Driftmark,
106AC
The salt-kissed dawn of Driftmark painted the sky in hues of pearl and gold as Princess Rhaenys Targaryen made her way through the ancient corridors of High Tide, her silken slippers whispering against the polished stone. The castle hummed with activity as servants hurried with armfuls of fresh linens, guards adjusted their ceremonial mail, and the distant sound of hammers signalled the final preparations being made to the newly raised sept. Today her daughter would wed, and the thought filled her with a bittersweet joy that sat heavy in her chest like Valyrian steel, beautiful and sharp.
She found Laena in her bridal chambers, seated before a looking glass of polished silver, her reflection ethereal in the morning light that streamed through the narrow windows. The girl, no, the woman now at fourteen, wore her maiden's cloak of House Velaryon, the deep seafoam blue trimmed in silver thread that caught the light like captured moonbeams. The seahorse of her house pranced proudly across her shoulders, embroidered with such skill that it seemed ready to leap from the fabric and dive into the Narrow Sea beyond.
"My sweet daughter," Rhaenys murmured, settling beside her on the cushioned bench. Her fingers, steady despite the emotion that threatened to overwhelm her, reached for the small pots of cosmetics arranged on the oak table. "Let me help you prepare for this day."
Laena's violet eyes met hers in the glass, and Rhaenys saw herself reflected there, the same proud bearing, the same stubborn tilt of the chin that had marked Targaryen women since the Conquest. "I am nervous, Mother," Laena admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "What if I stumble during the vows? What if I disappoint him?"
Rhaenys smiled, taking up a brush of sable bristles to apply the faintest blush of rouge to her daughter's cheeks. "You could never disappoint Aurion, dear. That boy has had his eyes on you ever since you both were children playing at dragons in the halls of Dragonstone. He would think you perfect even if you came to him in sackcloths and ashes."
As she worked, applying the subtle cosmetics that would enhance rather than mask Laena's natural beauty, Rhaenys found her thoughts drifting to the Great Council five years past. The bitter taste of defeat still lingered, though time had dulled its sharpest edges. She remembered the hall packed with lords and their banners, the endless debates and negotiations, and the way her son Laenor's claim had been dismissed despite his dragon's blood and the strength of his lineage.
"Do you remember the Great Council?" Rhaenys asked softly, adjusting the delicate silver circlet that would hold Laena's veil in place. "How your aunt Viserra stood before all those lords and declared her support for our family's claim?"
Laena nodded, her reflection solemn. "She defied King Jaehaerys himself. I heard the lords whispering that Dreamfyre's roar could be heard even in the sept when she rose to speak for Laenor's rights."
The years had been kind to that alliance, Rhaenys reflected as she applied a touch of kohl to darken Laena's lashes. Viserra had been more than an aunt to her. She had been a sister, confidante, and ally. Their dragons had soared the skies together, Dreamfyre and Meleys dancing through the clouds like lovers. When Prince Baelon had claimed the succession over Rhaenys's rights, it was Viserra who had raged against the injustice, her fury as terrible as her dragon's flame.
"Aurion was just a babe when I first held him," Rhaenys murmured, lost in memory. "Scarcely two years old, with those same purple eyes he has now and hair like spun silver. Even then, there was something different about him, a stillness, a watching quality that spoke of depths beyond his years."
She had helped raise him, in truth. When Viserra and her son had been sent to Dragonstone, Rhaenys had taken on the role of an elder sister, teaching the boy his letters and numbers, and watching him grow from that perceptive child into the remarkable young man he had become. Under Ser Ryam Redwyne's tutelage, Aurion had transformed from a scholarly boy into a warrior whose skill with sword and lance was already the stuff of songs. The old knight had shaped him into something fierce and deadly, while Archmaester Anselm had honed his mind to razor sharpness.
"I remember when he was knighted," Rhaenys continued, securing the gossamer veil with silver pins. "Ser Ryam told us of the bandits in the Kingswood, how Aurion had ridden into their midst without fear, cutting down men twice his age with no fear. A boy of sixteen, and already the knights and men-at-arms of the Crownlands spoke his name with respect."
"He still brings me flowers," Laena said softly, a smile playing at her lips. "Every morning since we've been betrothed, I wake to find them on my windowsill. Driftmark roses, wildflowers from the cliffs, or sometimes rare blooms that he's somehow convinced the gardeners to coax from foreign seeds."
