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| Author'sNote: Ready for round two? Sharpen your swords, grab some wine, and dive in! Don't forget to leave plenty of comments,— I love hearing your thoughts (and plotting my next move accordingly).
Let's have some fun!
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"They spoke of Jocelyn Baratheon as one speaks of a storm,— wild, untamed, and beautiful in her ruin. A woman of cold fire and bold laughter, who could break hearts with a glance and command men with a whisper. Yet few ever thought to wonder what softened the tempest when the world was not watching."
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- A few hours after Aenys was born:
The ethereal glow of the rising moon filtered through the high windows, slipping through a rare break in the previous storm's heavy clouds.
Pale light stretched across the cold stone walls, its silver sheen weaving with the golden flicker of the roaring hearth, where flames crackled hungrily, casting warmth throughout the chamber.
And despite the gentle summer breeze whispering through the slightly open window, a thin sheen of sweat clung to Alyssa's skin, as she lay nestled against a pile of silken cushions, exhaustion still weighing heavily on her limbs, yet there was peace in her mismatched eyes.
Her fingers traced lazy circles over the soft fabric swaddling her newborn son, who slumbered soundly in her arms.
A cradle stood ready beside her bed, yet she could not bring herself to part with him just yet, moments of stillness like this were rare and fleeting,— she intended to savor them.
A rustle of skirts, the soft click of boots against stone, and the quiet murmur of the guards outside granting permission. Then,— "You look half-dead." Jocelyn Baratheon stood at the doorway, a vision of dark beauty and effortless command.
She was taller than most men of the realm, her raven-black hair cascading in thick waves down her back, her skin kissed by the sun in a way no Targaryen could ever achieve. Her black eyes,— dark as sin and twice as knowing,— swept over Alyssa with sharp scrutiny, though a flicker of relief passed through them, there and gone in an instant.
Alyssa exhaled a quiet laugh, wincing slightly as she shifted before settling back into her pillows, lips curled into a small, familiar smile. "And you look disgustingly well-rested, Josie." Jocelyn smirked at the nickname and stepped inside with slow, purposeful strides. "I should be, considering I haven't had a babe clawing its way out of me this week."
She moved toward a nearby stone table, pouring water into a silver goblet, the movement practiced and deliberate. "And yet, I remember feeling just as wretched when Rhaenys was born."
Alyssa tilted her head, amusement flickering across her features.
Her voice was light but knowing. "Just as wretched? You walked around the Red Keep a day later as if nothing had happened."
Jocelyn lowered herself onto a cushioned stool beside the bed, crossing her long legs with effortless grace. The embroidery of her sleeves glimmered under the firelight as she passed Alyssa the goblet, which was accepted with a small, grateful hum.
"That was for show." Jocelyn admitted, her voice laced with something softer now. "A woman of our stature cannot be seen wilting, not even in a birthing bed." Her fingers reached out, brushing damp strands of silver from Alyssa's forehead. The gesture was absentminded, almost reluctant, yet there was no mistaking the care in it.
"But you… you nearly died today." The jesting air faded, leaving only the weight of those words hanging between them.
Jocelyn's hands curled slightly against the white sheets, her dark gaze sharp, searching, and Alyssa looked down at Aenys, still peacefully asleep in her arms.
"But I didn't." she whispered, before lifting her gaze once more, and Jocelyn held it, letting out a slow exhale through her nose.
Her hair caught the moonlight just so, as if the night itself had claimed her, dark strands kissed by silver. "No, you didn't." she murmured at last. "You're as stubborn as your husband,— perhaps even more."
She leaned forward then, glancing toward the bundle in Alyssa's arms. The swaddle of rich red and black velvet stirred slightly, a tiny sound escaping from within, and Jocelyn's sharp features softened into something rare,— something touched with quiet wonder.
"So, this is your little hatchling." Her voice was quieter now, threaded with something unreadable. "Honestly, I see more of you in him than Baelon."
Alyssa smiled, eyes drifting to her son. "He has his father's lungs, though. I swear, he screamed as if demanding a dragon for himself the moment he left my womb."
Jocelyn chuckled, her lips curling into a knowing smirk. "A fine thing,— Aenys of House Targaryen, he should make the realm listen to him, just as it should listen to my little Rhaenys. They are, after all, the future of both our houses, are they not?"
