Game Of Thrones: The Dragon Targaryen

Jaehaerys Targaryen stared at the royal viewer box, not sure if he was angry, relieved, disappointed or all of the above.

To his right, clutching his hand tightly, sat his mother. His mother. While Alysanne Lefford and Ashara Dayne had been better mothers to him than a child born under his circ.u.mstances ever could have dreamed for, it was different when the small hand holding yours belonged to the woman who had given you life. Lyanna Stark—my mother—had clung to him just as much as he had allowed her to since the moment he had asked his uncle to leave the stables.

She had barely let go since, and Jaehaerys hadn't wanted her to.

He and his cousin Robb had long been friends, since the heir to the North had started coming south every few years as per the agreement of the Treaty of the Trident, but he had never known the others. Sansa Stark was a beautiful young girl and the perfect example of a noble lady, her features much like Robb's. Arya was small and spiteful, and Jaehaerys would have laughed at her blunt way of speaking to his uncle Aelor two nights ago if not for the seriousness of the situation he had been about to interrupt. Bran was young and in awe of the knights and their resplendent armor, and seemed to be a sweet boy as well as very quick minded; Jaehaerys knew the young Stark and his friend Samwell Tarly would get along well. There was another, a young boy named Rickon who was close in age to Aelor's son Daemon, but he had remained as the Stark in Winterfell with his mother Catelyn Tully.

His Northern cousins were an entertaining lot, from the arguments Sansa and Arya consistently became embroiled in to the excitement Bran exuberated at every tilt, but Jaehaerys hadn't put too much time aside to become very acquainted with them yet; he was much more focused on their aunt, Lyanna.

His mother was still a beautiful woman, with dark Stark hair and grey eyes. She'd never married once she had been exiled north, though she most certainly had had plenty of suitors. Jaehaerys wasn't sure why she hadn't, though he intended to learn one of these days. For now, the two simply talked as knights fought below them, Lyanna wanting to know everything she possibly could about the life she had never been a part of.

Though Jaehaerys had learned quite quickly to leave any story concerning his uncle Aelor very short; it seemed Lyanna hated the Dragon of Duskendale almost as much as the Dragon of Duskendale hated Lyanna.

It had surprised him, when his uncle had taken several strides towards his mother that night in the stables. Aelor was a violent man with a bloody history, and Jaehaerys knew from stories of the past that that violence could spread to women and even children under the right circ.u.mstances; the annihilation of House Rogers had proven that to be so. Still, it was odd seeing the man who had raised him and taught him to be a Prince worthy of the loyalty his name gave him so ready to slit a woman's throat. And for what, wanting to see the child she had been separated from? By Aelor, no less. Jaehaerys loved and revered his uncle as any boy in his position would, but his actions hadn't sat well with the young Prince.

Nor did the stories he was hearing of those days sixteen years past, when Aelor had forced his mother to leave behind her child with the potential to never see him again.

Was it Lyanna's fault that she had loved Rhaegar Targaryen? Was it truly so evil of her to fall for a Prince whom all agreed was a creation of ethereal beauty? Rhaegar had loved her, Jaehaerys was sure; Lyanna said Rhaegar had told her he did, though there was an underlying tone to her voice that made Jaehaerys wonder if she thought it to be true. Lyanna had been a young woman pregnant with a dead King's child, reviled by nearly all the realm; she still was, if the scathing looks she received from veterans of the Rebellion told him anything. How could his uncle have driven her away from the only piece of joy left to her?

With a flash of determination, Jaehaerys Targaryen decided to find out.

The Hand of the King was deep into his second glass of wine and he had no intention of stopping.

Aelor Targaryen had always frowned upon excessive drinking, and not even the trials of ruling seven kingdoms and raising a small of army of children had driven him from that stance. But now, faced with a problem he couldn't use his reputation to cower or his emerald dagger to kill, he had decided the best course of action would be to get horribly drunk.

Jaehaerys had asked to speak with him. Alone.

Another feast, the second in two nights, roared on the other side of his keep, none of the participants seeming to tire of drinking and dancing and making fools of themselves no matter how many consecutive nights they did so. Only Daenerys, whom all of this splendor was meant to honor, had avoided the feast, still in a sort of mourning for the dead Lord Bryce.

The others seem to have all conveniently forgotten. Funny.

The Queen of Love and Beauty had been absent from the days joust, excusing herself nearly as soon as it had begun, only hesitating to name a new champion in the place of her recently exiled brother. She had chosen the young Robb Stark, despite the unlikelihood of Robb—who was much better with a blade than a lance—actually thriving against the more experienced jousters. He hadn't, making it five challengers before Jason Mallister unhorsed him, though in that time he had become a favorite of the ladies.

