Dragonstone, 11 years after the weddings
THOSE WHO DO HAVE CHILDREN
Eleven years have passed since the three weddings.
Eleven years of bodies seeking each other in the darkness, of whispers on pillows, of hopes placed in every cycle of the moon. Eleven years of glances exchanged over the breakfast table, of silences that weigh more than words, of sleepless nights listening to the other's breathing and wondering why.
The six siblings are now:
**Dareo and Elera: 29 and 27 years old.**
STILL WITHOUT CHILDREN.
They try. They desire it with an intensity that sometimes hurts. But the gods, those capricious beings to whom their ancestors prayed in Valyria, have not blessed their union.
Elera sometimes cries in silence.
When she thinks no one sees her, when the night is darkest and the weight of loneliness becomes unbearable, she lets tears run down her cheeks. She makes no sound. She never makes a sound. She is a Targaryen, and Targaryens do not cry. Or at least, they must not be seen crying.
But Dareo sees her.
He always sees her.
He approaches, wraps her in his arms, rests his chin on her shoulder. He says nothing. There are no words that can erase that pain. He is just there. Present. Steady. Like the rock upon which they built their fortress.
—They will come —he whispers when her tears cease—. When they are meant to.
She nods. She wants to believe it. She needs to believe it.
But deep down, very deep down, a small voice asks: what if they never come? What if it's me? What if it's him? What if we are cursed?
She doesn't answer. She can't.
She just lets herself be held.
**Eleris and Nemerys: 29 and 27 years old.**
THREE CHILDREN.
They came one after another, as if Nemerys's womb were an inexhaustible fountain of life. First Aelor, the boy, with his father's grey eyes and his mother's silver hair. Then Aemon, so serious he seemed an old man in a child's body. And finally Aelyra, the girl, the youngest, the one already showing signs of inheriting Nemerys's strange gifts.
They are 7, 6, and 5 years old now. The three of them.
Almost as if fate wanted to repeat the story of their uncles, those triplets who once flew toward Valyria and never returned.
Eleris watches them with pride. Nemerys watches them with something more. Something her sisters don't quite understand.
—They are special —she sometimes says, when someone asks—. They have something.
No one asks what.
Because Nemerys has always been like this. Strange. Distant. Connected to things others don't see.
And her children, perhaps, as well.
**Errol and Aegar: 29 and 27 years old.**
THREE DAUGHTERS.
Three girls who came as a gift from heaven, one after another, filling the fortress with laughter and games and small madnesses. Alyssa, the eldest, serious like her father but with her mother's spark in her eyes. Vaela, the middle one, restless, always asking, always curious. And Rhaena, the youngest, who already shows a fierceness that promises trouble when she grows up.
They are 7, 6, and 5 as well.
All three.
They promise to be as fierce as their aunts. Or more. Because girls raised among dragons and swords rarely settle for embroidery and songs.
Aegar adores them. She bathes them, combs their hair, tells them stories of Valyria before sleep. Errol watches them with a permanent smile, as if he can't believe his luck.
—Three daughters —he says sometimes, laughing—. The gods have a sense of humor.
—Or the dragons —Aegar replies.
And they both laugh.
Because they can laugh.
For now.
The children play in the fortress courtyards.
Their shouts fill the air, bounce off the walls, mingle with the murmur of the sea and the distant roars of dragons. They run between the beasts' legs without fear, because they have grown up with them, because they don't remember a world without dragons.
They learn the art of war from the time they learn to walk.
Wooden swords, small bows, first attempts to mount young dragons. The older ones teach the younger. The younger imitate the older. The cycle continues.
Dragonstone is no longer just a refuge.
It is a home.
A home full of children's laughter and dragons' roars.
A home where the future, for the first time in decades, seems possible.
**SCENE 2: PROSPERITY**
The three families —Targaryen, Celtigar, and Velaryon— have prospered beyond anyone's imagination.
What began as a handful of desperate survivors, crowded onto three broken ships, is now a thriving community. The censuses, those dry documents that scribes update each year, show numbers that would have seemed impossible decades ago.
