Morning came in lazy, filtered through narrow seams in the stone and tinting the room with a cold gold. The sea wind blew lightly and carried that salty damp smell that clings to everything in Runestone. There was still little movement in the castle. Distant steps echoed in the corridors, cut by the steady scrape of straw brooms.
I was awake before Rhea stirred. She still slept, her body partly turned toward me as if making sure I was still there. A curious detail. The position revealed a mix of protective instinct and accumulated fatigue. It was not the first time I saw her that way, but it was the first time I watched it longer.
My previous life taught me to analyze people. In the army that could mean the difference between going home or not. Here it serves another purpose. Understanding what each person wants and what each one fears. Rhea is not only Lady of Runestone. She is a woman who learned early that political alliances rarely come with affection. For some reason, she decided I would be the exception.
The soft groan of the door broke the quiet. Melyne came in with a steaming basin and a clean cloth. She dipped her head briefly to Rhea before stepping closer. I stayed still and followed everything with my eyes.
"He is already awake," Rhea said calmly, opening her eyes slowly.
Melyne nodded and began changing the water in a nearby pitcher, setting up the morning wash. The motions were automatic and precise, the look of someone who has done the job for years. I have seen soldiers with the same face, focused but with the mind miles away.
While Melyne worked, Rhea leaned over me. There was more than formality in her gaze. Genuine attention, maybe even a trace of pride she would not allow herself to admit.
"Today you will come with me to the great hall," she said, straightening the blanket over me.
On the outside I blinked slowly. On the inside my head was already busy. "Great hall" means movement, people, observation. A chance to understand better where I sit on this board called Westeros.
Melyne finished and stepped back with her usual discretion. Rhea took a thicker blanket and wrapped me carefully. The touch was firm and free of roughness, calculated, the hand of someone who knows the balance between not hurting and making it clear she is in control.
When we stepped into the corridor the light seemed livelier. Torches still burned here and there, beating back the shadow where the sun could not reach. Guards crossed our path. Some dipped their heads in respect, others watched with that quiet curiosity a strange baby tends to provoke.
Low conversation floated from a side corridor. I did not catch it all, but two words came through clearly. "Daemon" and "dragon." My biological father and his favorite toy. Exactly what you would expect from two servants trading gossip.
Rhea kept a steady pace and ignored every look that was not necessary. I lay in her arms and took everything in. Faces, the grain of stone and wood, the tapestries, each word that hung in the air. This is how you prepare ground before any real move. In my world I would call it reconnaissance. Here the name does not matter. The method is the same.
The hall smelled of polished wood and burned herbs. Thick rugs swallowed footsteps and Royce banners hung from the walls. The room was built to impress, but to me it felt more like a constant reminder of who rules here.
Rhea did not present me to anyone. No ceremony, no announcement. She took me to the high seat, sat with perfect posture, and kept me on her lap as if it were any other morning.
It was not. This was a silent test wrapped as routine. She wanted everyone to see her child and to remember that even with Daemon Targaryen absent, his blood lived here.
I intended to use that to my advantage.
...
We returned to our chambers while morning still drew pale bands across the stone floor where the sun found seams. The sea air slipped in quietly, cold enough to stir the flame in the brazier, and Runestone kept its usual rhythm. Measured steps in the corridor, wood answering the wind, a stubborn gull outside as if fighting the tide.
In the room, Melyne shut the window with a firm pull, fed the brazier, and gathered the morning towels. She did it without asking permission from the silence, left the room ready for the day, and waited for Rhea's nod. One tilt of the head dismissed her. Then it was just the two of us and the soft sound of fire.
Rhea set me in the cradle and did not step away. Her fingers walked the wooden edge like someone checking the line of a map until they paused beside a subtle dip in the mattress. The kind of mark that says something should be there. It was not. She drew a breath and spoke like someone who records a fact so the world cannot pretend it did not hear.
"In Dragonstone, when a child of Valyrian blood is born, they place an egg in the cradle."
It was not a lesson or a warning. It was a statement. I stayed as quiet as a cooperative baby should, but inside the information clicked into place and locked. So the measure begins here. Warm stone resting beside a newborn. Half symbol, half promise.
"The tradition is old. Sometimes the egg hatches. Sometimes it stays stone. The gesture has weight," she said, eyes fixed on the empty space that seemed larger than the cradle.
Her hand rested on the blanket exactly where the expected thing was missing. Then she delivered the line that settles the matter without asking opinions.
"For you, Maevor, there was no egg."