The Great Council had changed everything, Rhaenys knew. When King Jaehaerys had seen his dragon-riding daughter align herself so openly with the Velaryons, supporting their claim over his chosen heir, the old king's fury had been terrible to behold. It was said in hushed voices that his demand that Prince Viserys claim Vhagar had been as much about power as it had been about spite – a reminder that the Iron Throne commanded the largest dragon, and with it, the realm's fate.
But Aurion had answered in kind. When King Jaehaerys drew his final breath, Vermithor the Bronze Fury had abandoned King's Landing and flown off to Dragonmont. It was then that Prince Aurion had climbed the smoking heights of the Dragonmont alone, emerging hours later astride the great bronze beast, The sight of the young prince descending from the sky upon Vermithor to attend his grandfather's funeral had sent whispers racing through the gathered lords.
And Laena, sweet, brave Laena, had claimed Silverwing not long after, as if the dragons themselves recognised the bonds forming between their riders. Rhaenys had watched from the walls of Dragonstone as her daughter and Aurion took their first flight together, their dragons dancing through the sky in perfect harmony.
"There," Rhaenys said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "You are beautiful, my daughter. The most beautiful bride the realm has ever seen."
It was true. Laena sat straight and proud, her silver-gold hair arranged in an elaborate style that left soft tendrils framing her face. The cosmetics enhanced the natural violet of her eyes and the rose-pink of her lips, while the circlet and veil gave her an otherworldly beauty that spoke of Old Valyria's glory. She was every inch a dragon princess, worthy of the prince who would claim her this day.
"I love him, Mother," Laena whispered, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "I love him so much it frightens me sometimes."
Rhaenys clasped her daughter's hands, feeling the tremor that ran through them. "I know, sweet child. And he loves you the same. I have watched him these past years, seen how his eyes follow you wherever you go, how he smiles only for you. You are his heart, as he is yours."
A knock at the door interrupted them, and Rhaenys called for entry. A young serving girl entered, curtsying low. "Begging your pardons, Your Grace, my lady, but Lord Corlys sends word that the guests are taking their places in the sept."
Rhaenys felt her heart flutter with anticipation and nervousness. "Then it is time," she said, squeezing Laena's hands once more. "Are you ready?"
Laena drew a deep breath, squaring her shoulders in a gesture that reminded Rhaenys of her own Mother, Lady Jocelyn Baratheon. "I am ready."
They made their way through the corridors of High Tide, their footsteps echoing in the sudden silence that had fallen over the castle. Outside, Rhaenys could hear the murmur of voices and the flutter of banners in the salt breeze. The newly raised sept stood proud against the morning sky, its seven-pointed star catching the light like a beacon.
As they approached the sept's entrance, Rhaenys saw the gathered crowd and felt a surge of pride at the turnout. Lords and ladies from across the realm had come to witness this union, their banners creating a riot of colour against the grey stone. She spotted Lord Mooton of Maidenpool, his Red salmon banner snapping in the wind, and beside him Lord Ardrian Celtigar of Claw Isle, the red crabs of his house displayed proudly on his standard.
Lady Tarth of Evenfall Hall had made the journey from the Sapphire Isle, as had numerous lords of the Narrow Sea ports, their banners bearing the symbols of their maritime heritage – ships and seahorses, krakens and fish. Yet it was the foreign dignitaries who truly marked this as a wedding of significance. The Prince of Pentos stood resplendent in cloth-of-gold, surrounded by magisters whose wealth glittered from every finger and fold of their elaborate robes.
The Sealord of Braavos had come himself, a mark of respect that spoke to the growing power of House Velaryon on the Narrow Sea. Beside him stood a man Rhaenys recognised from her husband's stories, Tigaro Moraqos, the Tiger Triarch of Volantis, whose rise from obscurity to power had been as meteoric as it was impressive. The man's Valyrian features and bearing marked him as one of the Old Blood, and his presence here suggested alliances that reached far beyond Westeros's shores.
Among the younger guests, she spotted several familiar faces. Ser Rogar Reyne, the heir of his house and its seat, stood tall and handsome in his red and gold, his friendship with Aurion forged in tournament combat and sealed in mutual respect. Beside him was Ser Williem Royce, cousin to Lady Rhea of the Vale, whose own defeat at Aurion's hands had transformed him from rival to devoted follower.
Young Tyland Lannister stood with the Lannister delegation, his golden hair catching the light as he spoke quietly with other squires and young knights. The boy had proven himself worthy of his position as Aurion's squire, earning the prince's trust through loyalty and competence.
