A song of Fire and Blood

Chapter 5: A Mother's Choice

Queen Rhaella Targaryen

The sea winds howled against Dragonstone, rattling the windows of the Corridoors, but inside the nursery, all was warm. The chamber was lit with soft candlelight, the stone walls draped with thick Myrish tapestries to hold back the chill. A small hearth burned, casting flickering shadows against the dragon-carved cradle where Aerion Starborn lay.

He was two now, growing quickly. His silver-gold hair had lengthened, curling slightly at the ends, and his skin was pale as moonlight. But it was his eyes that truly set him apart—blood-red, like the heart of a fire, like the comet that had fallen the night he was born.

Rhaella knelt beside him, watching as he clutched a small wooden dragon in his tiny hands. His grip was strong for a child his age, and there was something unsettlingly aware in his gaze as he looked up at her.

"My sweet boy," she murmured, reaching out to stroke his hair.

Aerion blinked up at her, then reached out, grasping at the loose sleeve of her gown.

Rhaella's heart clenched.

She had not wanted to love him.

He was not hers—not by birth, not by blood in the way Viserys and Rhaegar were. He was Aerys' son, the last mad dream of a king who had lost his mind to fire and whispers. And yet…

She had held him when he was no more than a babe, barely breathing in Ser Barristan's arms. She had seen his eyes, so unnatural and bright, and something within her had shifted.

Now, two years had passed, and the love she had resisted had taken root.

He was hers.

"Mother?"

Rhaella turned sharply.

Viserys stood at the doorway, his small frame tense, his purple eyes locked onto the scene before him. He was older now—six years old, though he carried himself with all the haughtiness of a boy who believed himself a man. His silver-gold hair was unkempt from sleep, but his gaze burned with something she recognized all too well.

Jealousy.

He stepped into the room, his hands curling into fists. "Why are you with him?" he demanded.

Rhaella sighed, rising to her feet. "Aerion is your brother, Viserys."

"He is not," Viserys said stubbornly, his voice sharp. "Lucerys said he was a bastard. That his mother was a witch."

Rhaella's expression hardened. "Do not speak of him that way."

Viserys scowled. "You never held me like that."

Rhaella flinched, though she masked it quickly.

She had tried to love Viserys the way a mother should. She had tried to shield him from Aerys' madness, from the whispers of the court, from the darkness that had crept into their family's legacy. But Viserys had always been… difficult.

He did not understand softness. He demanded love like a king demanded obedience. And when it was not given in the way he wanted, he resented it.

Aerion cooed softly, oblivious to the tension in the room.

Viserys' eyes darkened.

"You love him more than me," he whispered.

Rhaella knelt before him, cupping his face in her hands. "I love you both."

Viserys did not believe her.

She could see it in his eyes.

Ser Barristan Selmy

The council chamber was filled with the scent of salt and damp stone. Lords and captains gathered around the great wooden table, their faces grim. The war was turning against them.

Barristan listened as Monford Velaryon slammed his fist against the table, his silver hair glinting in the torchlight. "Gulltown has fallen."

The words sent a hush over the room.

Lord Marq Grafton had tried to defend it, had manned the walls of the Vale's great port, hoping to secure a foothold. But Jon Arryn's men had stroke fast. The Arryn rebels had fortified their position, and Lord Grafton was killed, his forces scattering.

"We have no stronghold in the east," Lucerys continued, his voice tight with frustration. "The Vale belongs to the rebels. And now, with Gulltown lost, they can receive supplies and men from the North unchallenged."

Barristan clenched his jaw. This was worse than he had feared.

"The Usurper won a great victory at Summerhall," added Adrian Celtigar, his pale fingers tapping against the table. "The Stormlords are with him. But at Ashford, he fled before the might of the Reach."

"The Dornish gather their hosts," Lord Massey said. "Prince Lewyn still leads his spears, but Doran Martell moves slowly. Too slowly."

"He waits," Barristan said, understanding the game. "Doran Martell is cautious. He will not commit unless he knows victory is assured, and his sister is safe."

Thoros, who had been silent until now, suddenly exhaled, his red robes shifting as he leaned forward. "It does not matter," he said. "None of it matters."

Lucerys scowled. "What nonsense is this now?"

Thoros' red eyes flickered in the torchlight. "I have seen it," he murmured. "Dragonstone will burn. The ships of our enemies will come, and fire will consume this castle. If we stay, we die."

Rhaella's face remained unreadable.

"We are not leaving," she said.

Thoros' expression darkened. "Then you seal your own fate, Your Grace."

Silence stretched between them.

Barristan glanced at Aerion's cradle, where the red-eyed child slept soundly, unaware of the doom creeping ever closer.

He did not know what would come next.

But for the first time, he feared that Thoros was right.