For a moment, there was only the steady crackling of the hearth and the quiet rhythm of mother and child's breathing.
Alyssa's fingers traced absent patterns against the velvet swaddle. "You are right." she murmured after a beat. "You always are."
Jocelyn arched a dark brow, her smirk widening. "About?" Alyssa glanced at her, her lips curling into something wry.
"Everything." Jocelyn's answering grin was slow and victorious. "Say that again, would you?"
"Don't push your luck, Josie." And just like that, the weight of the past days lifted,— if only for a moment,— as two women, bound by blood, duty, and a love deeper than words, lingered in each other's company.
And between them, nestled in the warmth of his mother's arms, a child of fire and blood slumbered on.
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- At the same time, on a nearby beach of Dragonstone:
With unsteady steps, the man known as 'theBrave' staggered across the basalt-strewn shore, a half-empty wine flask dangling from his fingers, a tired but contented grin tugging at his lips.
The rushed "celebration" he and his present family had earlier, had been a grand one,— his son's birth, Alyssa's stable and improving health, the promise of a future he had scarcely dared to dream of.
But as the castle of Dragonstone slumbered, he had slipped away, seeking solitude beneath the open sky, his only companion the great bronze and green she-dragon who watched over him with half-lidded eyes.
Vhagar lay curled nearby, her massive bulk rising and falling in slow, deliberate breaths.
She observed her rider's drunken antics with something akin to quiet amusement,— or perhaps mild exasperation,— as he tripped over the uneven sand once again, cursing under his breath before pushing himself upright.
This had gone on for nearly half an hour now, his musings and stumblings interrupted only by the occasional slosh of wine against the flask and his muttered, half-coherent ramblings.
"Fucking sand!" Baelon grumbled, only to trip again, this time landing flat on his back with an undignified grunt.
He sighed heavily, limbs splayed against the cool grains, his silver hair spread like a halo around his head.
Above him, the sky stretched vast and endless, a deep violet canvas studded with stars, and he raised a hand toward them, fingers grasping at the nothingness, as if he could seize one of them and offer it to his wife and son.
Alyssa, Aenys… if only I could give you the stars.
But men were not meant to pluck the heavens from the sky, and the thought settled heavy in his chest, making him exhale sharply, running a hand down his face.
Vhagar, evidently growing weary of simply watching her drunken fool of a rider, shifted her great body and drew closer.
The movement sent a gust of warm air over him, carrying the scent of fire and old storms.
With a deep, throaty rumble, the she-dragon curled around him, her colossal form pressing against his smaller one in a silent act of protection.
Baelon blinked up at her, a sudden lump forming in his throat. Gods…
He had always known her to be fierce, to be mighty, to be unstoppable. But in this moment, with her warmth radiating against him, she was something else entirely.
Gentle.
The wine had loosened something in him, and before he knew it, hot tears welled in his eyes, as he shifted closer, pressing his forehead lightly against her scales, the familiarity of her presence easing the weight of the night's thoughts.
Vhagar sighed,— a deep, reptilian exhale that rumbled through her chest and into him,— and Baelon found himself mirroring her, breathing out the tension he hadn't even realized he carried.
Then, through his hazy vision, he caught the faint glimmer of a shooting star streaking across the sky.
A slow, drunken smile curved his lips, something hopeful sparking in his gaze as he turned his attention back to his dragon.
"Will you let him ride you, girl?" His voice was softer now, roughened with drink and emotion. "When I'm gone… will you take Aenys as your rider? Or will you find him unworthy?" The words hung between them, carried away by the whispering tide.
It wasn't an idle question,— not when Aenys' egg, the one his older brother Aemon had chosen for him, had turned to cold stone even before the boy had drawn his first breath.
Baelon had not dared to select another, not when the sting of that failure still clung to him. What if it happened again? What if another egg was chosen, only to darken and die? The thought of it,— of whispers in the court, of skeptical lords calling his son dragonless and unworthy of a companion,— unsettled him in ways he couldn't voice.
No, he wouldn't risk it.
If his son was meant to ride, if the blood of the dragon truly ran strong in his veins, then he would have to prove it not by hatching an egg but by forging a bond with a living beast.
And who better than the greatest of them all?
