A night at Storm's End

The feast ended earlier than expected.

Borros Baratheon was a boisterous man, but he knew where to draw the line-at least tonight.

He could tell the princess was in low spirits-or rather, that her attention was entirely on the little prince sitting in her lap. She merely nodded politely at the attentions of the young Stormlands nobles and barely touched her wine.

So, prompted by his wife Elena Caron beside him, he raised his cup early for a toast and announced that the formal "introductions" would begin tomorrow. Tonight, everyone should get some rest.

The nobles filed out. As they passed the high table, every one of them let their gaze linger on Aegon for a moment.

Not an open stare, but a sideways glance, a look from the corner of an eye, a casual glimpse as they turned-

Only a few days had passed since news of a three-year-old riding a dragon reached them from Massey's Hook, yet it had already spread like the wind throughout the Crownlands and along the neighboring Stormlands border.

The merchant ships of Stonedance, the fishermen in the harbor, the messengers traveling back and forth-none could resist talking about Aegon's embellished feat.

A three-year-old child, without a dragon saddle or straps, had ridden his own dragon over the sea, circling Stonedance three times before landing.

Some versions grew increasingly outrageous: the child had even stood on the dragon's back; his young dragon's golden dragonfire could purify all things; he had been speaking to birds as he flew that day. But no one questioned the central fact:

Aegon Targaryen, the king's son, had been able to ride a dragon in flight at just three years old.

So at tonight's feast, no one approached him for conversation, and no one rashly asked, "Your Highness, did you really fly?" But those looks could not be hidden-

Awe, curiosity, scrutiny, and something harder to name. As the lords of the Stormlands sized up their liege, they were measuring how large a young stag's antlers might one day grow.

Aegon rested against Rhaenyra's shoulder, pretending to be sleepy. He was a little sleepy, in truth; a toddler's body could not endure too much noise and bustle. But his mind was still clear.

He quietly committed the striking faces at tonight's feast to memory: among the young men seated halfway down the long table, those wearing coats bearing House Beesbury's white-and-green peapod arms had been the most eager to toast Rhaenyra.

The young heir of House Swann had scarcely spoken all evening, but his gaze had followed Rhaenyra's hands throughout.

The young man from House Dondarrion had sat in a corner with an aloof expression, seemingly uninterested in this "husband selection"-though that might have been an act.

He scored them in his head. The Beesbury men were too attentive, so attentive that it seemed they valued her position as heir to the Iron Throne rather than Rhaenyra herself. The Swann heir was too quiet, so quiet that it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. The Dondarrion man's indifference felt deliberate; perhaps he hoped to attract attention by being "different."

All in all, none of them would do. None were as good as him.

He gave the Stormlands candidates a poor rating overall, then closed his eyes in satisfaction.

Rhaenyra rose with him in her arms, and Laena came around from the other side of the table.

"What are we doing tonight?" Laena asked, as casually as if she were asking about tomorrow's weather. "Rhaenyra, it's been so long since we slept together. When I used to visit Dragonstone, you insisted on squeezing into my bed in the guest room to hear stories about Queen Visenya. Remember?"

Rhaenyra paused, then the corners of her mouth lifted slightly. "You were the one who insisted on telling them. I was only eight, and you told me how Vhagar burned the Arryn fleet in one go during the Battle of Gulltown. I had nightmares for days."

Still, Rhaenyra could hardly be blamed. During the Battle of Gulltown, House Arryn's fleet had defeated House Targaryen's, and Laena's ancestor Daemon Velaryon had died there.

In the end, Queen Visenya had turned the tide, riding Vhagar to burn the surviving Arryn ships. And the Arryns of the Vale were the family of Rhaenyra's mother, Queen Aemma.

"But you still asked me for more the next day." Laena smiled and linked arms with her. "So, tonight?"

Rhaenyra looked down at Aegon. The boy lay against her shoulder, his eyes half closed and his breathing even, seemingly already asleep. She hesitated-not because she did not want to catch up with Laena, but because...