But the true wealth is not in the censuses.
It is in the young ones.
The six siblings —Dareo, Eleris, Errol, Elera, Nemerys, and Aegar— constantly travel through Essos as elite mercenaries.
They are not common sellswords, those who sell their swords to the highest bidder and die in some forgotten ditch. They are something else. They are legend.
Their names resonate in the Free Cities, in the ports, in the palaces of wealthy magisters. Merchants mention them in their conversations. Children play at being them. Enemies tremble when they hear they are approaching.
**The Dragon Riders of Dragonstone.**
**The Company of Fire and Blood.**
**Those Who Fly on Beasts.**
Three names for the same group. Three ways of saying the same thing: do not mess with them.
They charge fortunes for their services.
And they charge them because they deserve them. Because when you hire them, your enemies disappear. When you hire them, the most solid walls crumble. When you hire them, peace arrives. By fire, but it arrives.
They protect cities from pirates and invading armies. They eliminate tyrants who thought themselves untouchable. They impose peace where others sow chaos for generations.
Gold flows to the island like water.
Not in loose coins, not in small amounts. In chests. In bars. In sacks that make ships' holds creak.
The villages around the fortress grow.
What were small settlements of fishermen and shepherds have become prosperous towns. Stone houses replace wooden huts. Cobbled streets replace dirt paths. Inns, taverns, markets... everything flourishes.
Merchants come from every corner of Essos to trade.
Pentoshi, Braavosi, Lysene, Myrish... all want a piece of Dragonstone's prosperity. They bring fine fabrics, exotic spices, aged wines, precious metals. They take wool, salted fish, obsidian, and above all, stories.
Fishermen, craftsmen, blacksmiths... all find work on the island.
The young ones who once dreamed of leaving now dream of staying. The old ones who survived the flight smile seeing what they have built.
It is not a kingdom.
They have no king. No crown. No throne.
It is an emporium.
Small, yes. But rich. Very rich.
Aere watches it all from her place, proud.
She walks through the markets, greets the merchants, strokes the heads of children who cross her path. Her family has survived. Her family triumphs.
But at night, when the ships return empty of warriors, when mothers wait at the port with eyes full of tears they don't want to shed, her pride mingles with fear.
Because prosperity has a price.
And that price, she knows well, is paid in blood.
**THE DREAM THAT WON'T DIE**
Because the siblings have not forgotten Valyria.
They have never forgotten it.
They grew up with the stories. With the tales of their parents, their uncles, the elders who still remembered the splendor. Valyria was more than a city. It was a dream. A promise. A place where dragons flew free and Targaryens were gods.
Now it is ruin. Ash. Death.
But they don't see it that way.
They see a mission.
Each year, they organize expeditions.
They gather mercenaries from every corner of Essos. Hard men, accustomed to death, who tremble at nothing. They promise them gold, glory, plunder. And the men accept. Because the gold is good and glory is eternal.
They hire ships. Many ships, alongside the Velaryons. The best, the fastest, the most resilient. They fill them with provisions, weapons, tools for excavating among the ruins.
They fly on their dragons eastward, toward the smoking ruins of their lost home.
The first time, the entire island bid them farewell with hope. Banners, cheers, tears of emotion. "They'll return with treasures," they said. "They'll rebuild Valyria," they dreamed.
And each year, fewer return.
The ships come back with empty holds and decks stained with blood. The mercenaries who remain speak in low voices of things that should not exist, of shadows that move, of voices that call from the bottom of bottomless wells.
One year they lose a dozen Celtigars.
Young men, strong, with their whole lives ahead of them. Mothers who weep, wives who mourn, children who will never know their fathers. The Celtigars gather in their fortress and discuss for days. Some want to abandon. Others want to continue. In the end, they decide to continue. Because blood pulls.
Another year, twenty Velaryons.
The matriarch Rhaena, now very old, receives the news in silence. Then she climbs to her tower and doesn't come down for three days. When she descends, her eyes are dry. But there is something broken in them. Something that will never be repaired.