For a long moment, there was only silence, save for the rhythmic crash of the waves.
Then Vhagar huffed, a deep and knowing sound, before nudging even closer, her presence engulfing him. Baelon's eyes fluttered shut at the gesture, a slow, relieved smile pulling at his lips, and he took it as an answer,— an oath.
And as sleep began to claim him, he had only one lingering thought,— hopefully no one in the castle had begun to worry about his absence.
Then, cradled against his dragon's warmth, he finally surrendered to slumber.
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- An hour and a half later, inside Alyssa's chamber:
The chamber was still bathed in the same pale light of the moon, the last embers in the hearth burning low, their glow flickering against the carved stone walls.
The storm that had rattled Dragonstone's towers earlier that day had long since faded into a quiet hum, the occasional distant rumble of thunder rolling over the waves.
Inside, all was warm and still, and Alyssa still lay propped against a mound of silken, cushioned pillows, her sheer night-robe slightly disheveled, silver hair spilling loosely over her shoulders.
Aenys remained cradled in her arms, a tiny, peaceful weight against her chest, his breath soft and even in the endless depths of sleep.
Then, the door creaked open, again.
Jocelyn stepped inside for the second time that night, moving with the quiet authority of a woman who carried power effortlessly, as if the very world itself bent to her presence. In her arms, wrapped in a deep black and yellow blanket, was little Rhaenys, her dark hair just visible beneath the fabric.
Alyssa arched a curious brow at them, recalling how Jocelyn had left abruptly earlier, seemingly struck by some thought before rushing out without explanation.
"Back again, are you?" Alyssa murmured, her voice laced with the soft exhaustion of a mother who had barely slept.
Jocelyn said nothing at first.
She crossed the chamber, her footsteps soundless on stone,— impossibly so. Then, with measured grace, she bent down beside the cradle meant for Aenys, lowering Rhaenys into it with a careful, almost reverent touch.
The little girl stirred, shifting slightly in sleep but did not wake, and Alyssa watched, bemused. "And, pray tell, what exactly are you doing?"
Jocelyn did not answer,— not with words.
Instead, she moved with the same deliberate ease, reaching forward to pluck Aenys from Alyssa's arms. Her hands were firm yet impossibly gentle, lifting the newborn as if he were the most precious thing in the world.
Alyssa let out a quiet huff of laughter but made no move to stop her, though some part of her,— the deeply ingrained instinct of a mother,— bristled at the idea of another taking her child away, even for a moment.
Still, she merely leaned back, watching as Jocelyn nestled Aenys beside Rhaenys in the cradle.
The moment he was placed down, Rhaenys, in that instinctive way that only infants possessed, shifted toward him. Tiny, unknowing fingers reached out in sleep, brushing against the bundled form beside her before curling lightly over him, as if holding onto something she had lost.
Aenys, though too young to understand anything at all, let out a tiny breath and stilled, unconsciously nestling closer.
Alyssa exhaled through her nose, shaking her head in quiet amusement. "You did this for what purpose, Josie?"
Jocelyn merely watched the two children, sharp eyes softened in the dim light. "They belong together, as close kin, no?" she said at last, her voice calm, certain. "Why not have them grow as such from the very start?"
Alyssa tilted her head, sensing something more in Jocelyn's words,— something unspoken, layered beneath the surface.
There was no mistaking the way she stood, firm and unwavering, not just as Rhaenys's mother or as Aenys's aunt, but as something more.
"You seem to have already chosen them both to guard over like a hen, haven't you?" Alyssa mused and joked, watching the quiet fire of Baratheon protectiveness simmer behind Jocelyn's gaze.
Jocelyn did not answer.
She merely lowered herself into the chair beside the cradle, folding her hands in her lap, her attention never once straying from the sleeping forms of Aenys and Rhaenys.
Alyssa regarded her for a moment longer before sighing, rolling her shoulders as she sank deeper into the cushions. "Stay and watch them, then, dear friend." she murmured, voice touched with wry amusement. "If you're so determined."
Jocelyn did not so much as glance at her.
"I will, Lyssa." Alyssa smiled softly at the use of her rarely spoken nickname, allowing the exhaustion of the past days to pull her under.
The chamber fell into a deep and quiet stillness. Outside, the moon climbed higher over the black waves, its silver light spilling through the arched windows.
