Game Of Thrones: The Dragon Targaryen

There was a surplus of Targaryens these days.

Sixteen years ago there had been a war to eradicate the line of the Dragon, half of Westeros rising in revolt against the blood of Aegon the Conqueror. The war—forever christened Robert's Rebellion—had very nearly succeeded; by the end of the brief but bloody conflict House Targaryen had been reduced to five children, an old man at the Wall, and one battle scarred Prince.

Now they were bloody everywhere.

Half of Westeros had once again risen, though this time their intentions were much less violent. Princess Daenerys Targaryen turned six and ten on the morrow, and her nephew Jaehaerys would do the same in a few weeks' time. The Targaryen patriarch—not the actual king but the man who had in reality been the king for fifteen years—had decreed a grand tourney to be held in celebration, one the capital had been preparing for months. It had drawn most of the knights and nobles on the continent to Duskendale, which had grown nearly as much as its Lord's family in the time since the last war. Hundreds of lords and nobles had gathered in the now sprawling city, and when hundreds of important people gathered in one place, thousands of plots and political agendas came with them.

It was bound to be an interesting time.

The jousting lists were so long they could accommodate seven tilts at a time, something that would prove necessary considering the sheer number of knights who had entered the tourney. The melee circles were nearly as large, pristine for now but undoubtedly destined to become churned and bloody in a few days' time. Stands had been erected in bulk, and several areas had been designated for the smallfolk of the city. It was destined to be a tourney unlike any other.

Those things tend to happen when both a Prince and Princess were not betrothed. There were so many suitors of both s.e.xes in and around the city the Grand Maester felt he might drown in them, each and every one intent on nabbing a Targaryen for themselves.

House Targaryen had done nothing but grow during the years of King Aegon the Sixth's reign, both in number and power. Colmar the Grey had seen it first hand, having delivered most of the new Targaryen's himself. That was the very reason he was in Duskendale now and not in King's Landing; Alysanne Lefford was heavy with child, due nearly any day. While the Dun Fort in Duskendale had its own maester—Gorold, a more than competent man Colmar had known for nigh on forty years and who happened to be engaging him in conversation at the moment—there was something to be said about familiarity, and Alysanne was very familiar with Colmar. The hulking man with a disfigured face had, after all, delivered her first six children.

Why change the winning formula at number seven?

Truth be told, Colmar had traveled with the rest of the court to the coastal city at the behest of Alysanne's husband more than anything else. The Dragon of Duskendale took no chances when it came to childbirth, not after his mother had died birthing the Princess Daenerys over a decade ago, and he certainly didn't take any chances when it was his own wife and child. He had insisted Colmar accompany his wife back to Duskendale, and Colmar had of course agreed.

One didn't deny Aelor Targaryen.

Even here, in a feasting hall full of Princes, Princesses and Lord Paramount's, the Dragon of Duskendale stood out from among the others. Colmar glanced over the head of Gorold—an easy thing to do for the Grand Maester as he stood near seven feet while the chubby Reachman stood barely five—to the head table, where the Dragon of Duskendale sat beside the empty seat of honor.

A few years shy of four decades in age, the Hand of the King looked much as he had sixteen years ago. Tall and broad shouldered, his short Targaryen-silver hair and beard framed a hard face that still held traces of its Valyrian beauty despite the jagged and ugly scar that adorned it. The Grand Maester wasn't one to judge such things of course, not with half of his own face grey and mottled, but Colmar liked to note every detail. The Lord of Duskendale was still lean, having never stopped training with his sword despite the fact that there hadn't been a war in Westeros since the fateful day Casterly Rock surrendered, and was still considered one of the finest swordsmen in the Kingdom despite having not fought in a tourney in near as long.

His wife sat beside him, hand on her swollen belly. Alysanne Lefford was still a beautiful woman even after six children and a life at court, and she looked her best during her pregnancies, face aglow. She had been a consistent, steadying presence not only in the lives of her children but the lives of the other Targaryen children, all of whom had one way or another become motherless. Each doted upon her with the exception of the permanently surly Viserys, and she was nearly as well respected as her husband. The marriage of Aelor and Alysanne may not have developed into the true love the bards sang about—though Colmar wasn't entirely sure it hadn't, either—but it certainly was a happy one. Aelor valued her counsel over all others, with the possible exception of Barristan Selmy's. She was and had been the kind-hearted and moral steadying force her hard-hearted husband had needed, able to reach him in even his darkest rages.