Ren had forgone the royal box to spend the day alongside Myrcella Langward, who he was once again spinning around the dance floor in the hall of the Dun Fort. It seemed he has learned nothing from Alaric. Myrcella's father had lasted another day of targeting, riding the best Aelor had ever seen him. He had been chivalrous enough to gift Renlor back his horse and stallion, though Aelor had felt the need to remind Renlor that Myrcella was not the same as his other conquests; if he wasn't serious, he needed to back off before Alaric killed him.

His son hadn't backed off. Whether that meant he was serious or stupid even Aelor didn't know.

Arthur Dayne and Loras Tyrell had remained as champions as well, though Robar Royce fell to one of the Redwyne twins in a fluke. Whether it was Horas or Hobber Aelor couldn't remember, because he in turn fell to a hedgeknight, something that started a revolving door at the fifth champion position that still had yet to be solidified, held now by young Ser Illifer Jast.

But all of this was unimportant, for at that moment Jaehaerys walked through the door.

His nephew had not spoken a word to any of the Targaryen's since the Starks had arrived in Duskendale aside from asking Aelor for this talk, much to the discomfort of Aelor and Alysanne. He'd spent the entirety of the time with Lyanna, only retiring from the company of the Northmen to sleep before returning to them the next morning. Even little Saera, who was all of two, had taken notice of his absence. The only contact his royal family had had was the view from the royal box to the Stark one, watching as he and Lyanna spoke near endlessly.

And from his nephew's face, Aelor doubted he'd heard anything good.

Aelor sighed, gesturing to the seat in front of him. "Have a seat."

"I think I'll stand, actually." Jaehaerys slowed to a stop several feet in front of Aelor's desk, not quite glaring at his uncle but certainly not looking on in approval.

Aelor met his gaze, the two Targaryens sitting in silence, Jaehaerys building up courage and Aelor waiting for axe to fall. It took quite a while, nephew breathing in and out rapidly as emotions warred with him and uncle drinking more and more wine, before the former finally spoke again. "How could you do it?"

Aelor grunted. "I've done many things that others have wondered at; you'll need to be more specific."

"My mother—"

"Is Alysanne Targaryen."

Jaehaerys clenched his jaw at the interruption, but ground on. "My birth mother—there, is that better?—my birth mother says you drove her from King's Landing nearly the day I was born."

Aelor shrugged. "Yes, I did, and I've never let you believe anything different."

"She was a young woman who was hated by half the realm; all she had was me. How could you drive her away?"

Aelor sighed. "Firstly, you weren't all she had; the Starks are known for sticking beside one another, and their name is much loved in the North. Secondly, any hatred directed at Lyanna Stark she brought upon herself. How could I drive her away, you ask? The answer is very, very easily."

Jaehaerys clenched his jaw again, though he was doing his very best to maintain his composure. "You hate her."

"I do. I've never kept that secret from you either."

"What had she done to make you drive her from her child? What had I done to make you deprive me of her?"

Aelor leaned forward, eyes going soft in a manner Jaehaerys had never seen. "You hadn't done anything, son."

His nephew's voice grew bitter as he cut him off. "Do not call me son."

That statement hurt Aelor Targaryen worse than any blade ever had, but he drove on. "I did what I did for you."

Jaehaerys scoffed loudly. "How can driving a newborn's mother away, warning her that you would kill her if she ever tried to see her son again, help that infant?"

"Because of what your mother was."

"She was a noble lady."

"She was a whore."

Jaehaerys shot forward, slamming his hands down on Aelor's desk. It was the only act of violence outside the sparring ring Aelor had ever seen his nephew exhibit. "Do not call her that, uncle! Do not! She is anything but!"

Aelor ground on, the pain at his nephew's words slowly being replaced by the ever-present rage the Dragon of Duskendale carried. He has this right. Calm down, Aelor chided himself, but it did no good. "Your mother is no saint, Jaehaerys, no matter what she has told you. Is this all it takes to turn you against the family that raised you, that has loved you since the day you were born? A few conversations with a woman who you haven't seen since you were a day old?"

Jaehaerys straightened, a flash of guilt crossing his face for only a moment before it was replaced once again with anger. "Do not divert this conversation for your own ends, uncle; tell me, just how was your driving my mother away beneficial to me?"

"If she had stayed, what would she have been, eh? I'll tell you; she would always be the woman who had driven a realm to war by eloping with the crown Prince, despite that man being married. She would not have been considered the mother of a Prince, but instead a spoiled whore—"

Jaehaerys hit him.

