Chapter Seventeen (Patreon)

King’s Landing was not what Aenar expected. In 54 AC the stench of rot and shit had yet to sink in. The slums of Flea Bottom were unbuilt, the valley between the three hills instead home to a set of drains. The docks were smaller than those of Hull but swiftly growing, dozens of men hauling pylons and planks under the morning sun. On the hills there were small houses pressed together, growing into mansions as they neared the top. A great structure of granite with bronze doors larger than Dragonstone’s gatehouse stood at a hilltop, a large castle of crimson sandstone sitting on another.

This was not the King’s Landing of books and shows, the nest of vipers and rotten meats. This was not the King’s Landing ruined by neglect and covered up by luxuries. This was the center of growth and hope in the Seven Kingdoms. Aenar breathed it in, wide eyes watching the busy dockyard smithies.

“I see why you like it,” he said as he help Aerea onto her horse. At eleven she was in a paradoxical state, tall enough to ride a horse, old enough to insist upon it, yet not quite able to reach the saddle without assistance.

“The city?” Aerea asked. “It’s wonderful. Court is too, though that is a much sharper game.”

“Small blades for delicate hands,” Aenar murmured. “I’ll stick to the loud and blunt ones, and trust you with those clad in silk.”

Aerea beamed at him, despite the two cracks in his voice.

*

The Red Keep grew only more magnificent the closer they came. The crimson stone shone as the sun climbed towards noon, gaining reflected brightness from the armored men that patrolled the castle’s parapets. The gatehouse portcullis, a great working of black iron some thirty feet tall and twenty feet across, rose without a sound as they approached. Aenar looked up, his eyes catching the score or so of muder-holes in the ceiling as they passed through. His aunt, ever dauntless, rode forward with out so much as a twist of her silver-gold head.

There was a small party waiting for them in the courtyard. Nothing formal, just a few servants ready to guide their own. Aenar’s aunt peered down at them for a long breath before dismounting, only for her stern gaze to be swiftly broken by Aerea’s actions.

“Alys,” Aerea greeted, golden curls bouncing as she strode from her horse. “Is that you? You look gorgeous, did you do the embroidery yourself?”

The servant in question, a dark haired woman of pale complexion, flushed the color of sunset. It contrasted her brown servant’s garb with the black bordering. Aenar narrowed his eyes. Now that Aerea mentioned it, he could see the stitches were not merely a border, but tiny dragons flitting around. A proud servant then, eager to be a part of the Targaryen household.

“I did, Princess,” Alys said after a moment. “Your tutelage was an inspiration.”

Suddenly it was Aerea’s turn to flush. “I did nothing,” Aerea insisted. “You have a natural talent, I just told the old septa where she could put her–”

“Ahem.”

“Mother,” Aerea turned, winsome smile never meeting her lilac eyes. “This is Alys, she’s a seamstress in the Red Keep.”

“The Queen’s personal seamstress, your Highness,” Alys said with a deep curtsey. “Her Grace allowed me to greet you, on account of all that Princess Aerea has done for me.”

“You know my daughter?” Rhaena asked imperiously. Aenar moved to stand beside her, his wool doublet doing nothing to hide his scaled face and vertically slitted eyes.

“She–the Princess was kind to me,” Alys managed, eyes flickering briefly over to Aenar, then back to Rhaena before looking at the ground. “I wished to thank her for it.”

Aenar smiled. He wasn’t sure if it helped.

“You have done so,” Rhaena decided. “Let us dally no longer. My brother awaits.”

“Yes, your Highness,” Alys said, and their procession began again. They were led through the halls lined with stained glass showing Aegon’s coronation and silk tapestries that depicted the fall of the Rhoynar. At the marble hall’s entrance they paused as a man in silks fine as Rhaena’s announced them.

“Princess Rhaena Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone, Rider of Dreamfyre!” the seneschal announced, his voice carrying from entrance to end, where the Iron Throne sat upon a dais of white marble under the holy judgement of Balerion, Meraxes, and Vhagar in stained glass. “Her daughter, Princess Aerea Targaryen, and their companions.”

Aenar clenched his jaw. A companion. Not a Prince. Not even a Targaryen, though he shared their blood enough for it to manifest upon his skin. Is that all he was to them, a curious thing to–

A soft hand grasped his own, warm flesh meeting warmer scales. Aenar looked beside him. Aerea smiled softly, then looked forward, her face setting into a a firmer look. Aenar did his best to copy her. Adult memories or not, she was the one with courtly experience.

The party moved as one into the hall, dozens of eyes tracking their every move. Lords, ladies, and courtly officials watched with narrowed eyes for gaps in their silken armor. In Rhaena they found none, of that Aenar was certain. He doubted they would find many in Aerea either. Yet himself? Aenar knew he better. His scales alone were a point of weakness in this arena. Ser Borys and Ronnal had protected him at Storm’s End, Rhaena and Aerea had protected him at Dragonstone. From the eyes upon him, glinting with disdain that was but inches from disgust, it was clear their protection was over.

It’s fine, Aenar told himself. You have family. You have money. You have a friends. That’s better than last time around.

King Jaehaerys cut a striking figure. Sat upon the Iron Throne, a halo of blades emerged behind the young man’s silver-gold scalp. His form was lithe and youthful, his arms muscled beneath the velvet doublet. Blackfyre was strapped to his waist, the Sword of Kings adhering naturally to him. He smiled and the court stood taller, Atlas’ burden having eased from their shoulders.

“Greetings Sister,” the King declared. “Many years has it been since We had the joy of your company in our court. It is with open arms and a warm heart that We bid you welcome to King’s Landing.”

“Indeed,” Queen Alysanne added. The small woman sat beside the King, a dress of silver silk clinging to her form. Her throne was hewn of oak, engraved with gold, and cushioned with velvet, a far more comfortable arrangement than pointed steel. “You must join us for supper this evening, dear sister.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Rhaena said. Aenar did not know if she was lying. He didn’t think she did either.