Apparently that had been the case since they had met, but Colmar only put so much stock in rumors.

Aelor wasn't in a black rage now, though. The dragonlord's violet eyes were currently gleeful as the Prince's youngest child—at least until the baby in Alysanne's belly was born—was seated in his l.a.p, giggling at something or the other as her father spoke to Lord Alaric Langward. The Grand Maester had seen many nobles speaking with the Prince over the course of the feast, friends and desperate-to-be-friends alike, but he had also noticed many nobles avoiding the Dragon of Duskendale entirely. In his sixteen years as Grand Maester Colmar the Grey had found that to be the norm, though even those who avoided him were certain to never show anything other than respect.

You either loved Aelor Targaryen or you hated him; there was no middle ground. But either way, love or hate, you feared him. For if you didn't, he soon gave you reason to.

Archmaester Gyldayn had once written that Daemon Targaryen the Rouge Prince was both a great man and a monster; Colmar the Grey said the same of Aelor.

The fifteen years the second son of Aerys had ruled as regent for his nephew had been peaceful and prosperous, all agreed. The refugees from the Lighting of the Lions had been resettled in Duskendale, the city having tripled in size, the new buildings and second set of walls to defend them being built with the coin seized from the vaults of Casterly Rock. That same treasure had been used to raise a new Summerhall, the palace built nearly identical to the one that had burned alongside many Targaryens forty years earlier. Trade with the Free Cities had increased, as had the competency of the City's Watch of King's Landing under Lord Yohn Royce.

But it was not all good. Resentment still festered in the Westerlands, the Lords of the West not forgetting the man who had wiped out most of their army and allowed the Ironborn to raid and pillage their lands. Two attempts had been made on the Prince's life, enemies having seen him as the true cog of Targaryen power, and several more had been thwarted by Varys. The first attempt had ended in Aelor gutting his would be killer, though he took a blade in the ribs during the attempt that had taken him half a year to recover from. The man hadn't survived for questioning. Barristan the Bold had stopped the second, taking a crossbow bolt meant for Aelor in the streets of King's Landing. Arthur Dayne had slain that assailant, and Barristan had recovered, but once again they had no one to question.

Another attempt had been made on both Renlor and Alysanne when she was pregnant with Aemon, stopped by Ser Manfred Darke. That man had lived for only a few minutes, but in that time the ugly Kingsguard knight had finally gotten a name.

Aelor had killed half of House Rogers during the Battle of Bronzegate including the heir, and in his rage Lord Bryce had tried to retaliate in kind.

Every member of House Rogers had been put to the sword, from the smallest babe to the oldest crone, many by Aelor himself. Even Alysanne hadn't been able to sway him from the wanton slaughter. The heads of the Rogers' had adorned the walls of Maegor's Holdfast for almost a year, and their castle had been burned to a ruin by wildfire. Nothing and no one had survived, much as nothing and no one had survived Lannisport a few years earlier.

House Rogers wasn't the only plotters of course, and were likely not responsible for all three attempted murders. The attempts had stopped with their deaths, however, as did most of the plots that Varys had sniffed out and monitored. The resentment, though, certainly hadn't. Many questioned whether Aelor was truly sane, and many believed the answer to be no. Aelor didn't care for any of the talk, but Colmar knew they were also questioning Targaryens as a whole when they questioned the man who had saved the dynasty. While he had ruled competently and well, Aelor's ruthlessness not only with House Rogers and the Lighting of the Lions but other issues he had dealt with over the years had proven potentially damaging.