It was a quick blow, dealt by a lunging young man who instantly retreated back, as surprised by his actions as the man on the receiving end. The Dragon of Duskendale's head snapped sideways, the Prince's fist having landed solidly. Aelor felt his anger rise as pain blossomed in his jaw, hands clenching the desk fiercely, for a moment forgetting that this was his nephew.

He took a few deep breaths, willing himself to accept this as it was, before turning his head back to face the ashen-faced boy with black curls. "As I was saying, she would not have been considered the mother of a Prince, but instead aspoiled girl who didn't understand that the world revolved around her. Her life here would have been a living hell."

Jaehaerys was still clearly reeling from having struck the uncle so many men feared, though it didn't stop him from grunting in disbelief. "So you are trying to tell me you did this for her."

This time Aelor grunted. "Don't be ridiculous, boy. I don't give a shit about Lyanna Stark, and no matter how many times you hit me that will not change. But I love you, and her presence her would have harmed your own."

Jaehaerys' lip curled, though Aelor saw a glimmer of doubt in his eyes. "How?"

"With Lyanna as a constant reminder of the war, you would not be considered the royal you are. You are a Prince, a Targaryen Prince, but with your mother constantly reminding the court of the circ.u.mstances of your birth, many would call you—"

"A bastard." Jaehaerys cut him off again, voice bitter. "That is what I am, aren't I?"

"No, you are a Targaryen, and I will rip the tongue out of anyone who claims otherwise. But Lyanna could not remain, so yes, I told her if she crossed the Neck again I would kill her. And I would have, if you hadn't have been at the stables."

Jaehaerys stared at him a long while, Aelor meeting the gaze, before he shook his head subtlety. "Is this how you justified it? You told yourself it was for my benefit when in truth you hated her so much that you couldn't stand the sight of her. And why did you hate her so, uncle?"

"She started a war—"

"That got the woman you loved killed."

Aelor froze for a moment, before he felt the rage rise tenfold. "Careful, boy."

Jaehaerys drove on. "You drove my other away for a sin you yourself committed."

"Jaehaerys, I am warning you."

The half-Stark prince smiled sarcastically as he talked on, ignoring his uncle's increasingly predatory posture. "Lyanna didn't want Robert Baratheon, she wanted Rhaegar."

"She shouldn't have."

"They were in love."

"They shouldn't have been. They were of noble blood; love has shit to do with it."

"Yet that didn't stop you, did it."

Aelor lost it.

He rose quickly, gripping the desk and flinging it to the side, sending papers, the wine chalice and other assorted items flying across the room, the red wood crashing as it hit the ground. Jaehaerys stepped back, away from his enraged uncle, but he continued talking, raising his voice over the racket Aelor was making. "You loved your brother's wife, yet you dare condemn my mother for loving that same brother? You are the same, my mother and you, yet you abused your power to drive her from the capital!"

"The same?" The Dragon of Duskendale bellowed, hands in fist, taking a dangerous step toward his nephew. "You dare say Lyanna and I are the same? Did I start a war, nephew? Did I run off with a married man because I was too spoiled to realize that love isn't what the stories make it out to be? Did I, Jaehaerys? Answer me!"

His nephew was suddenly looking more doubtful. "You loved your brother's wife—"

"Aye, I loved my brother's wife, more than he ever could have and damn sure more than your mother ever loved him. For years I sat by as your father had everything I ever wanted, but did I elope with Elia, boy? No. I sat there as a dutiful brother should, I held my tongue, and I did my duty. I did not start a war because I was a spoiled bitch, as your mother was."

Jaehaerys took another step towards Aelor, face snarling, and this time Aelor couldn't stop his response. He blocked his nephew's roundhouse blow with a forearm, knocking Jaehaerys' fist aside and stepping forward to place both hands against the curly-haired boy's c.h.e.s.t. With a quick shove of his stronger arms Aelor sent his nephew flying backwards, the half-Stark Prince landing on his back some feet back, staring up at his uncle in disbelief. It was the first time outside the sparring ring his uncle had ever raised a hand to any of them.

Aelor stood over him, face the darkened visage of a demon as he jabbed a finger towards the door. "Go. Go to your Starks, boy. If being a Targaryen isn't good enough for you, go be a Stark. If you want to throw away your true family for this new one then do it!" Aelor shook his head, lips curled. "It seems you are more like your father than I had ever realized."

Jaehaerys stared up in a mixture of surprise, fear and outrage at his uncle for a long moment, before he scrambled to his feet and fled the chamber.

Aelor watched him go, rage quickly fading until the Dragon of Duskendale realized what he had done. Guilt and fear coursed through him as he realized he may have just driven his son away for good, as permanently as he had Lyanna Stark sixteen years earlier.

He suddenly followed, busting out of the solar's door to stare down the hall his nephew had fled down seconds earlier.

Jaehaerys was gone.