Game Of Thrones: The Dragon Targaryen

Alysanne Lefford Targaryen had seen her husband do many terrible things since she had become the de facto Queen of the Iron Throne, so what had just happened didn't surprise her as it would others.

She had entered the solar through a side door leading to her and her husband's chambers before even Jaehaerys had arrived, staying in the shadows of the corner as her son and husband argued. She knew it was coming, this showdown over Lyanna Stark, but even she hadn't expected it to go as it had.

One hand on her swollen stomach, knowing that any day now her seventh child would be born, she approached her husband's broad back as he stared motionlessly down the hall the boy they had raised fled down. With a gentle touch she laid her other on his shoulder, Aelor not even flinching when her small hand lay on the muscle underneath.

"I have driven him from us, Allie."

Aelor's voice was soft and vulnerable in a way she hadn't heard in years, and her heart went out to him. "No you haven't. Jaehaerys is young and confused, facing the woman he has shied from for sixteen years; he isn't thinking clearly."

It was as if she hadn't even spoken. "I have been readying myself for that confrontation for years, but all he had to do was bring her up and I react like a boy his age."

Alysanne sighed, working her way around to his front and pressing herself as close as her pregnant stomach would allow, using her hands to reach high above her head to cradle his face. "You lost your temper for a moment. So did he. You will reconcile"

"She has been dead over sixteen years, yet the mere mention—"

Alysanne shifted one of her hands to cover his lips, shushing him. "I know, Aelor. I know. I have lived in her shadow for that long."

Aelor's eyes finally looked down at her, guilt flashing through them. "I…"

She pulled him down into a kiss. "I knew what I was getting into when I married you, Aelor Targaryen."

Aelor rested his forehead against hers, eyes closed. "Was he right? Am I as bad as Lyanna Stark?"

Alysanne hesitated a moment, knowing what she needed to say but unsure exactly how to say it. Her husband had been a good man once, before the war that had taken half his family and nearly every sole he could call friend—not to mention the woman he had loved. Part of that good man still existed, beneath the walls of ruthlessness and hate; Alysanne saw it more than any other being ever had, in the way he treated his children—both of birth and choice—and allies.

But her husband certainly wasn't the same good being he had once been, even Alysanne knew. In truth, he was every bit as mad as his brother had been, just in his own more subtle and much more deadly way.

She chose her words carefully, stroking his cheek as she spoke. "Lyanna was a young girl, a spoiled young girl. She certainly played a part in starting the war."

Aelor kept his forehead to hers, clearly waiting for more, but when it didn't come he slowly raised back up to his full height. "But?"

Alysanne let her hands stray to his broad c.h.e.s.t, knowing she had to tread carefully. Aelor valued her counsel above any other, even above Barristan's, and she couldn't give him a reason to doubt her, but she had never told him anything but the truth before and she didn't intend to start now. "Lyanna is no innocent; she is certainly a large cause of the war. But Aelor, she isn't the only one.Your father drove the Lord Paramount's to the edge; Rhaegar and Lyanna pushed them over. Your family played as big a role as any foolish noble girl, your father much more of one. You're blaming Lyanna because she is the only one left to blame. You have forgotten the true story behind it all."

Aelor stared at her, violet eyes unwavering. Alysanne met them; sixteen years with the man had taught her how to handle him. Still, apprehension took a firm grip on her, and she subconsciously lay a hand on her belly, though not from fear of violence from Aelor. He loved her and his children much too much to ever lay a seriously damaging hand on any of them.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was soft, much softer than usual. "I haven't forgotten, Alysanne. I never will, no matter how much I might want to. I can still smell Rickard Stark burning, can hear Brandon choking, can see Lannisport burning to the ground. It may be years in the past, but it is as vivid in my mind as yesterday." He turned away from her to look back at the flipped desk and broken glass, though he kept one large hand resting against her ribs. "I hate Lyanna Stark as much as Rhaegar claimed to love her, and nothing will ever change that. But I may have been rash in not giving Jaehaerys more choice; while I never forbade him from seeing her, the entire Keep knew of my thoughts on the matter."

Alysanne sighed a quiet exhalation of relief. "He is smart and just, but he is a boy. I have never met a fifteen year old boy who could see past watever it was he was feeling then. I will speak with him in the morning, shed some light on all of this."

Aelor chuckled lightly, turning to engulf her in the arms she was so used to. "You're a better woman than I deserve, Alysanne Lefford."

"I advise you never forget it." She rested her head against his broad c.h.e.s.t once more. "I am right, love. You will see."

For the first time in Aelor Targaryen's life, his wife had been wrong.