Notably absent were King Viserys, who remained in King's Landing to rule the realm, and Prince Daemon, whose exile from Westeros meant he could not attend even if he wished to. Their absence cast no shadow over the celebration; if anything, it seemed to emphasise the independence and power of those who were present.
Inside the sept, Rhaenys took her place at the front, wearing a gown of deep Targaryen black shot through with threads of silver that caught the light like stars. Beside her stood Viserra, resplendent in a gown of the same black but trimmed with red silk that seemed to glow like embers. Her aunt's beauty remained undimmed by the years, her silver-gold hair arranged in an elaborate style that accentuated her Valyrian features. The bond between them, forged in shared trials and strengthened by their dragons' kinship, needed no words.
Lord Corlys stood across from them, tall and proud in his ceremonial armour, the seahorse of his house embroidered in silver thread across his chest. Though the Sea Snake's weathered face showed no emotion, Rhaenys knew him well enough to recognise the quiet satisfaction in his dark eyes. This marriage would cement alliances to serve House Velaryon for generations to come.
The sept filled gradually, the murmur of voices blending with the wind whispering through the windows. Banners hung from the walls, their vibrant colours forming a tapestry of loyalty and power. The scent of incense drifted from the altar where seven oil lamps burned in honour of the Seven who presided over all unions.
When the septon appeared in his silver robes, a hush fell over the gathering. A man of middle years, his voice rang strong and clear as he began the invocation to the Seven-Who-Are-One. His prayers washed over the assembled crowd like waves upon the shore, ancient words that had blessed countless unions throughout the realm's history.
"We gather in the sight of Gods and men," the septon intoned, "to witness the union of two souls, two hearts, two lives joined in sacred bond."
As the great doors at the rear of the sept opened, Laena entered on her father's arm. A collective gasp swept through the crowd at her beauty, and Rhaenys felt her heart swell with pride. Her daughter moved with dancer's grace, head held high despite the moment's significance. The seafoam blue of her maiden's cloak flowed about her like water, its silver thread catching every shaft of light that passed through the sept's windows.
At the altar, Lord Corlys carefully removed the cloak from his daughter's shoulders in a gesture both symbolic and deeply personal. For a brief moment, father and daughter stood facing one another, and Rhaenys glimpsed the emotion flickering across her husband's weathered features before he stepped back, yielding his place to another.
Then Aurion entered, and the very atmosphere seemed to shift.
He came alone, as tradition dictated, yet his presence filled the sept like the promise of thunder. At twenty years old, he had grown into the fullness of his manhood, possessing a beauty both masculine and ethereal. His mother's striking features had refined in him the sharp angles of his face, so reminiscent of Old Valyria's dragonlords, while his powerful frame bore testament to years of rigorous training under Ser Ryam Redwyne's exacting instruction.
He wore the high-collared finery of House Targaryen, black silk interwoven with crimson threads that pulsed like living flame. The cut of his garments accentuated his broad shoulders and narrow waist, while the dragon-headed pins securing his cloak were wrought of Valyrian steel, dark and lethally beautiful. His silver-gold hair swept back from his face, revealing the sharp cheekbones and violet eyes that marked his dragonblood heritage.
Yet it was not his beauty that commanded every gaze in the sept, but rather the aura he carried - that quiet certainty speaking of dragons and fire, of ancient power slumbering just beneath the surface. Here stood a prince who had claimed Vermithor through sheer will, who had forged his reputation in tournament grounds across the Seven Kingdoms, and who inspired unwavering loyalty in men who had once been his rivals.
In his hands, he carried a cloak that seemed to drink in the light—deep black silk lined with red, the three-headed dragon of his house worked in thread-of-gold across the fabric. As he approached the altar, his eyes never left Laena's face, and Rhaenys saw the naked love that burned there, as bright and fierce as dragonfire.
"Who comes before the Seven to be wed?" the septon asked, his voice carrying clearly through the sept.
Corlys replied, his voice steady despite the emotion tightening his features, "Laena of House Velaryon. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the gods."
"Who comes to claim her?" the septon continued.
"Aurion of House Targaryen," came the prince's reply, his voice carrying the absolute confidence of a dragonlord of old. "Born from the line of Aegon the Conqueror, trueborn and noble. I come to claim her in the sight of gods and men."
The septon nodded solemnly. "And do you, Laena of House Velaryon, take this man?"
