Chapter 46 Ahead (Patreon)

Morning, The Vale

The road twisted through the hills, pale sunlight spilling across the cliffs and scattered pines. A line of carriages moved steadily toward the Eyrie, flanked by knights in Arryn colors and vassals riding close behind.

Inside one of the carriages, Aemma Arryn sat stiffly by the window, her face turned toward the passing cliffs. Her posture was rigid, hands clenched in her lap. She hadn’t spoken much since they’d left the Kingswood.

Across from her sat Lady Elena. The older woman glanced at her in silence for a long moment, then sighed. Her voice was steady but firm.

“Don’t blame your father,” she said. “Everything he says and does is for the good of our house.”

Aemma’s brow creased. She turned from the window, eyes sharp.

“How is stopping me from speaking to a friend…someone I haven’t seen in years, supposed to help House Arryn?”

Lady Elena kept her gaze level. “It wouldn’t be a problem if your ‘friend’ wasn’t a dragonrider. And now, a pyromancer.”

She let the words hang, then added more quietly, “Your betrothal to Prince Viserys will be announced within weeks. You’d be wise to focus on that.”

The name made Aemma’s jaw tighten. Her fingers curled. She stared at her stepmother, anger flashing behind her eyes but finally she looked away, down at her boots, silent.

Lady Elena’s voice softened just slightly.

“Like I’ve told you before… people of our station don’t always get to act as they please. We all serve the realm in one way or another.”

Aemma’s reply was quiet, almost a whisper.

“I just don’t understand why.”

Elena watched her for a moment. A flicker of empathy touched her face, but it faded quickly.

“You will. When you’re older.”

Neither spoke after that. Aemma returned her gaze to the window, lips pressed in a tight line. Lady Elena looked away as well, her eyes drifting toward the sloping peaks outside.

The carriage rocked gently onward, toward the high paths of the Vale, and the Eyrie above.

The Red Keep

The garden lay still under the gentle sun, awash in golden light. Flowers trembled in the breeze. Crocuses, daffodils, and violets blooming in tangled harmony. Butterflies danced over blossoms. A honeybee buzzed past, fat and content. Somewhere in the hedges, a thrush began to sing.

King Jaehaerys Targaryen walked slowly down the path, his pace unhurried. He let his fingers trail across a rose petal, soft as silk. Behind him came Prince Baelon, walking with quiet tread. He stopped a step behind his father.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Jaehaerys said without turning.

Baelon looked over the garden, the butterflies hovering, the flowers swaying gently. “Yes, they are.”

The King exhaled slowly. “I wonder how many more springs I’ll see like this.”

Baelon blinked. “You’re still in your prime,” he said. But his voice didn’t quite carry conviction.

Jaehaerys chuckled softly. “Prime? Hah. My beard’s silvering. My joints ache after long council days. And my grandchildren are nearing the age to wed. You’ll forgive me if I begin to feel old.”

Baelon fell silent. The thought of his father’s eventual passing felt uncomfortable. 

Seeing his son’s discomfort, Jaehaerys smiled faintly. “Don’t scowl. I’m not dying just yet. Are the letters sent?”

Baelon blinked back into the present. “Yes. I’ve spoken with the maesters. They’ll go out over the next few days.”

The King nodded. “Good.” His gaze lingered on a lilac bush blooming near the foot of a marble bench. 

After a pause, Baelon cleared his throat. 

“And… what of Corlys’s proposal?” His voice lowered. “The betrothal?”

Jaehaerys turned, brow lifting. “Laena and Aegon, you mean?”

Baelon gave a small nod. “Did you speak with Mother?”

“I did.” Jaehaerys’s voice took on a faint edge. “It seems Corlys had the foresight to speak to her first.”

Baelon’s eyes widened. “He did what?”

“Yes. And no, she didn’t accept it. But she didn’t reject it either.” The King glanced over the garden again, as though arranging thoughts. “Your mother and I are aligned in this.”

Baelon raised a brow. “And what is that alignment?”

Jaehaerys’s tone grew firm. “Aegon’s blood must not leave House Targaryen.”

Baelon nodded slowly. He understood what was unspoken: Aegon was not just another grandson. The fire in him, the gift of Valyria, was too precious to give away. 

Even through a match with a Velaryon.

Still, he hesitated. “Corlys offers more than a name. He promised us a fleet. A true fleet. We’ve long relied on House Velaryon’s ships for royal business, but now—”

“And you’d give your son away for ships?”

The words were quiet. But they struck hard.

Baelon stumbled. “I—I didn’t mean it like that.”