The Dragon of Duskendale's children were all combating that notion, however, and though they were not his own blood Colmar loved them each and every one. Aelor's eldest son was physically nearly his twin, though he was loved by all in a way his father hadn't been for years. Renlor Targaryen—affectionately called Ren after Aelor's long dead friend Renfred Rykker—was currently spinning Myrcella Langward around the dance floor, laughing loudly. The heir to Duskendale was physically a younger version of his sire, tall and broad shouldered with silvery-blonde hair and violet eyes. He was somewhat thin and lanky, but at five and ten he promised to fill out as Aelor had. The lad was gregarious and charming to a fault, with all the Valyrian beauty of his Targaryen blood. A squire to Lord Commander Barristan the Bold of the Kingsguard, he was a promising swordsman and horseman slated to ride in tomorrow's tourney.

His closest sibling was the opposite. Aemon Targaryen, born less than a year after Ren, was slight of build, with his mother's golden brown hair and complexion, though he possessed his father's violet eyes. The lad was nowhere to be seen, though that didn't surprise Colmar; Aemon was a bookish boy, more interested in a quill than a sword and more comfortably in a library than a ballroom. Quiet and gentle, he was the Grand Maester's favorite of the Hand of the King's children, though he didn't dare tell Rhaella that.

Rhaella Targaryen was two and ten and already a beauty of some renown. Her hair was as white as the cloak of the Kingsguard, her eyes indigo. As charming as Renlor and as gentle as Aemon, she had been betrothed to her cousin Aegon for most of their respective lives, though that didn't stop every noble maiden from trying to worm their way into the King's heart as the realm waited for Rhaella to flower. Colmar hoped King Aegon would not be swayed by any of them, for Rhaella would make as glorious a queen as the realm had seen since Alysanne Targaryen.

She now danced in the arms of her third brother, born one year exactly after she had been. Baelon Targaryen was more like his father than any of his siblings. Though only one and ten, he had an…edge to him, the same edge that made his father both brilliant and dangerous. Growing tall but unlikely to be as broad as Aelor or Ren, he had silver-blonde hair and dark Lefford eyes. Baelon was a prodigy with a sword, seeming to live and breathe training and completely uninterested in near anything else. Aelor had told the Grand Maester more than once that out of all his sons, Baelon would become the deadliest fighter; it came as natural to him as charm did to Renlor.

After the initial flurry of children born to Alysanne Lefford and Aelor Targaryen there had been a slight lull, but young Daemon had been born five years past, followed by little Saera two years ago, who now sat in her father's l.a.p mesmerized by the dancing.

As his eyes flickered between each of the Hand of the King's children, Colmar the Grey couldn't help but notice the rest of the blood of the Dragon. Princess Daenerys, violet eyed and silver haired and as breathtaking a woman as Colmar had ever seen, held the twins Daena and Daenella Waters in her l.a.p, surrounded by several noble ladies of various houses. The bastard-born girls were the daughters of her brother Viserys, Prince of the recently rebuilt Summerhall, and Alla Roxton, the most recent in a long history of lovers the eccentric Targaryen took to his bed. Their conception had created quite a scandal, Lord Corliss Roxton demanding the Prince wed Alla once her condition was known; a request Viserys had refused.

He grew bored of women quickly and had never wed; Colmar knew why, as did Aelor, but that was a concern for another time.

Neither Aelor nor Aegon had forced Viserys to give in to Corliss's demands, and as such the Lord of the Ring had very nearly revolted. Prince Aelor, Hand of the King and Lord of Duskendale, had entered the man's castle alone under flag of truce. Just what he told the Reach man was unknown, but whatever it was had shaken Corliss Roxton badly.

All thoughts of his fruitless revolt fled, and his daughter was wed to a lowly knight in her shame.

Rhaenys Targaryen, nearing nine and ten, looked more and more like Elia Martell the older she became, at least according to those who had known the Dornish Princess before her tragic end. She currently was seated with her husband of three years, Willis Tyrell, heir to Highgarden and the Reach. Whatever troubles had plagued her mother and grandmother in the childbed had not been passed on to her, as the couple had been blessed with two children already, two boys—Alester and Osmund—who seemed to have taken after their father in looks. Willis and Rhaenys were more than fond of one another, even after Willis had been crippled during a joust with Rhaenys' uncle Oberyn, and Colmar was fairly certain that true infatuation was the only reason the Princesses two uncles—the Red Viper and the Dragon of Duskendale—had allowed the marriage to take place.