Another, almost an entire company of mercenaries.
Men who came from Pentos, from Myr, from Lys. Men who trusted the dragon riders. Men who will never return home. The mercenary companies of Essos begin to spread the word: traveling to Valyria with the Targaryens is signing your own death sentence.
But they —the six siblings— always return.
Wounded, yes.
Sometimes gravely. New scars added to old ones. Broken bones that take time to heal. Nightmares that wake them screaming in the middle of the night.
Broken, sometimes.
The sparkle in their eyes has dimmed. The joy of youth has given way to a gravity that should not accompany people so young.
But alive.
Always alive.
—It is our duty —Dareo says when Aerom asks him to stop.
They are in the great hall. The night is cold. The fire crackles in the hearth. The other siblings are present, seated around the table.
—Valyria calls us.
Aerom looks at him for a long time. His gloved hands rest on the table. His grey eyes, those eyes that have seen so much, seem older than ever.
—Valyria is dead —he replies—. You are the future. Don't ruin it.
Dareo does not listen.
None of them listen.
Only Elera, his wife, watches him with concern.
That night, in their chambers, while Dareo sleeps, she caresses his face. The new scars. The exhaustion that not even sleep erases.
—What if your father is right? —she whispers—. What if we're only losing people for nothing?
Dareo opens his eyes. He wasn't sleeping. He never fully sleeps.
—We return, don't we? —he says, his voice hoarse with fatigue—. That's what matters.
She nods.
But inside, something tells her it won't always be so.
That one day, perhaps very soon, one less ship will return.
Or none.
**THE NIGHT IN THE TOWER**
That night, Aerom and Aere watch from their tower.
The moon, waning, barely illuminates the sea. The ships returned hours before. Fewer than before, many fewer, but they returned.
The siblings are below, in the great hall, celebrating with the survivors. Forced laughter, hugs too long, glances that avoid the empty chairs.
—They don't listen —says Aere—. Our children don't listen.
She sits on the stone bench, wrapped in a blanket. The cold seeps into her old bones, but she wouldn't leave here for anything.
—They listen —Aerom replies, without taking his eyes off the horizon—. They simply disagree.
She looks at him.
Her husband. The man who has shared her life for decades. The father of her children. The leader who brought them here, to this island, to this fortress, to this life.
—Did you never want to reclaim Valyria?
The question hangs in the air.
Silence.
Aerom stares at the horizon. For an instant, his eyes seem to lose themselves in something only he sees. Something beyond the sea. Something in the past. Something in the future.
—There was a time —he says slowly— when I wanted many things. Power. Glory. Revenge.
He pauses. His voice, when he continues, is softer.
—But then...
—Then?
He turns to her.
He smiles.
The same smile as always.
—Then I met you. And I understood that there are things more important than burnt stones.
Aere feels warmth in her chest. Those words. Always those words.
She rests her head on his shoulder. The rhythm of his breathing, slow and steady, lulls her like a lullaby.
—Sometimes you worry me, Aerom.
—Why?
—I don't know. Sometimes I see you... as if you weren't here.
He laughs softly. A warm laugh, the same as always.
—I am here, my love. I will always be here.
She closes her eyes.
She doesn't see how, in the darkness, a raven perches on the windowsill.
She doesn't see how the raven stares fixedly at Aerom, with those black eyes that seem to absorb light.
She doesn't see how Aerom returns its gaze.
A silent exchange. An understanding.
She sees nothing.
She only feels her husband's warmth.
And that is enough.
**THOSE WHO WATCH**
On the shore, where waves crash against the rocks with an eternal roar, Dareo talks with his sister Elera.
They sit on a rock, the two of them, looking at the sea. Behind them, Cannibal and Tyraxes rest together. The dragons, enormous beasts with black and green scales, seem to sleep. But they do not sleep. They watch. Always watch.
—We will have children —Dareo says—. I know it.
It's not an affirmation. It's a declaration. A promise to himself.
—I know —Elera replies, resting her head on his shoulder—. But in the meantime...