Jaehaerys watched him for a long moment, then raised a hand. “Bring a chair,” he told a waiting maid.

She returned quickly, and the King lowered himself into it with care. He sat still for a moment, feeling the sun on his skin.

“A fleet can win battles,” he said. “But Aegon’s power… it means more than mere strength.”

Baelon bowed his head.

Jaehaerys continued, his voice more thoughtful than hard. “Corlys will have his answer. Tell him the Crown will consider it seriously. But not before Laena and Aegon come of age.”

Baelon nodded. “We’ll focus on Viserys and Aemma in the meantime.”

The King waved a hand. “Yes. That is the pairing the realm expects.”

They sat in silence for a moment, broken only by the chirping of sparrows nearby.

Jaehaerys leaned back slightly. “What of Daemon?”

Baelon blinked. “What of him?”

“He’s twelve. I hear he’s been training with the City Watch for nearly a year now.”

“He has. Ser Rickard says he’s bold. Too bold, at times.”

“Sounds like someone else I knew at that age,” the King said dryly.

Baelon chuckled.

Jaehaerys looked thoughtful again. “He hasn’t claimed a dragon yet, has he?”

“No. Not for lack of trying,” Baelon said. “He snuck to Dragonstone not long ago.”

Jaehaerys smiled faintly. “The boy has fire. Not like Aegon’s. But something burning all the same.”

Baelon said nothing, but he looked distant.

The King noticed. “You worry for them.”

“I do,” Baelon admitted. “Viserys is gentle. Daemon is too wild. And Aegon… he’s changing so quickly. Faster than I can keep pace.”

“Then run faster,” Jaehaerys said simply.

Baelon blinked, surprised by the sudden sharpness of the tone. But the King’s face was kind, not cold.

“You are their father,” Jaehaerys said. “And one day, you’ll wear the crown. These choices—who they marry, where they’re guided, what burdens they’re given—they begin with us.”

Baelon straightened. “Yes, Father.”

After a moment, he bowed again and took his leave.

Jaehaerys sat in the chair a while longer, letting the breeze pass gently across his face. The sun was warm. The day was beautiful.

Aegon was nine.

Viserys, nearly a man.

Daemon, already seeking dragons.

And suddenly, Jaehaerys felt very old.

Nightfall, Blackwater Bay

The fog rolled in low and thick along the shore, swirling between moored ships like the breath of something vast and silent. Lanterns swung from mastheads, their orange glow dimmed by mist. The scent of salt, tar, and old wood clung to the night.

A lone man walked briskly along the pier.

He wore a servant’s cloak, the hood drawn low. A satchel hung at his side. He moved with quiet purpose, weaving between crates and barrels, careful not to draw notice. 

Near the edge of the wharf, two men in black-and-gold halted him. City Watch.

“What’s in the satchel?” one asked, already reaching for it.

“Clothing. Bread. Dried figs.” His voice was calm. 

The guard opened the flap, rummaged through quickly. “Heading somewhere?”

“Pentos,” the man replied, gesturing to the small cog behind him. “Ship Cook’s assistant. They lost a hand to a fishhook. I’m to replace him.”

The guards exchanged a glance, then waved him through.

The man gave a polite nod and moved on.

The ship waiting for him was modest, hull scraped by years of trade. It would be gone by first light, bound east with salted cod, Dornish wine, and one extra passenger.

He gave a light knock on the hull. Three quick raps, then one slow. A sailor appeared from the shadows and waved him up the gangplank without a word.

Once aboard, he moved toward the rear deck, settling near a coil of rope where shadows pooled thick.

He waited.

The sea lapped gently against the hull. Somewhere behind, distant bells tolled from the Red Keep, muffled by fog.

He reached into his satchel and drew out a small, narrow scroll case from the hidden pocket. Brass, with a wax seal stamped in deep red. The emblem pressed into the wax was foreign, two beasts flanking a torch.

He turned the tube in his hand once. 

Then slid it back into the depths of his cloak.

He had seen the boy with his own eyes. No illusions. No tricks. Just a flame, held aloft as if it belonged there. 

He had felt the heat while standing at the edge of the royal pavilion, dressed like the other servants. 

The King’s voice had rung through the tent. A proclamation. A name declared as a proof. Proof of something older.

Footsteps scraped behind him. A sailor passed, gave him a quick look. The man answered a muttered question with a few quiet words, nothing out of place.

The sailor moved on.

The man turned toward the rail. The wind was shifting now, pulling eastward, tugging at the ropes and sails with eager fingers.

By sunrise, they would be gone from the bay.

And soon, the word would reach the right ears.

The flame had returned.