"I take this man," Laena answered, her voice clear and strong despite the subtle tremor Rhaenys detected beneath the surface.
With centuries-old ceremony, the septon anointed them both with sacred oils, the seven prayers washing over them like blessings. When he reached for the cloak in Aurion's hands, the prince stepped forward with fluid grace, settling the heavy fabric across Laena's shoulders with a tenderness that brought tears to many eyes.
Rhaenys realised with sudden clarity how well the black and red suited her daughter. The colours that had appeared stark and severe on others somehow enhanced Laena's beauty, the contrast making her silver-gold hair seem to glow with inner light. She looked every inch a dragon princess, worthy of the ancient blood flowing through her veins.
"With this kiss, I pledge my love," Aurion declared, cupping Laena's face in his hands, his voice resonating through the sept.
"With this kiss, I pledge my love," she responded, her hands covering his.
"And take you for my lady and wife," he continued.
"And take you for my lord and husband," she whispered.
Their lips met in a kiss that seemed to last an eternity. When they parted, the septon's voice rang out over the assembled crowd: "One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever."
The crowd's roaring approval was answered by cries from above as Vermithor and Silverwing circled the sept in perfect harmony. The bronze dragon's deep, resonant call intertwined with Silverwing's higher tones like silver thread woven through dark fabric. Together, they created a song speaking of ancient magic and older bonds, of dragons and fire and the blood of Old Valyria.
As the newly wedded couple emerged from the sept, Rhaenys overheard a lord whisper to his companion, "Look at them, like Jaehaerys and Alysanne reborn, with dragons to match."
The comparison sent a spike of irritation through her, but she forced herself to remain silent. This was Laena's day, and she would not mar it with old grievances or bitter memories. Still, the words stung. Jaehaerys and Alysanne had been blessed by the gods, celebrated throughout the realm as the perfect royal couple. But her Grandfather had also been the one to deny Rhaenys her rightful inheritance, to pass over her claim in favour of her uncle solely because she was a woman.
The great hall of High Tide had been transformed for the feast, its walls hung with banners and its long tables groaning under the weight of dishes brought from across the known world. The high table dominated the far end of the hall, raised on a dais that allowed the wedding party to survey their guests. Aurion and Laena took their places at the centre, looking every inch the royal couple as they accepted the congratulations and good wishes of the assembled lords and ladies.
Viserra took her seat to Aurion's right, her presence both protective and proprietary. She had raised this young man almost single-handedly, and her pride in him was evident in every gesture, every glance. Beside her, Rhaenys settled into her own chair, positioned where she could observe both her daughter and the assembled guests.
Across from them, Corlys held court with the foreign dignitaries, his years of travel and trade evident in the easy familiarity with which he conversed with the Sealord of Braavos and Tigaro Moraqos. The Tiger Triarch was a man of perhaps forty years, his Valyrian features sharp and aristocratic, his bearing that of one born to command. His friendship with Corlys dated back to the times when her husband went on the famous nine great voyages, when both had been young men seeking fortune and glory in the far corners of the world.
The feast that followed was a spectacle worthy of the greatest houses of the realm. Servants moved between the tables like dancers, carrying platters of roasted peacock and swan, of lamprey pie and honeyed ham, of exotic fruits from the Summer Isles and spiced wine from Dorne. The Pentoshi magisters had contributed casks of their finest vintages, while the Braavosi delegation had brought delicacies from the secret city that few Westerosi had ever tasted.
Musicians played in the gallery above, their instruments weaving melodies that spoke of love and joy, of ancient songs that had celebrated unions since the world was young. The sound mixed with the conversations of the guests, creating a symphony of celebration that filled the hall from floor to rafters.
Rhaenys watched as Aurion leaned close to Laena, selecting choice morsels from the dishes before them and feeding them to her with his own hands. The gesture was intimate and tender, speaking of a love that had grown from childhood friendship into something deeper and more profound. When he dabbed at her lips with a silk napkin, Laena's blush was visible even in the flickering torchlight, and Rhaenys felt her heart warm at the sight.
This was the babe she had once bounced on her knee, the serious child who had asked endless questions about dragons and knights, who had listened with rapt attention to every story she told him. Now he was twenty years old, with the bearing of a king and the strength to match his ambitions. The years had been kind to him, she realised. The scholarly boy had grown into a warrior prince while retaining the intelligence and careful thought that had marked him from birth.