They were both overly protective of the young woman even to this day. She was the closest thing to Elia either of them had, and as such they doted on her more and more even as she grew and became a mother herself.

Her youngest brother Jaehaerys Targaryen, looking more like a Stark than a Valyrian, skulked around the edges of the festivities, as was his norm. Many noble ladies approached the black haired, grey-eyed Prince, flirting both subtly and provocatively, but he allowed only Rhaella and his sister Rhaenys to drag him out on the floor, each time returning to speak with fat Samwell Tarly the heir to Horn Hill and occasionally Ren, when the latter could be dragged off of the floor.

That was all well and good, for the King picked up the slack for his brother. Aegon Targaryen certainly looked the part of a King, tall and attractive, with the warlike crown of Maekar the First and Jaehaerys the Second upon his head, black iron and gold with eight sharp spikes. He wore it well, spinning noble maidens from his betrothed to the flirty Margaery Tyrell around the floor with a grace few men possessed. He had ruled independently for nearly a year, Aelor's regency having ended when the King turned six and ten, and had done so well, though it would take a second coming of Aerys the Mad to so quickly squander the position he had been left in. The King had earned his knighthood on his seven and tenth's birthday, knighted by the very uncle who could have easily usurped him. Charming and well-spoken, he had the potential to become another Jaehaerys the Conciliator, having been wise enough to keep his uncle as Hand of the King and the councilors Aelor had chosen in their position when many young kings would have removed them all for sheer spite after so many years of having his decisions made for him.

Not that there wasn't conflict. Aegon lived in a very large shadow cast by Aelor and he was well aware of it, and Colmar could tell the lad was intent on escaping and surpassing it. While he still trusted his uncle's counsel when given, the Grand Maester could see the jealousy in Aegon's eyes of the respect Aelor commanded. No issue had risen yet, but Colmar was sure one would before long.

But that too was a concern for another time.

Now it was all joy and merriment, nobles drinking, dining, dicing and dancing. Young nobles flirted with one another while others slipped away for dalliances the High Septon would surely frown upon. Betrothal agreements were hammered out over one too many glasses of wine, small fortunes were won and lost at the dice tables, and many a young man and woman fell in love, at least for the night.

Colmar the Grey loved these times; even a maester could enjoy himself.

He was regaling Gorold and a few surrounding lords with a tale of ravens and a surplus of wine when he noticed the young boy work his way to Aelor's table, where the Dragon of Duskendale was still engaged in conversation with his old friend Alaric. The boy, the son of the man running the stables, whispered into the Prince's ear.

The smile that had adorned Aelor's face disappeared instantly, and Colmar felt a wave of apprehension.

He stood from the table mid story, excusing himself as he used his long strides to cut off the retreating boy at the edge of the hall. The child nearly screamed when the giant with the disfigured face appeared before him, staring up in fear. "Easy, lad, I only have a question. What is it you told Prince Aelor? Come now, boy, tell me."

The tiny peasant had a stutter. "T-t-t-he St-St-Starks are here."

Well, that didn't seem so bad. Their attendance had been expected, and young Robb Stark the heir to Winterfell had spent much time in the capital as a young boy as per the agreement of the truce of the Trident, having become a close friend to Jaehaerys, Aegon and Renlor. "Is that all?"

"Ly-Ly-Ly-Lyanna St-Stark is w-w-with them."

Oh.

The Grand Maester turned and let his eyes seek out Jaehaerys. The boy knew who his mother was, and he knew Aelor had forced her away when he was still a babe. The Dragon of Duskendale had never tried to hide that fact, nor had he attempted to sway Jaehaerys' opinion on the matter. The young man had expressed an interest in seeing Lyanna, and Aelor had not moved to stop him, but something—likely fear and apprehension, as well as the vicious rumors about his mother that had inevitably reached the young Prince's ears—had prevented him from ever doing so.

Now, it seemed, he was going to meet her rather he was ready or not.

This was not a concern for another time.

This was a concern for now.