—In the meantime, Valyria awaits us.
Elera sighs.
The wind plays with her silver hair. The stars, millions of them, twinkle above their heads. It's a beautiful night. A night to be at home, with family, celebrating life.
But they are here. On the shore. Looking east.
—What if we never reclaim it? —Elera asks, softly—. What if all this is in vain?
Dareo looks at her for a long time.
His eyes, so like his father's, shine with an intensity that is frightening.
—Then we will have tried —he says—. And our children will know that we tried.
Elera nods.
But she is not convinced.
She never is.
Behind them, Cannibal opens one eye. Red as an ember. He looks at Dareo. Then he looks east. Then he closes his eye again.
The dragons also wait.
They also dream.
But no one knows what they dream.
**THE CHILDREN**
In the training yard, life explodes in colors and shouts.
The six children play without worries, not knowing that their parents have returned from another expedition, not fully understanding why some chairs in the great hall are empty.
**Aelor, Aemon, and Aelyra** (children of Eleris and Nemerys) ride small dragon hatchlings, barely the size of horses. They laugh as they fly low, brushing against the walls, dodging the battlements. Aelor, the eldest, leads. Aemon, the serious one, follows. Aelyra, the youngest, closes the formation. Like their parents. Like their uncles and aunts. As always.
**Alyssa, Vaela, and Rhaena** (daughters of Errol and Aegar) prefer the ground.
They are in a corner of the yard, training with wooden swords under the watchful eye of an old soldier. Alyssa, the eldest, is methodical, precise. Vaela, the middle one, is fast, unpredictable. Rhaena, the youngest, is fierce. She attacks without fear, without hesitation, as if the sword were an extension of her arm.
—Good —says the old soldier when Rhaena knocks down her sister—. Very good.
Rhaena smiles. A smile that promises trouble.
From his tower, Aerom watches them.
The wind whips his face, but he does not blink. His eyes scan the children one by one, etching every detail.
—They are the true future —he murmurs—. Not Valyria. Not the stones. Them.
The raven beside him caws.
It perches on the sill, so close he could touch it. Its black eyes stare at Aerom with an intensity that should be unsettling.
—I know —Aerom says—. I know.
The raven caws again.
As if responding.
As if arguing.
As if it knows something Aerom doesn't.
Or perhaps he does know.
Perhaps they both know.
**THE QUESTION**
That night, Aere cannot sleep.
She has been tossing for hours, sheets tangled, mind restless. Something keeps her awake. Something she cannot name.
Finally, she rises.
She walks barefoot through the stone corridor, feeling the cold on the soles of her feet. The torches flicker as she passes, casting dancing shadows on the walls.
She climbs the tower stairs.
Her knees ache. Her back too. But she continues. She must continue.
When she reaches the top, she finds Aerom with his back to her, looking north.
Not toward the Narrow Sea. Not toward the coasts of Westeros. North. Toward where the mountains disappear into the eternal mist.
—Aerom... —her voice is barely a whisper—. What are you looking at?
He turns.
He smiles.
The same smile as always.
—The sea, my love. Always the sea.
She approaches. On the floor, black feathers. Many. Too many.
—The ravens...
—They come and go —Aerom says, casually—. They like the tower.
She nods.
But something doesn't fit.
Ravens don't perch on inhabited towers. Ravens avoid humans. Ravens don't leave feathers everywhere as if they lived here.
—Aerom... —her voice trembles—. Are you hiding something from me?
He looks at her for a long time.
For an instant, just an instant, his eyes seem to change.
The grey fades. A faint red glimmers in his pupils.
Then he blinks, and everything returns to normal.
—I would never hide anything from you, Aere —he says, with that deep voice she loves so much—. You are the only thing I have.
She hugs him.
Tightly.
As if afraid he might disappear.
—And you are the only thing I have.
They remain like that, embraced, as the night advances.
Outside, the wind howls.
And in the darkness, on the cliffs, on the walls, on the rooftops, thousands of ravens watch.
Perched in silence.
Motionless.
Waiting.