Unlike his half-brother Daemon, whose appetites were legendary and who was known for his chaotic tendencies and his cunning, Aurion had never been touched by scandal. Rhaenys had watched him over the years, seen how he rejected the advances of serving girls and highborn ladies alike, how his eyes had always sought Laena's face in any crowd. There had been whispers, of course, there always were about princes, but nothing that carried the ring of truth.
"Listen," Viserra murmured, leaning close to her ear. Her aunt's voice was barely audible over the noise of the feast, but Rhaenys caught the urgency in it.
Following Viserra's gaze, Rhaenys turned her attention to the conversation taking place between Aurion and the Sealord of Braavos. The prince's voice was pitched low, barely carrying to where she sat, but she caught enough to make her breath catch in her throat.
"How long would it take for your arsenals to build one hundred warships, my lord?" Aurion was asking, his tone casual but his eyes intent.
The Sealord stroked his forked beard thoughtfully before replying. "Our shipwrights are the finest in the known world, my prince. We can launch a war galley every single day when our yards are running at full capacity. By that measure, I could have sixty galleys ready for delivery within two moons."
"And what of crews?" Aurion pressed. "Men who know the ways of war at sea?"
"Braavos has never lacked for sailors," the Sealord replied with a smile that held secrets. "The Free City has many sons who would welcome the chance to serve a dragonlord's cause."
Across the table, Corlys was engaged in a similar conversation with Tigaro Moraqos, their voices too low to catch individual words, but their intent clear from their posture and expressions. An alliance was being forged here, Rhaenys realised, bonds of mutual benefit that would stretch across the Narrow Sea and beyond.
She thought of Aurion's stated intention to clear the Stepstones of the Triarchy's influence, a goal that had earned him support from lords who suffered under the pirates' predations. But this, this spoke of ambitions far beyond simple pirate-hunting. This was the preparation for war on a scale that would reshape the balance of power in the eastern waters.
As the evening wore on, the feast grew more raucous, the wine flowed freely, and the laughter grew louder. Viserra moved through the hall like a queen, conversing easily with Lady Tarth and the various lords of the Narrow Sea houses. Her years of exile had not diminished her political acumen, and Rhaenys watched with admiration as her aunt wove webs of influence and obligation with the skill of a master player.
The formal portions of the feast concluded with toasts that ranged from heartfelt to ribald, each speaker adding their voice to the celebration. When the time came for the traditional bedding ceremony, however, a hush fell over the hall as the crowd began to take up the chant.
"To bed! To bed!" they called, the men and women dividing as custom demanded to escort the bride and groom to their marriage chamber. But before the first hands could reach for them, Aurion rose from his seat with fluid grace.
"There will be no bedding ceremony," he declared, his voice carrying clearly through the hall. "I shall take the pleasure of disrobing my wife myself."
The words sent a ripple of surprise through the crowd, but before anyone could protest, Aurion bent and lifted Laena in his arms with effortless strength. She let out a small cry of surprise that turned into laughter as he cradled her against his chest, her feet dangling well clear of the floor. The sight drew cheers and applause from the assembled guests, who appreciated the romantic gesture even as they were denied their traditional entertainment.
With long strides, Aurion carried his bride from the hall, kicking open the door to their chambers with his foot and disappearing inside with a flourish that left the crowd cheering. The heavy oak door slammed shut behind them with a finality that spoke of new beginnings and private joys.
"Well," Ser Rogar Reyne said to his companion, his booming voice carrying in the sudden quiet, "Prince Aurion would geld any man who dared think of seeing Lady Laena in her smallclothes. Since I'm the prince's close friend, I know what he thinks, wouldn't I, Willem?"
Ser Williem Royce nodded solemnly, though Rhaenys could see the mirth dancing in his eyes. "That's right, Rogar. The prince would gouge out the eyes of any man who dared look upon his love with improper thoughts. He's a proud and fierce man, our prince."
The jest was aimed at a young knight standing nearby, whose face had gone pale at the implications. Rhaenys could not help but smile at their attempt to terrorise the poor boy with visions of princely wrath, though she suspected there was more truth in their words than jest.
As the guests began to disperse, some returning to their chambers and others settling in for further drinking and storytelling, Rhaenys made her own way to the rooms she shared with Corlys. The corridors of High Tide were quieter now, the celebration continuing but at a more subdued level.