The Dragon of Duskendale stood in the doorway leading to his favorite balcony in all the Red Keep, watching the rain splatter against the stone. Another time was heavy on his mind in that moment, a memory a lifetime ago when he had stood in the night air with the smell of a dead man's burning flesh swirling in his nostrils, his black bearded best friend beside him. It had been that night that he had known he was going to war, a war that had changed him and hundreds of others forever.

But that night had been seventeen years ago. Now it was the middle of the day, the sky filled with gray rainclouds but still plenty light, his nostrils filled not with the smell of burning flesh but with the smell of fresh rainfall, albeit tempered with the stench of the city of his birth. Instead of a giant of a man standing beside him he had a small bundle clutched to his broad c.h.e.s.t, blankets swaddled around its occupant to ward off the increasing chill.

Alyssa Targaryen, named after her maternal grandmother, had arrived two days after the conclusion of the Tournament of Duskendale, in the bright hours of the morning. She was small but healthy, and though it could easily change as the child grew she seemed to be an image of her mother. Though he loved his sons—those he had sired as well as those he had taken in—his heart, black as it may be, had a soft spot for girls. He didn't know if it was due to how much Rhaenys had helped him cope with the death of Elia or not but he could deny them nothing, be they Daenerys or Rhaella or Saera or even Rhaenys to this very day.

In his experience, daughters caused a lot less trouble than boys.

The day before Alyssa had come squalling into this world Jaehaerys Targaryen had rode north with the Starks. Alysanne had not been entirely wrong, for the boy had not turned his back on the family that raised him as Aelor had accused, giving heartfelt goodbyes and promises of return to them all. He'd hugged his mother in all but name long and hard, ruffled Baelon's hair, and pinched Saera's nose. He'd promised to return home soon, after he had spent time with the family that he had been estranged from since birth.

That had been five months ago, and Jaehaerys was still at Winterfell. He'd sent packets of letters to the capital for them all, and another to Highgarden and his sister. He spoke of snow, something he had never seen, of blue winter roses that Aelor remembered vividly at Harrenhal, and of a direwolf pup and its litter mates found beside their dead mother.

Only Aelor had received nothing, the boy—who, despite his m.a.t.u.r.e outward appearance, was still very much so a boy—clearly still disgruntled from the explosion of emotions that had come to a head at Duskendale. Aelor hadn't slept well since, torn between sending a letter explaining his position Jaehaerys, riding to Winterfell himself, or doing nothing. But, as much as it pained him, his estrangement form his nephew was the least of his concerns.

Dark wings had brought dark words.

Aelor was a self-admittedly cynical man, openly skeptical of mages and sorcerers and their proclaimed powers; he even wondered at the Seven, finding in his experience that sword and fire ruled the world, not a Father and Mother and their demanding, vicious companions.

But the Prince of Duskendale had seen too much in his time to deny that there was more to the world than mortal men could comprehend. His brother Rhaegar, however mad or brilliant or in between he truly had been, had foreseen things a man should not have been able to know. The eldest son of Aerys had known he would fall at what was now known as the Ruby Ford, even if he hadn't been sure how. He'd known Aelor would drive the rebel forces back despite the odds against them, and Aelor had—though no soul on either side could call the Battle of the Trident a victory. He'd even prophesied Elia's death and tried to prevent it, though he had failed in doing so. Aelor to this day didn't know what had given his brother his foresight or how.

Whether there were truly gods or not Aelor couldn't say, but he knew there was more to the world than the swords and men he understood.

So when ravens had brought word from the Wall of a wilding army numbering in the thousands and of the giants rumored to be in their number, Aelor hadn't scoffed as others had. No, the Prince had instead felt an aura of unease fall over him, one that still clung to him now.

It wasn't that First Ranger Benjen Stark was missing, a fact that Lord Eddard had informed him of during their stay in Duskendale. Nor was it the disappearance of Waymar Royce, Bronze Yohn's youngest son, that bothered him so; men of the Watch had a dangerous occupation, and more than one had been claimed by the wilds while out on patrol. It was the fact that several veteran members of the watch, strong and stubborn men, were fleeing south mad with fear that concerned the Dragon of Duskendale; some of those veterans were as tough as Aelor himself, and wouldn't scare easily.

But scare they had. Lord Eddard had executed three himself in the last year.

Lord Commander Jeor Mormont had stressed his belief that the wildings were the only true threat in his messages, but he had mentioned the rumors out of duty. And those rumors, even if they concerned old ghost stories and wives tales, were what concerned the Dragon of Duskendale.

Wights and Others. Myths, supposedly, but if something were to manage to scare those men of the watch, Aelor imagined it might be that.

Aelor hoped and prayed that it wasn't the case; he knew how to kill a man wearing steel and brandishing a sword. Demons of ice, forgotten in the thousands of years since the stories were first told, were another matter entirely.