"What, can't bear to part with your brother?" Laena followed her gaze, her smile deepening. "Rhaenyra, I've heard about it. Earl Lyonel Strong once proposed at a Small Council meeting that your brother marry me. Did you know?"

Rhaenyra's arms tightened a little. "I did."

"Then you ought to be more generous." Laena reached out and gently squeezed Aegon's exposed little hand. "What's wrong with letting your brother spend some time with his future wife?"

Rhaenyra's face stiffened for an instant. She hugged Aegon close so quickly that Laena laughed aloud.

"I'm teasing." Laena released her hand. "Look at your face. You'd think I was trying to steal your son. Come on, we'll all go to my room. You can sleep on the left, he can sleep beside you, and I'll sleep on the right. Surely that will do?"

Rhaenyra stared at her for two seconds, only relaxing once she was certain Laena really was joking. Laena had already turned away, her silver-gold hair swaying in the candlelight. Rhaenyra followed with Aegon in her arms. As they passed through the corridor, wind slipped through the gaps in the stone windows, carrying the salt of the sea and the distant, deep echo of Vhagar's breathing.

Aegon opened his eyes in Rhaenyra's arms. He had not actually fallen asleep; when Laena squeezed his hand, he had nearly laughed. Seventeen-year-old Laena Velaryon, rider of the largest dragon alive, actually teased his sister like that. He remembered her fate in the original story-childbed fever, death on Driftmark, and her wish to ride Vhagar one last time before she died. That was ten years away, if nothing changed.

But now she was holding Rhaenyra's hand, smiling as she pushed open the guest room door and asked a maid to fetch another blanket, saying the nights at Storm's End were as cold as an ice cellar. Her fingers were long and strong, fingers that had held reins and gripped dragon scales. Now they deftly added wood to the hearth.

The guest room was large, reserved for the most honored guests. A great bed stood against the wall, its headboard carved with the Baratheon crowned stag and its curtains made of thick, dark-blue velvet. The hearth stood in the center of the room, already blazing and warming the whole chamber. Beyond the window lay the black sea, with the faint sound of waves.

Laena kicked off her shoes and climbed onto the bed first, taking the side nearest the wall. She patted the space in the middle. "Rhaenyra, you sleep here. Your brother can sleep beside you."

Rhaenyra set Aegon on the bed and helped him out of his little coat and shoes. In his white underclothes, with his silver hair spread over the pillow, Aegon looked like any ordinary three-year-old. Laena turned onto her side and propped up her chin to study him.

"He really looks like you," she said suddenly.

Rhaenyra was undoing her braid. Her fingers paused. "How?"

"His eyes," Laena said. "The same purple. There are all sorts of Targaryen purples. Your father's leans toward blue, and your uncle Prince Daemon's is darker. His..." She looked into Aegon's eyes. "They're just like yours. That bright purple, like lavender in summer."

Rhaenyra did not answer. She merely nudged Aegon farther into the bed so he lay between her and Laena. The push rolled him halfway toward Laena, his nose almost striking her shoulder. Laena caught him with a chuckle.

"Careful. Don't drop my little betrothed."

Rhaenyra glared at her. "You're still bringing that up?"

"Why shouldn't I?" Laena lay on her back and stared at the ceiling. "Your brother's quite lovely. Much better than those candidates the lords recommended to your father."

Rhaenyra lay down too, turning onto her side to face Aegon. The fire flickered in the hearth, casting their three shadows onto the ceiling, one large and two small, overlapping.

"You don't mind?" Rhaenyra asked softly. "My father rejected your father, and now he wants Aegon to marry you. Doesn't it feel... as though he's trying to make up for something?"

Laena fell silent for a while. The wood crackled in the hearth, and Vhagar's distant breathing sounded like the low beat of a drum.

"My father was very angry," she said at last. "Not because he was refused, but because of how he was refused. King Viserys could have handled it kindly, but he chose the most hurtful way. My father is a proud man, and so is yours. When two proud men clash, this is what happens."