She found her husband standing by the window of their chamber, a goblet of Arbor gold in his hand as he gazed out at the moon-silvered sea. He had removed his ceremonial armour and now wore only a simple robe of sea-green silk that emphasised his still-powerful frame. At fifty-seven, Corlys Velaryon remained a formidable man, his hair silver-streaked, but his bearing still that of the adventurer who had sailed to the far corners of the world.
"Do not drink too much, love," Rhaenys said teasingly as she began to unfasten the elaborate gown she had worn for the ceremony. "Lest you become too old for more pleasant pursuits."
Corlys chuckled, the sound warm and familiar. "I am a happy man tonight, wife. I ought to have some drinks after accomplishing what I have accomplished."
"Oh?" Rhaenys asked, intrigued by the satisfaction in his voice. "And what has the great Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake himself, accomplished that makes him so proud? Some new achievement to add to your legend?"
"I am happy that my daughter is marrying a man like Aurion," Corlys replied, his voice growing serious. "There can be no finer man than I would trust with my daughter's happiness and future."
Rhaenys smiled as she slipped into her nightrobe, the silk cool against her skin. "Who do you think raised him all these years? Viserra raised him practically single-handedly, and I was his older sister in all but name. I know Aurion as well as I know Laenor; he is the younger brother I never had."
But then a thought occurred to her, and she turned to face her husband with a puzzled expression. "Do you not feel any regret that Laena is not marrying King Viserys? The match would have made her queen."
Corlys chuckled again, but this time there was something darker in the sound, something that spoke of plans within plans and ambitions that reached far beyond the narrow confines of court politics. "Aurion's intention of destroying the Triarchy in the Stepstones to help me out is a ruse, my dear."
Rhaenys was startled for a moment. "What do you mean?"
"Think about it," Corlys said, turning from the window to face her fully. "A man who truly wanted only to clear the Stepstones could do so with Dreamfyre and Vermithor alone. Dragons have always been the ultimate weapon against fleets and armies. There would be no need to push me to build and add extra ships to such a massive fleet like our fleet, no need to organise six thousand mercenaries under his banner."
The implications of his words began to sink in, and Rhaenys felt a chill that had nothing to do with the sea breeze. "You are saying he has larger ambitions."
"I am saying that Aurion is not the man to remain in another's debt," Corlys replied. "For all the care and love you have shown him, for all the times you have been the elder sister that he needed, he is too proud to accept charity. He wants to be his own man, to carve out his own power base. I can see it in his eyes; the same hunger I had at his age."
"It is like looking at myself when I was twenty," Corlys mused, his expression distant. "The same drive, the same refusal to accept limitations. We will support him in whatever venture he chooses, of course. The boy has earned that much."
Rhaenys nodded slowly, understanding beginning to dawn. "So this marriage - "
"Seals an alliance that will serve both our houses well," Corlys confirmed. "And gives Aurion the power base he needs for whatever comes next."
As if summoned by their conversation, a distant roar echoed across the night sky - Vermithor and Silverwing calling to each other from their perches on the castle's towers. The sound was hauntingly beautiful, a reminder of the power that slept within the dragons and their riders.
"Now," Corlys said, setting down his empty goblet and moving toward her with the predatory grace that had marked him even in youth, "why don't you rid yourself of those annoying smallclothes?"
Rhaenys laughed as he reached for her, dancing away from his grasping hands with the playfulness of a much younger woman. "Corlys Velaryon, you are incorrigible!"
"And you are beautiful," he replied, catching her around the waist and pulling her close. "As beautiful now as the day I first saw you on Driftmark's shores."
The sea breeze drifted through their window, carrying the salt scent of the Narrow Sea and the distant sound of waves against the shore. Somewhere in the castle, their daughter was beginning her new life as a married woman, while outside, dragons roosted beneath the stars like great shadows against the night sky.
As Rhaenys fell asleep in her husband's arms, she thought of the future that stretched before them all - uncertain, perhaps, but full of possibility. Aurion had married her daughter in love, and whatever ambitions drove him, she was confident that Laena's happiness would always be paramount in his considerations.
The wedding was over, but the alliance it had sealed would shape the fate of houses and kingdoms for generations to come. In the gentle darkness of the hour of the wolf, with the sea singing its eternal song beyond the windows, the future seemed bright with promise and rich with the potential for glory.
The dragons slept, but their dreams were of fire and conquest, of ancient glories restored and new dynasties founded. And in the morning, the work of building that future would begin in earnest.