The temperature did not change, but the room felt clearer. There was no pity in her voice and no cheap anger. It was the precision of someone who knows what she can and cannot deliver. No egg and no dragon, for now. That is not the end of the world. For those who learned to operate with little, it can even be an advantage. Fewer spotlights.
She went to the low table, opened a coffer, and pulled out a parchment. She skimmed it like someone checking a receipt and put it back.
"I wrote to King's Landing and to Dragonstone. I asked no favor. I stated a right. The replies came with seals and polite formulas, but no one sent what is missing here."
It tracks. Daemon does not even send his shadow when he does not want to, and the rest stamp the paper and move on. The cradle is what stays empty.
"Runestone keeps no eggs," she said. It did not sound like an excuse. "We keep iron, stone, and oaths."
The line landed with the weight of someone who knows her house. I could see the iron and stone in the walls. The oath was whole in her eyes. My job for now was simple. Grow without drawing needless attention, learn the voices of the place, keep what matters.
"They will whisper that a Targaryen without an egg is worth less," Rhea went on, speaking more to the brazier than to me. "They will measure you by what you did not receive."
Let them measure. While they look for wings in the cradle, I will mind the legs that will carry me where I need to go. In another life I would call it keeping a low profile.
The wind pressed the window again. Melyne returned with a bowl of light broth and a clean cloth on her shoulder. Rhea drank a few sips, set the bowl back, and thanked her with a nod. The nurse understood and left with the same discretion she came in with. Silence works too.
"Some swear dragons choose. Others believe everything is the work of men, built step by step like a wall," Rhea said, dragging a chair close to the cradle. She sat, braced her elbows on her knees, and watched the fire for a while, the look of someone adjusting patience.
"For you there was no egg. Not by oversight. By decision."
There it was, the part that matters. My father prefers to pretend he does not see me. I have handled bigger vanities than that. In exchange I get room to maneuver. Less public expectation and fewer tests for a crowd. More time to do what matters. Time is always the most expensive coin.
Rhea touched the cradle's edge with her knuckles, a brief tap, and continued.
"Tradition has its place, but it does not replace judgment. Dragons bring glory and disaster. We know both stories."
She lifted her face like someone weighing her own sentence and letting it stand. I followed the choreography my body allowed, the limit of a newborn who cannot hold his head up for long. Inside, I rearranged priorities. Stay small. Watch everything. Step forward only when it is worth it.
"If a dragon crosses your path one day, let it be because you won it with who you are and what you do. Until then this house will proceed our way. Endure, learn, prepare."
Prepare is a song I know. It works for swords, for politics, and for storms.
The door scraped the jamb carefully and the captain of the guard, Ser Loryn Sunderlake, entered at her signal. Dust from training on his boots, cloak closed at the chest, the face of a man who does not waste adjectives when a noun will do.
"Report, my lady. The east gate watch was reviewed. We reinforced the chain at the anchorage. The north road is heavy with mud. One cart of provisions is delayed. It should arrive by dusk."
"How many men stayed on the road," Rhea asked.
"Four. I sent two more on foot to ease the wheels."
"Change the donkeys' shoes today. Better to lose half an hour now than a caravan tomorrow."
"Yes, my lady."
He paused for a heartbeat, as if checking the order of the news.
"A messenger from Gulltown came. A letter with the Arryn seal."
"Leave it on the table. I will see it later."
Loryn nodded and withdrew, closing the door without a click. The room took back its own pulse between the smell of herbs and the crackle of fire. The space beside me stayed empty, but at least it had a name now.
Arryn, Gulltown, ports, mud on the north road. The map lights up quietly, point by point, and none of it requires haste from me. Better that way.
Rhea did not open the letter. She watched the flame. When she spoke again it was in the practical tone of someone who has already decided how to handle the rest.
"They will knock here to ask about the egg. Some will offer a fix that looks simple and charges dearly after. Others will dress poison as kindness. The house will listen, but I choose what comes in."
Door and ear. Half of wars are decided there. The rest is consequence.
"You do not need a dragon now," she said, looking back at me. "You need sleep that heals, bones that firm, competent hands nearby. What is meant to arrive will arrive at the right hour."
On the outside I stayed the calm baby who can close his eyes without crying. Inside I wrote down the plan without ornament. Absence becomes cover. With no egg no one demands a miracle. That works for me. In another world I would call it infiltration. Here it is simply growing the right way.
Melyne came back with a small cloth sachet and tied it to the beam above the cradle. The smell of dried herbs, the right distance from the brazier. Rhea tested the heat with the back of her hand and slid the bed a handspan toward the more sheltered side. Small decisions raise better walls than long speeches.