The council was to meet that afternoon concerning the messages. Aegon was taking them far more seriously than Aelor had suspected the boy would, something the Prince was glad for, but it was clear he thought the part of White Walkers to be nothing and was instead intent on confronting the growing wildling numbers. His nephew was eager to win glory on the battlefield, egged on by his son Ren and their close friend Aelor Rykker, three boys with no idea what war truly meant, no matter how much Aelor and Barristan and the others had tried to tell them. It reminded Aelor of himself and Renfred when they were that age.

Tyrion Lannister, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, would be arriving any hour now, appointed to replace Wyman Manderly as Master of Coin, the massive-bellied Northman in his advancing age requesting to return to White Harbor to live out the remainder of his life with his family. Aegon had made the appointment of the Lion dwarf, having found the halfman's wit entertaining despite the history between their two families, and Aelor had endorsed it even though he still despised the lion banners with all his being. Stannis Baratheon, the master of sh.i.p.s ever since Quellon Greyjoy had died ten years past, would be arriving soon as well, having sailed from Storm's End after returning there for the birth of his second son with Lady Arnette Swann. The council would hear the messages again as well as the words of the Watch recruiter Yoren, who had travelled to King's Landing to clear out the dungeons and give an eyewitness account of the happenings North of the Neck. Aelor was confident in nephew's ability to handle this situation well, and he would argue vehemently in favor of aiding the Watch if the council disagreed.

The situation should be well in hand, but something was still nagging at Aelor, something he couldn't place his finger on.

The Prince held his youngest daughter closely and continued to watch the rain crash to the earth, wondering if he was once again on the brink of war and how many of his House would survive this one.

Viserys Targaryen stared into the glass of ale before him, mind screaming with rage, his constant companion for nearly half a year.

He was a Prince, the blood of the dragon. His place was in King's Landing, his sister by his side as was the Targaryen way, not in this dingy tavern in the slums of Tyrosh, waiting for that blasted incompetent fool Aleqou Garantis to return with his next allowance. He didn't understand his wretched brother and nephew's denial of what was his by right; Aelor had waived any right to Daenerys the day he married that s.l.u.t Alysanne Lefford, and his children were no true blood of the dragon for it. The Targaryen line must remain pure; they were gods, not peasants!

None of them saw it except him. None of them were smart enough. He could be the savior of the Targaryen line, the one who turned them around, but they had denied him that, sending him instead to waste away in this city of peasant filth and heresy.

And for what, removing an insignificant insect of a Marcher lord? It was true he had weighted a tourney lance in hopes that that overreaching lout Bryce Caron would challenge him, intent on removing the true threat for his sister's hand. It was the way of the world; Viserys was a Targaryen, and Targaryen's removed threats and rivals bloodily.

His brother's hypocrisy was what truly irked the Prince of Summerhall; as if Aelor, the famed Dragon of Duskendale, hadn't destroyed an entire house for crossing him not even a decade after having nearly done the same to one of the oldest and most powerful houses in all of Westeros. Fire and Blood were the Targaryen words, not Flowers and Brandy.

Yet Aelor and his family grew fat and lazy in King's Landing, while Viserys brooded in the corner of a foreign city.

Daenerys is mine by right. I will have her, one way or another.

But be damned if he had figured out just how.

He didn't acknowledge the figures that suddenly sat at the table with him. It happened from time to time, men trying to curry favor with the rulers across the sea by flattering Viserys until they learned he was exiled and in disfavor, disappearing as soon as they did. The Prince of Summerhall had taken to ignoring them, all unworthy fools not fit to lick his boots.

The figures didn't leave, seemingly waiting for the Prince to speak. Viserys didn't, and eventually one of them decided to prompt him. "Are you Viserys Targaryen?" Asked a deep voice, and the only reason Viserys looked up to acknowledge him was the Westerosi accent.

A broad-shouldered, tall man sat across the table from him, his arms covered in golden rings. The man was ugly, eyes bloodshot and face pockmarked, but he held himself with the bearing Viserys recognized in men of noble blood. Two figures stood on either side of him, the man's brothers Viserys judged from their similar features to the lout in front of him.

Still, if Viserys had learned anything in exile, it was to proceed cautiously. "Who wants to know?"

The man smiled slightly, something that somehow made him look even uglier than he already did. "I am Lord Laswell Peake, formerly of Westeros, now of the Golden Company. These are my brothers Pykewood and Torman."

The Targaryen Prince raised an eyebrow. "What is it you want, exactly? I am not in favor with the King in Westeros."

Laswell Peake's smile grew, and his brothers mirrored it on either side of him. "No. But how would you like to be the King in Westeros?"