And beneath its glow, Alyssa slept, content and undisturbed, while Jocelyn sat, silent and watchful, as two little Targaryens lay curled together in the cradle,— bound by something far greater than blood.
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- The next morning, at the castle's training yard:
The crack of steel against steel rang through the cool morning air, a sharp, resounding clash that sent seabirds scattering from the ramparts.
Where the chambers of the keep had been warm with firelight and whispered tenderness, the training yard was a world of hard stone, salt-kissed wind, and the raw bite of exertion.
Aemon and Baelon's sparring session had drawn many onlookers,— guards, stable hands, and courtiers alike,— gathered at the edges of the yard, watching in rapt silence.
Baelon surged forward like a storm, his blade singing as it cut the air, a relentless flurry of controlled fury, each strike carrying the sheer force of a man who fought as he lived,— without hesitation, without fear.
The fire of last night's wine had burned away, leaving behind something sharper,— he was a man born to move, to act, to conquer, and in this moment, every ounce of his energy was focused on the brother before him.
Aemon met him with tempered steel and tempered will, where Baelon was fire, Aemon was stone,— steady, unshaken, precise.
He parried with expert ease, turning aside his younger brother's strikes with measured steps, allowing Baelon to exhaust himself against his defenses.
His footwork was impeccable, his blade always moving just enough, never more. He did not fight to overpower, only to endure,— to remind Baelon that brute force alone was not enough.
"You're slower than I remember." Baelon circled, breathing hard but grinning, his voice clear and steady, none of last night's slur remaining. And Aemon exhaled sharply, not quite a laugh, but close. "And you still fight like a man who thinks he cannot lose."
"That's because I don't." Baelon feinted left, then pivoted sharply to the right, his blade cutting in low and fast. Aemon barely caught the strike in time, their swords grinding together in a shower of sparks.
The force of it sent him back a step, and any lesser man would have stumbled,— Aemon only reset his stance however, and Baelon scoffed. "Hells, brother, you make it look easy."
"You make it easy." Baelon barked a laugh and attacked again, faster now, driving Aemon back with a ceaseless rhythm of slashes and thrusts, testing him, trying to break his composure.
But Aemon was not so easily broken.
In the space of a breath, the tide shifted.
Baelon overcommitted, swinging wide with a blow meant to disarm,— but Aemon was already moving. He stepped into the opening, inside his brother's reach, and with a deft twist of his wrist, sent Baelon's sword spinning from his grip. Before Baelon could recover, Aemon's blade was at his throat, cool and unwavering.
Baelon stilled, chest rising and falling, sweat beading at his brow, then, slowly, a grin split his face.
"Still think I'm slow?" Aemon murmured.
Baelon chuckled, stepping back, raking a hand through his damp silver hair. "Only when you talk."
Aemon sighed, lowering his blade. "You're reckless, Baelon. You always have been,— if I had been an enemy, you would be dead now."
"Good thing you're not, then." Baelon rolled his shoulders, ever unbothered, but his violet eyes flickered with something thoughtful.
"But you fight too carefully, Aemon, and you wait too long. One day, someone might force your hand before you're ready."
Aemon wiped his blade clean on the edge of his sleeve. "Perhaps." he admitted, his gaze lifting toward the sky as if searching for something. "But not today."
Baelon smirked but said nothing, retrieving his fallen sword, and for a moment, the only sound was the wind howling through the towers, the distant cry of a gull over the black waves.
Then Baelon broke the silence. "They're in the cradle together."
Aemon glanced at him. "Who?"
"Aenys and Rhaenys." Baelon sheathed his blade. "Jocelyn put them there last night. Something about how 'they were born to be side by side'."
Aemon was quiet for a long moment, and when he finally spoke, his voice was softer, thoughtful. "Perhaps they were."
Baelon exhaled, shaking his head as he turned toward the castle. "Best hope they don't grow up to spar and act like us, or we'll have no castles left standing."
Aemon let out a rare chuckle, watching as his brother strode away. But he lingered in the yard a moment longer, his grip tightening around his sword, while a Kingsguard stood nearby, silent and watchful, always at his back.
His younger brother was right about one thing,— one day, someone would force his hand.
But that day, was not today.
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|| Fire & Blood ||
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