"When I was a girl I heard a man promise a boy an egg if he learned to hold his tongue. The boy learned and the egg never came. I do not like promises that depend on other people's mood. I prefer what I can deliver," Rhea said, eyes still on the flame.
I held her gaze like someone signing without paper. I do not need an empty promise. I need ground under my feet. With ground, even borrowed wings will do.
"You will learn the difference between those who talk pretty and those who do what they say. Save your admiration for people who pay it back in results. I do not promise what I do not govern. I give what I control. Capable people, firm doors, fire when needed."
Ground, door, fire. That tripod keeps even the stubborn alive.
She stood, pushed the chair back, and checked the light at the window. The wind had turned and the brazier answered by leaning the flame the other way. Rhea signaled to Melyne.
"Take him to the yard when the sun climbs a little. Weak light builds habit too."
"Yes, my lady," Melyne said, tightening my blankets and testing the latch.
Rhea ran a hand over my hair, a brief touch, and straightened.
"Sleep."
It did not sound like an order or a request. It was an understanding. I closed my eyes with the discipline of someone who already knows rest is training too. The castle breathed with me. The gulls insisted once more outside. Runestone kept the same rhythm it has sustained since before I existed.
Today I mark the absence. Tomorrow I use it. Quietly and at the right time.
...
I woke from a short nap. The room was brighter, the brazier steady, and the herbal smell clean in the air. Melyne slipped in, checked the window, and touched my blanket with the back of her hand.
"Let us go to the yard for a bit. The sun helps."
She lifted me with practiced hands and we took the corridor. The castle was working for real now. Low voices. Leather creaking on a guard's belt. The smell of bread from the service kitchen. In the inner yard the sea wind cut less than in the morning, but there was still enough salt to remind us where we were. The stone kept damp in the corners.
"We will stay by the east wall," Melyne said, picking a sheltered spot. She adjusted the blanket, supported my head, and turned my face toward the light. The body accepted the warmth. The mind kept recording.
In the center, Ser Loryn was drilling four men. The sound of practice blades came in cadence. Two strikes and break, one step in and bind. Loryn corrected posture with short lines.
"Feet wider. Eyes on the shoulder, not the tip. Breathe."
He did not waste words. A good sign.
By the forge the smith fed the coal. Bellows, ember, cold water hissing on hot metal. An easy rhythm to recognize. If it kept to the same hour through the week, I could set a clock by it.
A stable boy passed with a salt plank and nearly spilled half. Melyne sidestepped without effort.
"Careful, Orwin."
The boy blushed, nodded, and vanished into the barn. Name logged.
A gull dove for a bucket of fish coming from the kitchen. It won the argument. The cook cursed and the bucket went over. One of the donkeys spooked. Loryn turned his head before the rope snapped and raised his hand.
"Hold."
Two men steadied the animal. It did not become a story, but it showed who reacts on time. I keep those faces.
"He likes the light," Melyne said. "He does not close his eyes so fast."
True. The cold brightness did not sting. It calmed. The wind carried off the last of the bad smell and left the rest.
Rhea appeared on the parapet above the inner gate with no adornment, only a cloak pinned at the shoulder. She looked over the yard like someone counting pieces on a board.
"Is the sun good down there," she asked.
"It is, my lady," Melyne answered. "Little wind now."
"Ten more minutes and bring him back. Halmar, keep the water away from the passage. Loryn, change the watch with the north men at noon. I do not want anyone bogged down on the climb."
"Yes, my lady," came the replies.
She took the inner stairs, spoke briefly with Loryn, checked the gate's iron, and came to us. Melyne lifted the blanket a little so she could see my face. Rhea nodded.
"Good skin. Enough for today."
She turned toward the corner of the wall where the wind hits less, measured the sky for a heartbeat, and called to the smith.
"Halmar, move the buckets."
Another name learned.
We went back slowly. On the way I fixed the sounds I wanted to keep from this same morning. Light iron taps on the gate hinge. The short meow of the kitchen cat. The brush of leather when Loryn lifts his arm to give an order. Simple anchors. They are worth more than a painted map when you learn a place.
In the corridor the light broke again through the seams. The room met us with the same herbal smell and the quiet brazier. Melyne set me in the cradle, straightened the blanket, and checked the little sachet hanging from the beam.
"See you later, little one."
Rhea stood by the window for a moment, listening to the yard from a distance. Then she turned. She had the expression of someone ticking a checklist before winter.
"A good start to the day."
I closed my eyes without effort. Outside, the castle kept its tempo. In here, I had what I needed for now. Cold air, short sun, two or three names, and the rhythm of the yard. The world can talk about eggs and omens. I will stick with routine and people who work. The rest will find its way when it is ready.