daemon replied, his tone respectful yet steady, carrying the weight of pride. "With your leave, we would have his name inscribed upon the royal rolls."
Jaehaerys did not answer at once, his eyes lingering on the infant swaddled carefully in Daemon's arms. After a moment of contemplative silence, he gave a single solemn nod.
"Let it be so. Aerion Targaryen, of the blood of kings."
A cheer arose, swelling like wildfire throughout the hall, a chorus of voices united in triumph and hope.
From her elevated place at the dais, Aemma cast her gaze downwards upon the boy nestled securely in Daemon's arms—a dragon prince, barely months old.
A child born of a fractured union, yet already beloved, already touched by destiny's hand.
And deep within her heart, she whispered a quiet, resolute hope—
That whatever storms Aerion would unleash upon the world…
Rhaenyra would stand firm through it all.
And so would she.
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