She rolled over to face Aegon. The boy's eyes were closed and his breathing steady, but Laena knew he was awake-his eyelashes were trembling.

"But your brother is different," she said softly. "He's still little. He hasn't learned to be proud yet. Perhaps when he grows up, he'll become a better man than Viserys and Daemon put together. Still, I'm already betrothed, so you needn't worry. If this little fellow wants to marry me, he'll have to make that wastrel from Braavos disappear first..."

Rhaenyra did not reply. She reached out and brushed the loose hair from Aegon's forehead, her fingers passing gently between his brows.

"Go to sleep," she said. "There will be plenty of people to deal with tomorrow."

Laena laughed into her pillow. "Need my help? I could have Vhagar roar in the harbor. That would scare off half of them, guaranteed."

"No need." Rhaenyra smiled too. "I brought Syrax and Sunfyre. Sunfyre may be small, but that roar is quite loud."

"That's your brother's dragon," Laena said.

"It's all the same," Rhaenyra said. "What's his is mine."

Lying between them and listening to their conversation, Aegon lost every trace of sleepiness.

He had expected tonight to be awkward-lying between two women, one his sister and the other his uncle's future wife in the original story.

But it was not. They talked about ordinary things: the old trees on Driftmark, the ships in Hull, a new bakery in King's Landing, Alicent having another son, Rhaenyra not wanting to marry.

"I don't want to marry either," Laena said evenly. "But my father says a daughter of House Velaryon can't stay unmarried all her life. I told him I could ride a dragon and didn't need a husband. He said the dragon would grow old, and so would I."

"Your father's wrong," Rhaenyra said.

"He isn't." Laena sighed. "It's just unpleasant to hear."

Silence lingered for a while.

"What about you, then?" Rhaenyra asked. "Who do you want to marry?"

The fire in the hearth flickered. Aegon felt Laena roll onto her back to face the ceiling.

"I don't know," she said. "Perhaps no one. Perhaps someone who will let me keep riding my dragon. Perhaps..." She paused. "Perhaps someone who won't need me to change."

Rhaenyra did not press her. She reached out and pulled the covers up over Aegon's shoulders.

"Go to sleep," she said.

"Mm."

The room grew quiet. The maid blew out the candles one by one, leaving only the light of the hearth. Aegon opened his eyes and watched the shadows dance on the ceiling. Laena's arm lay beside him, pale and slender, her fingertips lightly callused from gripping dragon scales. Rhaenyra's hand rested on him, warm and steady.

He went over the Stormlands nobles he had seen that evening. The young Beesbury man was named Robin, the earl's eldest son. He was handsome and well-spoken, but his eyes lacked warmth when he smiled, and he seemed a little effeminate. The Swann heir was named Byron, also an eldest son. He was a man of few words, his hand steady when he offered a toast, but his gaze was too cold.

The Dondarrion man was named Erich. He had sat in the corner without saying a single word to Rhaenyra all evening. Had his father, Earl Dondarrion, not been there today, he would have spent half the evening discussing horse breeding with his attendants.

None of them would do.

Perhaps he would not even have to sabotage anything. Rhaenyra might reject them all herself.

He put a great big cross beside the Stormlands candidates in his mind, then rolled over and buried his face in Rhaenyra's arm.

Tomorrow could wait.

Outside the window, the walls of Storm's End stood silent in the night, ancient spells pulsing deep within the stone.

On the beach, three dragons lay curled in their separate places. Vhagar's breathing sounded like the distant tide, while Syrax occasionally rolled over, her wings sweeping up sand.

Sunfyre lay wedged between them, golden scales gleaming faintly in the moonlight, tail curled over Syrax's wing like a little creature that had found a nest.

The wind blew in from the sea and struck the walls, breaking into tiny currents that slipped through the cracks in the stone and emerged on the other side, carrying a howl unchanged for eight thousand years.

The waves, the wind, the dragons' breaths, and the breathing of the three people in the room mingled together, becoming the final sounds of that night at Storm's End.